EMPIRES
Perspectives [roIn Archaeology and History
Edited by
Susan E. Alcock
Terence N. D'Altroy
I(athleen D. Morrison
Carla M. Sinopoli
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CAMBRIDGE
UNIVERSITY PRESS
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Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 0521 770203 (hb)
1. Imperialism - History. I. Alcock, Susan E.
JC359.E46 2001
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Contents
List of figures
page ix
List of tables
Xlll
Notes on the contributors
xiv
Preface
xvii
Carla M. Sinopoli and Tercnce N. DJAltroy
PART I
SOURCES, APPROACHES, DEFINITIONS
Kathlecn D. Morrison
1 The shadow empires: imperial state formation along the
Chinese-Nomad frontier
1
10
Thomas]. Barfield
2 Written on water: designs and dynamics in the Portuguese
Estado da fndia
Sanjay Subrahmanyam
3 The Wari empire of Middle Horizon Peru: the epistemological
challenge of documenting an empire without documentary
evidence
42
70
Katharina Schreiber
4 The Achaemenid Persian empire (c. 550-c. 330 BCE):
continuities, adaptations, transformations
93
Amclie Kuhrt
PART II
EMPIRES IN A WIDER WORLD
Tercnce N. DJAltroy
5 The Aztec empire and the Mesoamerican world system
125
128
Michael E. Smith
6 On the edge of empire: form and substance in the Satavahana
dynasty
Carla M. Sinopoli
155
vii
Vlll
Contents
7 Dynamics of imperial adjustment in Spanish America: ideology
and social integration
179
Kathleen Deagan
PART III
IMPERIAL INTEGRATION AND IMPERIAL SUBJECTS 195
Figures
Carla M. Sinopoli
8 Politics, resources, and blood in the Inka empire
Terence N. DJAltroy
201
9 Egypt and Nubia
227
Robert Morlwt
10 Coercion, resistance, and hierarchy: local processes and imperial
strategies in the Vijayanagara empire
Kathleen D. Morrison
PART IV
IMPERIAL IDEOLOGIES
252
279
Susan E. Alcock and Kathleen D. MOYl'ison
11 Aztec hearts and minds: religion and the state in the Aztec
empire
Elizabeth M. Brtmifiel
283
12 Inventing empire in ancient Rome
Greg Woolf
311
13 The reconfiguration of memory in the eastern Roman empire
Susan E. Alcocll
323
14 Cosmos, central authority, and communities in the early Chinese
351
empire
Robin D. S. Yates
PART V
THE AFTERLIFE OF EMPIRES
369
Susan E. Alcoclz
15 The f.111 of the Assyrian empire: ancient and modern
interpretations
Mario LiJJerarli
374
16 The Carolingian empire: Rome reborn?
John More/and
392
17 Cuzco, another Rome?
Sabine MacCormaclz
419
Notes
436
References
448
Index
508
1.1 Steppe empires of Central Asia.
11
1.2 Kazak timber graves near the Mongolian border in an older
12
graveyard marked by an ancient stone stele with an incised human
face. (A1tai Mountains, Xinjiang, Peoples Republic of China,
July 1987 © Thomas Barfield).
1.3 Xiongnu owed their strength to their cavalry. (Kazak nomads,
13
A1tai Mountains, Xinjiang, Peoples Republic of China, July
1987 © Thomas Barfield.)
1.4 Among the Kazaks, keeping hunting eagles, who some claim
16
were once used in battle, fits this ideal of a fierce warrior people.
(A1tai Mountains, Xinjiang, Peoples Republic of China, July
1987 © Thomas Barfield.)
1.5 The combination of Chinese silk into a sheepskin hat worn by
20
traditionally dressed Kazak men in northwestern China today is
an example of the long-term historic relation between China and
the steppe nomads. (Altai Mountains, Xinjiang, Peoples
Republic of China, J lily 1987 © Thomas Bm·field.)
2.1 The Portuguese empire in Asia, c. 1500-1700 C E.
46
2.2 Cathedral ofBom Jesus, Goa. (Photograph by K. D. Morrison
48
and C. Sinopoli.)
2.3 Fort ChapOl·a, Goa. (Photograph by K. D. Morrison and C.
56
Sinopoli.)
3.1 The Wari empire.
75
82
3.2 A partial site plan of the planned enclosure at Jincamocca, a
provincial Wari site.
3.3 A view of Pikillaqta, in which the central open patios and
83
surrounding narrow galleries can be clearly seen.
3.4 The large-scale, imperial architecture ofPikillaqta preserves its
84
rigid grid layout.
3.5 The central core ofPikillaqta.
87
4.1 The Achaemenid empire.
96
4.2 Trilingual inscription and relief of Dm·ius I, carved in the cliff at
99
Behistun.
IX
x
List offigures
List offigures
4.3 Rock-cut tomb of Darius I at Naqsh-i Rustam, near Persepolis.
4.4 Two groups of subject peoples (Elamites and Armenians)
bringing gifts to the Icing.
4.5 Royal Hero stabbing lion; west door of "Harem," Persepolis.
4.6 Funerary stele from tlle Persian period, found at Saqqara.
5.1 The Aztec empire and the Mesoamerican world system.
5.2 Aztec soldiers wearing jaguar skin costumes and carrying
obsidian edged swords (after Sahag6n 1950-82, Bk 8, Fig. 78).
5.3 Aztec professional pochteca merchants (after Sahaglll1 1950-82,
Bk. 9, Figs. 13 and 3).
5.4 The location of MOl·elOS witllin central Mexico.
5.5 Aztec peasant houses at Capilco, MOl·elOS.
5.6 Ceramic tools used to spin cotton.
5.7 Mean ceramic frequencies through time.
6.1 Capital of Asokan lion-headed column from Sarnath (after
Allchin 1995: 255).
6.2 Asokan inscriptions and Mauryan geography.
6.3 Major monastic sites and settlements of tlle Early Historic
Deccan.
7.1 The Spanish American empire c. 1700 C E.
8.1 Andean region encompassed by Tawantinsuyu, including the
principal Andean subregions mentioned in the text.
8.2 The principal roads of the Inka royal highway system. (Mter
Hyslop 1984: flyleaf.)
8.3 Distribution of the colonist artisan settlements described in the
text.
8.4 Distribution of the principal royal estates in the Cuzco region,
Peru.
8.5 Distribution of the terraced lands in Pachakuti's royal estate at
Cusichaca. (Modified fr0111 Kenda1l1994: fig. 3.)
8.6 Distribution of some of the principal state f.1rms, provincial
estates, and storage facilities throughout Tawantinsuyu.
9.1 Lower Nubia.
9.2 Upper Nubia.
10.1 The Vijayanagara empire.
10.2 The Tiruvengalanatha temple in a canal irrigated zone of the
Vijayanagara imperial capital.
10.3 Locations of the Valangai-Idangai revolt in the Tamil provinces
of the Vijayanagara empire.
11.1 The Aztec empire in 1519.
11.2 War captives and slaves were sacrificed at state temples to nourish
the sun with human blood. (Sahaglll1 1981, illustration 52;
courtesy of the School of American Research and the University
of Utah.)
104
106
108
122
136
138
141
147
148
149
153
158
160
165
180
202
211
217
219
222
224
233
236
254
264
270
285
288
11.3 In Tenochtitlan, commoners offer blood-covered sedges and
maize gruel (atole) in their houses during the fourth montll of
the Aztec solar calendar. (Sahagun 1981: 61 and illustration 13;
courtesy of the School of American Research and the University
of Utah).
11.4 In Tenochtitlan, the boys of the telpochcalli fight a mock battle
with the boys of the call1'lecacs. (Sahaglll1 1981: 149 and
illustration 52; courtesy of the School of American Research and
the University of Utah.)
11.5 In Tenochtitlan, a war captive without physical blemish was
chosen to impersonate the god Tezcatlipoca for a year. (Sahaglll1
1981, illustration 5; courtesy of the School of American
Research and the University of Utah.)
11.6 Dancers in the Aztec ruler's palace. (Sahaglll1 1981: 123-4 and
Sahaglll1 1979, illustration 69; courtesy of the School of
American Research and the University of Utah.)
11.7 In Tepepolco, rituals associated with the sixth month of the solar
calendar. (Sahaglll1 1979:59; drawing by M. LaNoue.)
11.8 An Aztec-period ceramic figurine of a woman holding two
children. Musee de l'Homme, Paris (drawing by M. LaNoue).
12.1 The Roman empire at the death of Augustus, 14 C E.
13.1 The eastern Roman empire in the early imperial period.
13.2 The Athenian agora in the second century C E. (Courtesy of the
American School of Classical Studies at Athens.)
13.3 Reconstruction of the Athenian agora in the second century CE.
(Courtesy of the American School of Classical Studies at
Athens.)
13.4 Torso of a large marble statue of the emperor Hadrian
(117-138 C E) fC:Hlnd in the excavations of the Athenian agora.
(Courtesy of the American School of Classical Studies at Athens.)
13.5 Reconstructed view of the Sebasteion at Aphrodisias.
(Courtesy of the Society for the Promotion of Roman Studies
and R. R. R. Smith.)
13.6 Sculpted panel from the Sebastcion at Aphrodisias: the emperor
Claudius subdues the province of Britannia. (Col\l'tesy of the
Society for the Promotion of Roman Studies and R. R. R.
Smith. )
13.7 A view oftol\l'ist traffic in modern day Ephesos. (From G.
Wiplinger and G. Wlach, Ephesus: 100 Years of Austrian
291
295
300
301
304
306
312
324
335
336
339
340
341
343
Research.)
13.8 Reconstruction of the northeast corner of the Parthenon in
Roman times. (© by Ernst Wasmuth Verlag, Tiibingen/
Germany. )
14.1 The Qin empire.
344
352
xi
Xll
List offigures
15.1
15.2
15.3
15.4
16.1
16.2
16.3
16.4
16.5
16.6
16.7
The Assyrian empire, c. 860 BCE.
The Assyrian empire, c. 730 B CE.
The Assyrian empire, c. 705 BCE.
The Assyrian empire, c. 640 BCE.
The Carolingian empire, c. 800 CE, including the border
regions.
Reconstruction of the palace at Ingelheim.
The gatehouse at Lorsch.
The apse mosaic at Germigny-des-Pres. (Courtesy 00. Feuillie
and Caisse Nationale des Monuments Historiques et des Sites
© CNMHS)
Schematic plan of the palace at Aachen.
Central and southern Italy, c. 750 CE.
Abbot Joshua's "monastic city" at San Vincenzo al Volturno.
375
376
377
378
394
Tables
397
403
405
406
409
410
1.1 Cycles of rule: major dynasties in China and the steppe empires
23
in Mongolia
1.2 Xiongnu visits to the Han court
28
2.1 Casado settlements in Portuguese Asia, 1635
47
2.2 Ecclesiastical orders in Asia, 1635
49
4.1 Regnal years of the kings of Persia
94
4.2 Achaemenid empire: chronology of main political events
95
5.1 Chronology for Postclassic central Mexico
129
5.2 Archaeological criteria for the identification of empires
131
6.1 A short chronology for the Satavahana dynasty
167
8.1 Conventional list ofInka emperors
205
9.1 Comparative chronology: Egypt and Nubia
231
11.1 Commoners' household rituals during the eighteen months 289-90
of the Aztec solar year
11.2 Ritual activities in the calpulcos during the eighteen montl1s of
292
the Aztec solar year
11.3 Activities for telpochcalli youths dlll'ing the eighteen months of
294
the Aztec solar year
11.4 Mock battles dlll'ing the eighteen months of the Aztec solar year 297
11.5 Warriors' activities dlll'ing the eighteen months of the Aztec
298-9
solar year
16.1 Principal rulers mentioned in the text, with their period of rule
393
and "ethnic affiliation"
xiii
Notes on the contributors
American Cultural Genesis in the Early Spanish American Colonies," joumal of
Anthropological Research 52 (1996).
Notes on the contributors
Susan E. Alcock is Associate Professor of Classical Archaeology and Classics at
the University of Michigan. Her recent major publications include: Graecia
Capta: The Landscapes of Roman Greece (1993); Placing the Gods: Sanctuaries
and Sacred Space in Ancient Greece (co-editor, 1994); The Early Roman Empire
in the East (editor, 1997); Pausanias: n'aJ'el and Memory in Roman Greece (coeditor, 2001).
Thomas J. Barfield is Professor of Anthropology at Boston University. His recent
major publications include: The Perilous F1'ontier: Nomadic Empires and China
(1989); Afghanistan: An Atlas of Indigenous Domestic Architectttl'e (co-author,
1991); The Nomadic Alternatil'e (1993); The Dictionary of Anthropology (executive editor).
Elizabeth M. Brumfiel is the John S. Ludington Trustees' Professor of
Anthropology and Sociology at Albion College. Her recent major publications
include: Specialization, Exchange and Complex Society (co-editor, 1987);
"Breaking and Entering the Eco-system - Gender, Class and Faction Steal the
Show," American Anthropologist 94 (1992); Factional Competition and Political
Del'elopment in the New World (editor, 1994).
Terence N. D'Altroy is Associate Professor of Anthropology at Columbia
University. His recent major publications include: Prol'irlcial Power in the In/la
Empire (1992); "Comments: Rc-thinking Complex Prehistoric Societies in
Asia," Asian Perspectipes: Special No., Landscapes of Power (1994); "Recent
Research in the Central Andes," joumal of Archaeological Research 5 (1997).
xiv
K.'lthleen Deagan is Distinguished Research Curator and Joint Protessor of
Anthropology and History at the University of Florida. Her recent major publications include: Artifacts of the Spanish Colonies (1988); Puel'to Real: The
Archaeology of a Sixteenth Century Spanish Town in Hispaniola (1995); "From
Contact to Criollo: The Archaeology of Spanish Colonization in Hispaniola,"
Proceedings of the British Academy 81 (1995); "Colonial Transtormations: Euro-
AInelie Kuhrt is Professor of AIlCient History at University College London. Her
recent major publications include: Achaemenid History 2-4, 6, 8 (co-editor,
1987-94); Hellenism in the East (co-author, 1987); From Samarkand to Sardis:
A New Approach to Seleucid History (co-author, 1993); The Ancient Near East,
c.3000-330BC(1995).
Mario Liverani is Professor in the History of the Ancient Near East at the
University of Rome. His recent major publications include: Antico Oriente.
Storia economia societa (1988); Prestige and Interest. International Relations in
the Near East, ca. 1600-1100 BC (1990); Studies in the Annals ofAshumasirpal
II (1992); AflIlad, the First World Empire (editor, 1993); Neo-Assyrian Geography
(editor, 1995).
Sabine G. MacCormack is the Mary AIm and Charles R. Walgreen Professor for
the Study of Human Understanding, Professor of Classical Studies, and
Professor of History at the University of Michigan. Her recent major publications include: Art and Ceremony in Late Antiquity ( 1981); Religion in the Andes:
Vision and Imagination in Early Colonial Peru (1991); The Shadows of Poetry:
Vet;gil in the Mind of Augustine (1998).
John MOI'eland is Senior Lecturer in Medieval Archaeology at the University of
Sheffield. His recent major publications include: "Integration and Social
Reproduction in the Carolingian Empire," World Archaeology 23 (co-author,
1992); "The Middle Ages: Theory and Post-modernism," Acta Al'chaeologica
68 (1997); "The World(s) of the Cross," World Archaeology 31 (1999).
Robert MOI'kot is an independent scholar. His recent major publications include:
CentU1'ies of Darkness (co-author, 1991); The Blaclz Pharaoh: Egypt's Nubian
Rulers (2000).
Kathleen D. Morrison is Associate Professor of Anthropology at the University
of Chicago. Her recent major publications include: "Dimensions of Imperial
Control: The Vijayanagara Capital," American Anthropologist 97 (co-author,
1995); Fields of Victory: Vijayanagara and the Course of Intensification (1995,
repr. 2000); "Typological Schemes and Agricultural Change: Beyond Boserup
in South India," Current Anthropology 37 (1996); "Inscriptions as Artifacts:
Precolonial South India and the Analysis of Texts," jottmal of Archaeological
Method and Theory 3 (co-author, 1997).
Katharina Schreiber is Professor of Anthropology at the University of California,
Santa Barbara. Her recent major publications include: "Conquest and
xv
XVI
Notes on the contributors
Consolidation: A Comparison of the Wari and Inka Occupations of a Highland
Peruvian Valley," American Antiquity 52 (1987); Wari Imperialism in Middle
Horizon Peru (1992); "The Puquios of Nasca," Latin American Antiquity 6
(1995 ).
Preface
Carla M. Sinopoli is Associate Professor of Anthropology and Associate Curator,
Museum of Anthropology, at the University of Michigan. Her recent major publications include: Approaches to Archaeological Ceramics (1991); Pots and
Palaces: The Earthenware Ceramics of the Nobleman's Quarter of Vijayanagara
(1993); "The Archaeology of Empires," Annual ReJlielll of Anthropology 23
(1994); "From the Lion Throne: Political and Social Dynamics of the
Vijayanagara Empire," Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient
43 (2000).
Michael E. Smith is Professor of Anthropology at the University of Albany, State
University of New York. His recent major publications include: Archaeological
Research at Aztec-Period Rural Sites in Morelos, Mexico, I: Excavations and
Architecture (1992); Economies and Polities in the Aztec Realm (co-editor,
1994); Aztec Imperial Strategies (co-author, 1996); The Aztecs (1996).
Sanjay Subrahmanyam is Directeur d'etudes at the Ecole des Hautes Etudes en
Sciences Sociales. His recent major publications include: The Political Economy
of Commerce: Southern India, 1500-1650 (1990); Symbols of Substance: Court
and State in Nayaka-Period Tamilnadu (co-author, 1992); The Portuguese
Empire in Asia, 1500-1700 (1993); The Career of Vas co da Gama (1997); The
Mughal State, 1526-1750 (co-editor, 1997).
Greg Woolfis Professor of Ancient History at the University of St. Andrews. His
recent major publications include: Literacy and Power in the Ancient World (coeditor, 1994); "Becoming Roman, Staying Greek: Culture, Identity and the
Civilizing Process in the Roman East," Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological
Society 40 (1994); "Monumental Writing and the Expansion of Roman Society
in the Early Empire," Journal of Roman Archaeology 86 (1996); Becoming
Roman: the Origins of Provincial CiJlilization in Gaul (1998).
Robin D. S. Yates is Professor of East Asian Studies at McGill University. His
recent major publications include: Science and CiJlilisation in China, vo!. V.6
(co-author, 1994); Fhle Lost Classics: Tao, Huang-Lao and Tin-Tang in Han
China (1997); "Early China" in War and Society in the Ancient and Mediepal
Worlds: Asia, the Mediterranean, Europe and Mesoamerica (1999).
Carla M. Sinopoli and Terence N. D'Altroy
Like many collaborative scholarly works, this project had its origins in a bar. At
the 1994 meetings of the American Anthropological Association, three of us
(Morrison, D'Altroy, and Sinopoli) discussed our longstanding interests in the
comparative study of empires; Susan Alcock joined the discussion a few months
later during the 1995 meetings of the Society for American Archaeology. We
concurred that the time was right to organize a conference that would bring
together archaeologists, classicists, cultural anthropologists, and historians to
speak to and with each other about research on specific empires and about more
general issues relevant to the comparative study of empire and imperialism. And
like many projects conceived in bars, this one has taken a while to come to a head.
This volume is the outgrowth of the conference "Imperial Designs:
Comparative Dynamics of Early Empires," held in Mijas, Spain in the autumn of
1997 and sponsored by the Wenner-Gren Foundation for Anthropological
Research as their International Symposium #122. It contains revised versions of
all seventeen papers presented at the conference, almost all of them substantially
altered as a result of six days of formal and informal discussions.
The geographic and temporal range of the papers is deliberately broad, as are
the intellectual perspectives of their authors. The papers explore polities from
both the Old and New Worlds and span early prehistoric empires through later
historic empires, including the problematic early modern period and the first
century of European intercontinental imperial expansion. We also include cases
that in some definitions would be classed as non-imperial or at best marginal to
better-known "classic" imperial states (Barfield's "shadow empires"). Our goal
was not to develop a single unified intellectual viewpoint, nor to embrace a
shared terminology or advocate a single methodology (to the disappointment of
some conference participants). Indeed, contributors disagreed on several important issues, even some as essential as definitions of empire, appropriate or useful
scales of comparison, and the utility of working with formal models. Several
authors have explicitly presented their definitions of empire in their papers, and
their differing perspectives will be readily apparent. For the most part however,
disagreements tended to emerge around the margins of issues ratller than on
core concepts, often reflecting the diverse disciplinary perspectives of the
XVII
J.'Vlll
Preface
Preface
contributors. In particular, individual archaeologists were on occasion suspicious
of interpretations deeply dependent on texts, while some historians were skeptical of accounts heavily reliant on archaeological data.
From the Old World, the chapters by A1cock and Woolf address the Roman
empire - arguably the paradigmatic example from which many traditional understandings of empire derive. Rome's significance to later imperial states and to
general understandings of imperial societies is also considered in a number of
chapters, especially by MOl'e1and in his discussion of the medieval European
Carolingians. Middle Eastern chapters include MOl'kot on Egypt and Nubia,
Liverani on the Assyrians, and Kuhrt on the Achaemenids. Asia is considered by
Yates on Qin China, Barfield on Central Asia, Morrison on Vijayanagara, India,
Sinopoli on Satavahana India, and Subrahmanyam on the Portuguese Estado da
india. New World examples include Brumfiel and Smith on the Aztecs,
Schreiber on the Andean Wari empire and D'A1troy on the Inkas. Deagan considers the Spanish empire in the Caribbean and North America and
MacCormack addresses the Spanish empire in Peru and Spanish responses to the
Inka, including how these were mediated by their understandings of Rome.
While the cases discussed here form a broad list, they are far from encyclopedic
- either in the range of empires considered or in how each author examines the
particular period and polity of interest. We regret that two invited participants had
to withdraw from the conference rather late in the day - and thus the Ottoman
empire and early Islamic empires of the Middle East were left uncovered. African
and Southeast Asian empires are also not represented. While the editors discussed
including additional authors who had not participated in the conference in this
volume, we ultimately decided against this - both because we hoped that discussions at the conference would figure in authors' revisions of their papers and
because, as is apparent, this already had the makings of a massive publication.
Despite these acknowledged gaps, the geographical and temporal ranges represented in this volume extend tar beyond any previous comparative study.
The volume is also not encyclopedic in terms of the thematic coverage in individual chapters. That is, while all authors have sought to provide non-specialist
readers with sufficient background to follow their general arguments, no contribution is intended as a comprehensive historical essay. Instead, each author addresses
particular themes, l1'om particular perspectives. The volume bibliography can guide
interested readers to numerous additional sources on each case study.
If the intention was never to create "the big book of empires," this volume
and the conference it was based upon did aim to break down some predetermined and arbitrary boundaries, both disciplinary and temporal. While the broad
scholarly mix of the contributors is noteworthy, perhaps most striking is how the
cases addressed transcend conventional disciplinary barriers between anthropology and classical studies (as well as other regional or scholarly traditions). This
is perhaps most evident in the attention paid to the historic Mediterranean,
Europe, and the Middle East (Rome, the Carolingians, the Achaemenids), as
well as to historic South Asia (Satavahana, Vijayanagara). It is relatively rare for
such imperial structures to be considered side-by-side with more conventional
"anthropological" case studies: usually owing to misconceptions on all sides
about what they could offer to, or gain from, comparative analysis. Yet this
volume clearly reveals just what a mistake it would have been to disregard or discount these particular imperial systems, and we hope that their inclusion in
future collections such as this will be less remarkable.
A second barrier to be challenged was chronological. While our primary temporal focus is on empires that are traditionally glossed as "early" (although many
are in fact temporally quite late), several of the papers push the envelope into
European modernity (e.g., Deagan, Subrahmanyam, MacCol'lnack). In part,
this emphasis arises from the research interests of the editors; the primary
research focus of three of us lies in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries C E
(D'A1troy on the Inka, and Morrison and Sinopoli on Vijayanagara). However,
for Sinopoli and Morrison in particular, our interests in bridging the
ancient-modern divide lay in our skepticism concerning the intellectual legitimacy of this divide. This is particularly the case for the early modern period considered here, for which arguments of the uniqueness of Europe's trajectory are
often based on what Europe eventually became in the eighteenth and nineteenth
centuries, rather than what its components were in the preceding 200 years. It
is fair to note, however, that neither Deagan nor Subrahmanyam entirely shared
our misgivings, and wished to retain a special place for their cases or - for
Subrahmanyam - to limit comparison to more historically and geographically
proximate examples.
THEMATIC ORGANIZATION
The volume's seventeen chapters are organized into five thematic sections, each
of which is briefly introduced by one or two of the editors. These themes largely
structured the design of the conterence itself. The groupings are rather different
from our original conception of the symposium. Initially, wc had defined four
very broad sets of issues and asked authors to address one or two. These were,
somewhat prosaically: (1) the vertical and horizontal integration of empires (the
political), (2) the social context of imperial development, (3) the ideological
sphere, and (4) imperial economies. Introductory discussions of these tour
themes were presented in a position paper authored by the tour conterence organizers and distributed in advance to the participants, with requests that their
papers address particular themes or topics.
As the papers came in and we met to determine the final organization of the
conference, it became clear that many of the authors had, tortunately, not been
particularly obedient to our requests. The resultant papers were ultimately tar
more interesting than our rather milquetoast (non)position paper (perhaps an
inevitable result of trying to produce something that could satisfY four cooperative but not necessarily agreeing co-authors - ultimately dissatisfYing to all). It
also was apparent that the approaches taken by various authors tended to tall into
XiX
xx
Preface
both anticipated and unanticipated groupings and it is these groupings that we
identified and used to structure the conference and this volume. We therefore
chose not to include either our initial or a revised position paper, but instead
opted to write shorter introductions that layout major issues relevant to each
theme. These preambles draw heavily on our recollections of broader discussions
that took place in Mijas.
The five themes that structure this volume are to a considerable extent organizational devices and each of the chapters addresses a range of issues that extend
beyond the individual group it is placed in. Nonetheless, it is our hope that the
juxtaposition of papers in these groupings will permit the exploration of structural commonalities and differences among a broad array of cases. We have deliberately mixed and matched papers in each section to include a range of historical
cases. That is, given our goals and broad commitment to comparativism, we
chose not to group papers by culture area or period, although some readers may
choose to read them in that order.
Two of the themes - "Imperial integration and imperial subjects" and
"Imperial ideologies" - are relatively straightforward and require no additional
discussion beyond their respective section introductions. The first grouping of
papers into "Sources, approaches, definitions" may, however, seem a bit more
opaque. Here we include chapters that address very different and widely variable
historical cases. The Wari polity discussed by Schreiber is the only empire considered in this volume where historical written sources (internal or external) are nonexistent and scholars must rely solely on archaeological evidence. It also is the case
that provoked the greatest skepticism among conference participants. More
explicitly than any other contributor (though see also Smith, chapter 5),
Schrei ber explores the nature and particular challenges of archaeological evidence
and interpretation for the study of early empires. Kuhrt's discussion of the
Achaemenid, or Persian, empire addresses a case where considerable archaeological material exists, but where surprisingly little systematic archaeological
research has occurred. Thus her primary sources are historical and she presents a
detailed discussion of the use of such sources, their limitations, and their impact
on our interpretations. Bat·field and Subrahmanyam each address polities that do
not conform to many traditional understandings of empire - the nomad empires
of the Eurasian steppe, and the maritime empire of the Portuguese, characterized
by extraordinary geographic range, but minimal territorial control. Their papers
were placed in this section to open up broader considerations of what we mean
by empire, and indeed whether the kinds of comparison attempted in this volume
are worthwhile across such an extensive frame.
The section entitled "Empires in a wider world" contains three chapters that
suggest that, in order to understand particular empires, we often need to look
beyond imperial boundaries to consider their broader political, economic, and
social contexts. This may be an obvious lesson, but the challenges it presents are
still daunting, especially for those of us who feel that the particular empire that we
study is more tllan enough to take on as a research topic. Smith addresses the Aztec
Preface
empire in the context of me Mesoamerican world system; Sinopoli considers the
South Asian Satavahana empire in the context of broader subcontinental political,
economic, and ideological developments, and Deagan addresses tile enormously
expanded world created by Spanish imperial movement into tile Americas.
The volume's final section, "The afterlife of empires," considers a tlleme that
runs tllrough a number of chapters throughout the volume. Tllis is the emphasis on history - both in terms of the role of historical knowledge in tile nature
and construction of individual empires and in questions of historiography and
tile contextualization of historical understandings. The chapters by Liverani,
MOl·eland, and MacCormack consider how historical knowledge was constructed and the roles such knowledge plays in particular imperial contexts
(Assyrian, Carolingian, and sixteenth-century Spanish, respectively) in constructing imperial identities, understanding imperialllistories, or understanding
"otllers," whetller subject peoples or competing polities. Liverani approaches
these issues both in the context of Assyrian understandings and in contemporary
historical interpretations of the Assyrian collapse. Throughout the conference,
he repeatedly reminded us that we needed to take into account our own academic and historiographic contexts. Beyond the tluee chapters grouped in tile
"Afterlife" section, several others explore historical knowledge. Alcock addresses
history and memory in her discussion of memory theaters in Roman Greece, and
Sinopoli considers Satavahana historical knowledge in Early Historic India.
D'Altroy draws attention to the interplay between the control of history and
political power, and Yates and Woolf also touch on similar concerns. In most of
these cases, the founders of empires had considerable knowledge of earlier polities and of subject areas and peoples and used that knowledge in the construction and legitimation of their positions and polities. Deagan's discussion presents
a strikingly different case of imperial conquest and consolidation, in which, at
least in the initial stages of Spanish expansion in the New World, knowledge (historical or otherwise) of su bject populations was non -existent.
While these papers and themes encompass a broad array ofissues and evidence,
it is also worth briefly considering some important topics that are not addressed
in the volume. It is perhaps most striking that none of the authors chose to
discuss military practices or strategies, given how key these are to the formation
of all of the empires considered. Brumfiel does consider elite ideologies of militarism, and several other chapters briefly touch on the topic, but no autllOr took
on military strategy, tactics, or logistics as a core topic. The lack of emphasis on
militarism is certainly in part a function of the group of individuals invited to participate in the conference. But we think it also reflects some disciplinary (and
perhaps global political) trends - of increasing concerns with ideological dimensions of complex societies and of increasing interest in the broader array of noncoercive (or, perhaps, more su btly coercive) mechanisms involved in imperial
formation and consolidation.
An additional issue of balance was also discussed at the conference, but ultimately received only limited coverage in the published chapters. It concerns the
XXI
X.Xll
Preface
perennial disparity in scholarly emphasis between the interests and activities of
elite members of society and the vast majority of the peoples brought under
imperial sway. Discussions of various non-elites and/or comparisons between the
representations of the upper echelons of society and life among the broader populace do figure prominently in chapters by Brumfiel, Deagan, Morrison, and
Smitll (see also Yates), but are rare in other contributions. In part, this differential emphasis derives from the relatively brief length of the contributions here
and the specific research questions posed within tllem. However, tile frequent
commitment of historically and archaeologically based research on empires to
tile lives, activities, and constructions of the powerful is also a contributing
factor, despite recent trends to tile contrary. The editors are well aware that many
of tile chapters here do not redress tile existing imbalance, but anticipate tllat
future studies of tllese and other empires will take us deeper into tile quotidian.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The "Imperial Designs" conference was sponsored by the Wenner-Gren
Foundation for Anthropological Research, and we owe many debts to the foundation and particularly to its tllen president, Sydel Silverman. The Foundation's
International Symposium program has a long and prestigious history within
antl1l"opology, and we were happy to be the beneficiaries of experience gained in
the previous 121 international symposia. Pre-conference meetings in New York
with Sydel and with Laurie Obbink helped us clarify our thoughts and assured
that we arrived in Spain ready to roll, and we greatly appreciate their insights and
experience. In Spain and New York we particularly acknowledge the organizational skills and good humor of Laurie Obbink and Mark Mahoney for making
sure everything ran smoothly (and Spanish wine flowed freely). Frances
Hayashida was another valued participant in the conference, serving as monitor
and note taker, as well as commentator. And of course, our deepest thanks to all
of the conference participants who together made this a productive, informative,
and highly pleasurable gathering.
We also thank the Wenner-Gren Foundation for post-conference financial
support that has greatly helped in the preparation of this volume. Peter Johansen
has been invaluable in the preparation of the volume, with the unenviable tasks
of getting all of the papers into a uniform format, preparing and checking the
compiled bibliography, and preparing computer graphics. He has our deepest
gratitude. Graciela Cabana picked up with the bibliography where Peter left off,
and her careful proofing was of immeasurable assistance. We also thank Bryan
Burns and K<\y Clahassey for additional help with the maps and cover art. Two
anonymous reviewers from Cambridge University Press provided helpful comments on the conference papers, and suggestions for the ultimate organization
of this work. Thanks also to Jessica Kuper and Cambridge University Press for
their support in the production of this volume.
PART I
SOURCES, APPROACHES,
DEFINITIONS
Kathleen D. Morrison
Amid the welter of vague political abstraction to lay onc's finger accurately on
any "ism" so as to pin down and mark it out by definition seems impossible.
Where meanings shift so quickly and so subtly, not onl}, following changes of
thought, but often manipulated artificially by political practitioners so as to
obscure, expand, or distort, it is idle to demand the same rigor as is expected in
the natural sciences. A certain broad consistenC}' in its relations to other kindred
terms is the nearest approach to definition which such a term as Imperialism
admits.
(Hobson 1965 [1905]: 3)
In attempting to come to terms with the structure and dynamics ofimperial politics, the contributors in this volume arc hardly pioneers. Interest in empires is
as old as empires themselves; onc could cite a vast literary and scholarly corpus
on the genesis, operation, and decline of imperial politics, encompassing a staggering degree of variability in approaches, sources, and conclusions. Why this
enduring interest? Part of it may have to do with the great impact empires have
had on the world and on the lived reality of many artists and scholars who were
participants in imperial politics, many of them dependent on state support or
patronage. However, tracing the history of fascination with subjects imperial is
complicated considerably by the shifting terrain of the concept itself.
THE CONCEPT OF EMPIRE
In scholarship coming from the European tradition, ideas of and about onc
empire - Rome - have contributed definitions and constituted foils for all
1
2
Kathleen D. Morrison
subsequent discussion of the concept of empire. It is thus worth considering that
heritage and its intellectual legacy, as several chapters in this volume do (Alcock,
MacCormack, Moreland, Woolf). In so doing, we acknowledge that western
scholarship grew up around culturally and historically specific notions of imperialism and that these intellectual legacies have framed our enquiry in particular
ways. However, to acknowledge the ways in which historical experiences of
European and Mediterranean empires have set the terms for inquiry is not to
suggest that our perspectives are entirely historically determined. Indeed, we
adopt a more anthropological view, that underpins our focus on comparison and
that suggests that our perspectives can be extended beyond this received
historiography through the careful study of other imperialisms and through the
evidential interplay of diverse source material - texts, art and architecture, artifacts, and landscape modification on local and regional scales.
The word "empire" itself derives from the Roman imperium with its root
sense of order and command (Pagden 1995: 14). Tracing the semantic history
of the notion of empire, Pagden isolates three basic European understandings
that emerged over the last two millennia. The first meaning invokes a basic sense
of authority or rule. As he explains:
In the first instance, the Latin term "empire," imperium, described the sphere
of executive authority possessed by the Roman magistrates, and like everything
in the Roman state it had marked sacral overtones, which would survive well
into the modern period. It was frequently employed, particularly in the various
humanistic discourses of the late fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, which borrowed tlleir etymologies from Cicero, in tlle somewhat indeterminate sense
which would later be captured by tlle word "sovereignty." The first sentence of
Machiavelli's The Prince, for instance, begins: "All the states and dominions
which have had and have empire over men."
(Pagden 1995: 12)
Thus, definitions of empire that invoke sovereignty as a basic feature (see contributions by Barfield, Subrahmanyam, Schreiber, this volume) bring us back
again to this sense of the term, a curiously recursive semantic dilemma.
Obviously, it is easy to invoke a kind of chicken-and-egg logic in this case, but
my point here is simply to highlight the changing semantic baggage of the term
empire and the difficulty of transforming a historically and culturally contingent
term into a broader analytical category.
The second sense in which the term empire has been used historically is more
circumscribed and less abstract, relating to the kind of "non-subordinate power
exercised within what the Aristoteleans called a 'perfect community'" (Pagden
1995: 12) - in a word, a state. This notion of empire clearly builds upon the first
meaning while confining it to the political container we shall come to expect in
the smdy of empires. Thus, even states without significant external territorial
ambitions could and did refer to themselves as empires without making a clear
distinction between "internal" political domination I and "external" conquest
and dominion.
By the nineteenth century, however, the common definition of empire had
Part I Sources, approaches, definitions
stabilized at the contemporary understanding of an expansive polity incorporating multiple states (or more broadly, incorporating significant internal diversity).
Again, Pagden (1995: 13-14) explains:
Already by tlle first century C E, however, tlle term had also acquired sometlling
of its more familiar modern meaJling. The Roman llistorian Sallust uses lie
phrase Imperium romamntl ... to describe the geograpllical extent and tlle
authority of tlle Roman people. And when Tacitlls spoke of tlle Roman world
as an "immense body of empire" (immmsum imperii corpus) he was describing
precisely tlle kind of political, and cultural, lIIlity created out of a diversity of different states widely separated in space, wllich Edmund Burke speaking in 1775
of tlle Spanish and British empires called "extensive and detached empire."
Imperium, in tllis sense, bound together different and formerly independent or
"perfect" states.
These various understandings of the term "empire" managed to coexist, even if
the third sense has come to dominate more recently. It is worth noting here that
these first two senses, while having considerable historical resonance even now,
are also of immediate and critical importance for the interpretation of documentary sources that employ such varied and shifting understandings - sources that
informed tlle study of all New World empires until tlle nineteenth century, for
example.
COMPARATIVE DYNAMICS OF EARLY EMPIRES
The project of this volume is explicitly comparative. While we acknowledge the
specificity of each case as well as the contingencies of history, we also suggest that
there is something to be gained by juxtaposing consideration of different
empires, perhaps even different imperialisms, widely separated in space and time.
The project of comparison immediately raises the question of what, exactly, is
being compared, bringing us back to the problem of definition. Without doubt,
discussions of definitions were among the most divisive topics of the conference
that produced this volume. One easy way out of this morass is to employ what
we may call the "pornography definition" of empires - I can't say what they are,
but I know one when I see one. In this section we deliberately include what may
be seen as "marginal" cases of empires, the steppe polities described by Bat·field
and the Portuguese seaborne empire described by Subrahmanyam, as well as
cases that engender less ambiguity about their ontological "status" as empires.
What, then, is an empire and where/how shall we draw boundaries between
empires and mere states, or empires and other forms oflarge-scale expansion and
incorporation? In this section, Bat·field, Schreiber, and Subrahmanyam all
venture definitions of empire. Both Barfield and Schreiber adopt a kind of diagnostic approach, listing attributes of the archetype - or, in Barfield's analysis, of
the many subtypes. Subrahmanyam's definition is significantly leaner, conforming most closely to the third historical definition described by Pagden, above.
Considering our task to be the definition of the category empire might,
3
4
Kathlem D. Morrison
however, unduly restrict us. Phrasing the problem in this way tempts us to a misplaced concreteness, to a belief that the analytical category "empire" is somehow
a "tiling" witll properties - a living, breatlling entity. In a sense, what is really
critical is not the typological class that we might define, but the logic with which
we dissect complex phenomena in the world to create such classifications. Why
might sovereignty, for example, be important? Like "empire," sovereignty is not
a natural category. It can be profitably seen not so much as a "property" of states,
but as a kind of argument about one person or group's right to hold power over
anotller. In his chapter in this volume, Yates explains that the, as he puts it,
Chinese "imperial mytll" developed in tile Qin period identified empire not in
terms of the sovereignty of a ruling people, as did the Romans (Woolf, this
volume), but in terms of the person of tile emperor and his lineage. South Asian
empires, too, diverge from this Roman-derived expectation. On the other hand,
concerns about legitimacy loom large in both the Chinese and South Asian cases,
concerns that are shared by participants in and observers of empires such as the
Roman one, who work out the issue in very different ways. What really drives
our study of empires, then, is this working out of how, why, when, and where
the processes of empire - the establishment of sovereignty here by way of
example - are effected or fail.
The definitional issues raised above are concerned primarily with the notion
of empire as a political form or type, a kind of super-state, juxtaposing empire,
if only implicitly, against politics that are not empires. However, another way of
viewing the problem, one that partakes of some of the wariness of misplaced
concreteness raised in the previous paragraph, is to consider empires not in relation to an abstract array of political or evolutionary types, but in terms of their
own cultural context. Here we come to another vexed definitional debate; what,
then constitutes the empire "itself"? What are its elements? Where does the state
begin and end; what are the boundaries between the state and the society in
which it is embedded? It is one kind of argument to ask "were the Carolingians
really an empire?" and quite another to attempt to define the contours of the
Carolingian state apparatus, as MOl'eland does (this volume), to consider the
practice of the state itself, and its impact on others who, in this exercise, must
be considered in some sense to be not-the-state-itself: A Weberian definition of
states as organizations claiming a monopoly on legitimate force within a given
territory or of empires as special kinds of states does not, as Mitchell (1991: 82)
notes, "tell us how the actual contours of this amorphous organization are to be
drawn." Mitchell goes on to describe the problem of analytically isolating the
state from its sociocultural matrix (society in his terms) as a key issue in defining the state concept and as a central debate in twentieth-century political
science. Attempts to extinguish the state concept, by replacing it for example
with the concept of a political s),stem, always founder on this problem of boundary definition. The state, somehow, manages to maintain a salience in actual
practice that defies attempts to define it away. Mitchell (1991: 78) proposes,
tllen that:
Part I Sources, approaches, definitions
the elusiveness of the state-society boundary needs to be taken seriously, not as
a problem of conceptual precision but as a clue to the nature of the phenomenon. Rather than searching for a definition that will fix the boundary, we need
to examine the detailed political processes through which the uncertain yet
powerful distinction between state and society is produced. This distinction
must be taken as the boundary not between two discrete entities, but as a line
drawn internally within the network ofinstitutional mechanisms through which
a social and political order is maintained.
The processes tllat fix the precise location of this line, an internal distinction
appearing as an external boundary, are what make the state seem to be a coherent, autonomous actor, and tllese processes warrant more detailed analytical
attention. This is not to say that tlle state is thus somehow not "real" (Mitchell
1991: 81-2). Rather,
The point that the state's boundary never marks a real exterior can suggest why
it seems so often elusive and unstable. But this does not mean that line is illusory. On the contrary ... producing and maintaining the distinction between
state and society is itself a mechanism that generates resources of power.
(Mitchell1991: 90)
What Mitchell does not discuss but which nevertheless seems probable is that
tllis "line drawn internally" will vary in both its character and its location
between different polities. A comparative approach may be one of the best possibilities for addressing the processes that shape the apparent contours of any
polity. Differences between the broad outlines of imperial polities, then, need
not be the rocks upon which definitions founder, but instead may constitute the
very sources of understanding the processes that set up such polities as seemingly
independent objects or categories in themselves. As Brumfiel and others in this
volume remind us, even the elite echelons of imperial society may be separated
by basic differences ofinterest, culture, and capability - the imperial state is probably always a finely balanced (or unbalanced) set of compromises and concerns
that work together to constitute what may be in sum seen as a polity. Ifwe shift
concern from definition per se to the kinds of processes that act and interact to
form historical empires, a larger range of subject material becomes germane to
our analysis. Some of this larger field of enquiry, into the kinds ofideological justifications and apparatuses set up by and about imperial politics, the responses to
and ramifications of imperial expansion on a range of subject people, are
addressed in this volume in the sections on "imperial ideologies" and "imperial
subjects. "
Even if we cannot agree on what precisely empires are, still, paradoxically we
can ask: What kinds of shapes do what we call empires assume? How do they
behave? How, when, and why do they emerge, expand, f.111 apart and disappear?
How do they view and represent themselves and others? How, why, and by
whom are they remembered? How are those brought into imperial polities
affected and how do they shape its trajectory? Which ofthese processes recur and
5
6
Kathleen D. Morrison
which seem to be unique? These are the kinds of questions that animate the
chapters in this volume: questions of comparison in a dynamic rather than typological mode, questions that suggest to us that the comparative project is valuable indeed. Thus, it seems to be the case that we can disagree on actual
definitions, even on the very need for close definition, and still be able to discuss
imperial processes and histories to our mutual benefit.
TRACES OF THE PAST: WAYS OF CREATING
HISTORY
In this section and indeed this entire volume, we are concerned with empires
that, while remembered, are no longer extant. How may we come to know this
past? It seems that to some extent our views - and indeed our definitions - reflect
the sources of information available. The study of past empires employs many
diverse kinds of sources: texts of a very large variety; archaeological remains (settlements, monuments, houses, artifacts - both quotidian and rarified, evidence
oflandscape modification); representations in art and architecture; even tl1e evidence of human bodies. Obviously, the broad range of potential information and
tl1e proliferation of specialist knowledge require interdisciplinary cooperation.
Very often, favored sources are closely linked with disciplinary training, but it is
also, and more insidiously, true that different disciplinary traditions tend toward
the acceptance of different kinds of explanations altogether. Most of the authors
in this volume attempt to overcome these limits to some degree through engagement with multiple sources of information and a broad scholarly gaze, but it will
always be worthwhile to closely interrogate not only the conclusions drawn from
a body of evidence, but also the very selection of that corpus of information.
How inferences about the past are made is, of course, a central preoccupation of
history, archaeology, and historical anthropology, among other disciplines, and
is far too broad a topic to consider here. In the context of the chapters in this
section, however, I point to a few specific areas that reflect differences in disciplinary and topical focus.
In her chapter on the Wari empire, Schreiber concentrates on the spatial and
temporal distribution of objects of a particular, she argues imperial, style. These
objects, chiefly ceramics and architecture, are of interest not only for their
potential functions in Wari society (serving, cooking, or storage vessels; warehouses, administrative offices, and barracks), but even more so as markers of
Wari imperialism. The latter, as she readily agrees, is difficult to pin down precisely, although she does argue for a shift from more political to more economic
forms of domination. Schreiber's analysis is, of necessity, intimately material,
explicitly spatial, and based on chains of inference about association (terraces
near a settlement, ceramics in a temple, an iconographic depiction in a distant
locale). The very natme of the material record or perhaps just the training of
archaeologists makes them (us) generally comfortable with and knowledgeable
about the material world and its challenges, and accustomed to a constant scalar
Part I Sources, approaches, definitions
disjunction between regional-scale information and minute, household-scale
patterns of data.
Archaeological prejudices and possibilities also vary, however, by region. In
areas Witll long traditions of research, archaeologists may have available minute
detail on diet, agriculture, health patterns, production, household organization
and variability, or tlley may have primarily monumental architecture and ceramic
chronologies to work with. Different times and places also have divergent traditions of the ways in which text-based and archaeological data are compared and
generated. In Schreiber's case, tllere are no texts of any sort and her analysis tlms
omits tile genealogical accounts, for example, that frame Kuhrt's exegesis of
Achaemenid history. In most of the otller chapters in this volume, texts and
material culture constitute two, if not the two, primary sources of information;
but tile balance in individual chapters varies significantly.
If archaeological data and archaeological traditions vary widely, then so too do
both documentary records and historical approaches. The Inka, for example, are
known only from texts of the conquering Spanish, as well as from archaeological and art historical information (D'AJtroy, MacCormack, this volume). The
Chinese empire, by contrast, has copious internal textual information (Yates, this
volume), tllis information contrasting further with that available for many time
periods in South Asia where historical texts, though abundant, are conventionalized in different kinds of ways (Morrison, Sinopoli, this volume). Even witlun
a particular region, time, and research tradition, texts may vary in the degree to
which they represent elite viewpoints and the perspectives of particular ethnic
and cultural groups in an empire. Research traditions also play a role here. In the
South Indian Vijayanagara empire, the focus on scholarship of the Tamil region
and in the Tamil language has led to a situation in which an important, but
distant province of the empire was better understood than the heartland of the
empire itself. Clearly, the history of research and the historiography of our scholarship on empires play a powerful role in how we approach them.
Finally, we can point to a concern shared by historians, archaeologists, art
historians, and all others who study empires, and this is the problem of scale.
Empires, as Greg Woolf remarked at the conference, are both too big to study
and too small to study. As we consider in the section "Empires in a wider world,"
it is necessary to look beyond political boundaries, even if this means in some
cases that om area of study is the entire world. Archaeologists typically acquire
very rich detail on a scale that is spatially very intimate yet temporally blurry.
Extending archaeological understandings across very large spatial scales moves
beyond anyone scholar's own fieldwork; the masses of local data to be assimilated make supra-regional analysis on the basis of archaeological evidence difficult, though of course t:1r from impossible.
Text-based analysis is also critically dependent on the spatial, temporal, and
social scale of the texts themselves, as well as on work locating, transcribing,
translating, and making texts available (publication, archives, libraries). Kuhrt
mentions, for example, the critically important Elamite texts from Persepolis, the
7
8
Kathleen D. Morrison
majority of which still sit in a museum, awaiting analysis. Or again, in the case of
the Vijayanagara empire, textual scholarship focused on inscriptions has relied
disproportionately on temple inscriptions, not because of deficient scholarship,
but because temples were where epigraphers and archaeologists looked for
inscriptions and consequently what was primarily available to historians. When
new strategies of fieldwork are followed, however, bOtll tile shape and tile
content of the historical record look quite different (Morrison and Lycett 1997).
Here the scalar problems of dealing with tens of tllOusands of texts are similar to
those in archaeology where, for example, literally millions of artifacts may be
involved. It is easy to overdraw bOtll tile differences and tile difficulties of
working Witll diverse data sets. In most cases, tile contributors to tllis volume
bridge tllese differences in tlleir own work and an eclectic approach may be tile
rule ratller tllan tile exception.
THE POLITICS OF ANALYSIS IN THE ANALYSIS
OF POLITICS
As Hobson suggests (above), tile very notion of what constitutes imperialism is
subject to political agendas. As we discuss in tile section on the "afterlife" of
empires, tile selection of which polities come to be remembered and invoked as
exemplary, and hOJII they are remembered, is also critically responsive to contemporary concerns. In some sense, then, empires never die - they are just reinvoked, reinvented, and recalled over and over again. The potential rewards of
this process for rulers and politicians who may partake of past glories and legitimacies seem evident.
Analytical interest in empires, however, also operates in an interested context
to some degree. Some scholarly analyses of empires are or seem to be overtly utilitarian, providing object lessons from the successes and failures of the past, veritable cookbooks for imperialism. Fredrick Danver's (1894) two-volume study of
the Portuguese overseas empire, for example, clearly drew out lessons for British
rule in India from the "mistakes" of the Portuguese - including Catholicism and
intermarriage with local people. Indeed, at particular points in time, British
scholarship on the Portuguese in India was strikingly interested in issues such as
when and how the Portuguese lost the right to rule, or whether they ever had it:
issues suspiciously germane to contemporaneous self-justification for British rule
over those very same territories. Other scholarship has worked quite explicitly to
condemn the whole imperial enterprise, Wittfogel's (1957) classic study of despotism as a protest against fascism being one example, Hobson's (1965 [1905])
critique of imperialism another.
Of course, not all study of empires follows such an explicit political agenda. In
putting together a conference and volume on empires we are certainly making a
point about the historical and analytical importance of empires and the value of
studying them - or, as I would prefer, about the importance of understanding
the process and practices of imperialism, the hows and whys of empire-building,
Part I Sources, approaches, definitions
expansion, legitimation, consolidation, and decay. At least part of this value lies
in understanding the ways in which the ideologies, operations, and structures of
imperial power work and affect people on the ground. Another part of this value
is situated in developing a more nuanced theoretical understanding of imperial
polities and processes; it is our goal in tllis volume to work, with all means possible, toward bOtll tllese ends.
9
11
Impcrial statc formation a/Oll!! tbe Chi1JeJc-No1Jtad jhmtiel'
1
The shadow' en1pires: in1perial state
forn1ation along the Chinese-N on1ad
frontier
LAKE
))MIKAL
Thomas J, Barficld
0S
KWARAZAM
10
The large empires periodically established by the pastoral nomads of the Eurasian
steppe present significant problems to students of imperial organization, With
economics based on a mobile f(JI'Il1 of animal husbandry, small and scattered
populations, and a tribal social organization, these horse-riding peoples stood in
stark contrast to lleighboring sedentary civilizations, Their relatively unsophisticated technology and lack of urban centers made them poor candidates f(ll'
achieving state level organization, let alone imperial hegemony, Yet beginning in
the third century BC E along China's northern fj'ontier, the nomads nevertheless managed to create a series of empires that controlled immense territories
under the rule of powerful long-lived dynasties, Over a period of more than
2000 years they terrorized, and periodically conquered, rival states in northern
China, Central Asia, Iran, and eastem Europe (Fig, l.1),
Empires established by nomads in Mongolia were distinctive "shadow
empires" that arose as secondary phenomena in response to imperial expansion
by the Chinese, Their stability depended on extorting vast amounts of wealth
(,'om China through pillage, tribute payments, border trade, and international
reexport of luxury goods not by taxing steppe nomads, When China was centralized and powerful, so were nomadic empires; when China collapsed into
political anarchy and economic depression, so did the unif1ed steppe politics that
had prospered by its extortion,
Evidence ()r this pattern comes f,'om both sides of the (I'ontier and is well documented because ancient and medieval Chinese historians Id) detailed records
of their dealings with the nomads north of the Great Wall. Though these records
arc o(ten very Sinocentric, they include contentious court debates about China's
nomad policies, accounts of military expeditions (often tales of disasters ), reports
of fi'ontier off1cials, diplomatic correspondence, treaties with the nomads, and
details about trade and other economic relations, They have slll'vived largely
because each new dynasty in China commissioned an official history of its predecessor as evidence of its own merit, producing an almost continuous record of
China's dealings with its nomadic neighbors, Each of these works f()lIowed a
basic pattern of composition established by the Shi ji, China's first great history
of the Qin and Former Han dynasties authored by Sima Qian in the first century
KIZIL
KUM
DESERT
Bukhara
Karakorum
•
LAKE BALKASH
III River
<UNO
0'-'11»/1
Uighurs
Turks
TIEN S AN
FERGANA MOUNTAINS
.SOGDIA~
NAN SHAN
MOUNTAINS
PAMIR
TAKLA,MAKAN
DESERT
MOUNTAINS
Pacific
Ocean
TIBET
CHINA
INDIA
BC E (Ssu-ma 1993), He drew his material (I'<m1 court records and devoted individual chapters to each of the major ()reign peoples along China's (,'on tiers,
Sollt'ce material drawn (,'om archives was usually inserted verbatim in a "cut and
paste" (~lshion rather than being summarized, so that the level of detail is often
quite extraordinary, Sima Qian was writing his work during the reign of Han
Wudi (I', 140-87 BC E) when the "nomad problem" was onc of the most contentious issues at court. His model was (c)lIowed by Ban Gu, author of the Hmi
shtt, which completed the history of POl'lller Han dynasty, This rich material has
been the source (c)r a number of important studies 011 Hall fI'ontier relations
(Lattimore 1940; Loewe 1967; Yii 1967; Hulsewc 1979), as well as later
periods, particularly ()r the Tang (Shafcr 1963; Mackerras 1972) and Ming
dynasties (Serruys 1959, 1967; Waldron 1990),
The early nomads left no written records of their own, but there is extensive
archaeological material, mostly tomb sites, that flesh out the nomads' material
culture (Jettmar 1964; Rudenko 1970; Cosmo 1994; So and Bunker 1995),
Beginning with the Turks in the eighth century, we also have nomad inscriptions
that supplement this picture with their own words (Tekin 1968), as well as travel
accounts fI'om non-Chinese sources (Bretschneider 1888; Minorski 1948), The
period of the Mongol empire provides the most details on the nomadic lifcways
and political organization of the world's largest empire, T'hese include the
Mongols' own oral history of their rise to power (Cleaves 1982), as wdl as more
1,/ SICppC fllI/,il'cS i!f'
(;cTllm! Asill, [{cgill/IS
IInd Illll~fiJ/'llls arc ill
CIlpi/ll!!cttcl'.\~ italic
typc illdim/cs pClIplcs,
12
Thomas J. Ba/field
1IIIpfI'in/.rtntc/imllatiOlI a/mill tile (,'llillcsc-NolJlad /hmticr
13
1.3 17le XiOlllT11II
owcrl their stl'{'J/lTth to
t/Jcir CI11'1l/1'),. Ellcb
JIIal'l'iol' WIIS expcctcrl
to bl'illlT /Jis OJl!II bol'sc
Illlrl JUN/ifJ/ill'
111 ili tlll'Y lTa III cs. HOI'JC
l'irlilllT sllil/s lI'el'c
Jharjlcller! by lfl1111l'S
SI/ch ITS thcsc ill Il'lJich
two ridcl'J lTl'ippilllf 11
Jilllllc leMhi'!' tholllf
wcb IlttcllljJt to 1'111/
the othcl' l!fJ: (KIlZllll
1101llllrlJ, Altlli
MOlllltllills, Xilljill1ll',
Peoplcs Rcpublic Id'
Chil/fl, III~), Jl)87.)
1.2 NOllladic
j1aJtol'llliJtJ Iml'c
l'c/atil'c~y/cJII rClllaills,
so tha t l1I11C" 1!f'II'/JIlt
JIIC ImoJllabollt lfl'OlljlS
liIle the XiOllllll1l is
rI cri I'ed /hllll
11 I'dJll cololJim I
CXCII I'll tiollJ (!f't 0111 bJ.
'lJlest' C01ltcllljlO1'll1',l'
[(llzllll tilllbcI'l11'lll'CS
IICI1r thc MOlllTolill1l
borrlcr sit in 1711 olrlcl'
lT1'Ill'f,Ylll'rllIIlll'llt:rI by
1111 Illlcimt stOIlC stc/c
JIIit" 1111 illciscrl
/mlll/III/ha. (Altlli
MOlllltllillS, Xilljil1lllT,
Pcojlles RCjlllblic of
Chilla, IlIly 1987.)
gcncral contcmporary historics and first-hand accounts of nomadic life in
Pcrsian, Latin, and Chincsc (cr. Juvaini 1958; Rashid al- Din Tabib 1971; Spuler
1972).
THE POLITICAL ORGANIZATION OF NOMADIC
STATES
Historically, thc lvlongolian (i'omicr prcscnts thc c1carcst cxample of sccondary
impcrial dcvelopmcnt bccausc nomads thcrc f;1Ccd a single statc, China, ofovcrwhelming sizc and powcr. Thc problcm thc nomads f:1Ccd was this: whcn China
was united undcr nativc dynasties it wanted nothing to do with the nomads and
attemptcd via walls, (i'onticr garrisons, and occasional military campaigns to cut
thcm ofI' both politically and cconomically. Whcn dividcd into many fl'agmcntcd
tribal groups scattcrcd across vast distanccs (Fig. 1.2), thcsc nomads wcrc no
match f()r the world's largest agrarian state, but whcn united into a singlc cmpirc
they becamc China's most effective f()rcign encmy. Thcy stood as a political
cqual against a Chinesc state that was fiflS to onc hundred timcs larger than their
own in population, ruled over by a powcrful centralized governmcnt with acccss
to an immensc revenuc stream, and possesscd ofa standing army and Great Wall.
Thc kcy to thc nomads' success was a singular military advantagc, horsc cavalry,
and an imperial state organization that distributed rcvcnue to subjcct nomad
groups instead of collecting it.
The steppe nomads wcre masters of mounted archery with an unlimited
supply of horses (Fig. 1.3) and a warlike tradition who, as a I-Ian Chinese official complained, made "a business of pillage and plunder" (Ssu-ma 1993, 2:
196). They created a political organization, an imperial confederacy that centralized their military power and kept the lI'ibes united. It employed the principles
ofll'ibal organization and indigenous tribal leaders to rule at the local level, while
maintaining an imperial state structlll'e with an exclusive monopoly controlling
f()reign and military afbirs.
This structure had three basic levels or organil'.atiol1. The imperial leadership
or the empire was drawn fi'om the ruling lineage of the tribe that t<nlllded the
state. At the second level welT governors appointed to supervise the indigenous
tribal leadership and command regional armies. Drawn fi'om collateral relations
of the ruler, these imperial appointees served as the key links between the central
administration and indigenous tribal leaders. The local ITibal leaders constituted
the third level of' organization. They were members of' the indigenous eliles of
each tribe and, although structurally inferior to imperial appointees, they
retained considerable autonomy because of' their close political tics to their own
people who would f()llow them in revolt if'the imperial commanders overstepped
their authority (Barfield 1981).
Imperial conkderacies maintained levels of' organization f:u' in excess of that
needed to handle tribal relations or livestock problems. They emerged in
Mongolia as a slruclural response by the nomads to the problems of organizing themselves to manipulale China. No single tribe along the fl'ontier could
14
Thomas]. Barfield
effectively deal with a united China, but a single empire with an imperial administration could wield a power that even China could not ignore. Initially the unification of the steppe tribes was the product of a steppe-wide military conquest
by a charismatic tribal leader. But uniting the nomad tribes of Mongolia by conquest was only the first step in building an effective empire because the nomadic
state could not depend solely on the threat of military force to maintain cohesion; it also had to offer real economic benefits. The political bargain was this:
in exchange for accepting a subordinate political position, the leaders of the confederacy's component tribes received access to Chinese luxury goods and trade
opportunities they could not have gained for themselves alone. Therefore the
imperial confederacy and its leadership owed their continued financial success
and political stability to their relentless exploitation of resources from outside tlle
steppe. Exclusive control of foreign affairs was central to tlleir power. To understand why we must first understand just how little tllere was for a nomad leader
to exploit internally in an undiversified livestock economy witll a low population
density.
Imperial state formation along the Chinese-Nomad frontier
Unlike peasants who were tied to specific pieces ofland, nomadic peoples could
move themselves and their animals if they felt put upon. Even if nomad leaders
could tax tlleir followers regularly, tllere was little point to it. Unlike grain that
could be cheaply warehoused at a single point, live animals needed constant
attention and had to be moved regularly among widely scattered pastures.
Therefore nomadic leaders tended toward irregular exactions in times of need,
in particular demanding tllat tlleir subjects be prepared to go to war at short
notice and provide tlleir own weapons, supplies, horses, and other equipment
for military campaigns. Thus the economic foundation of imperial political
organization on tlle steppe was rooted not in tlle relatively undiversified pastoral economy of Mongolia but on exploiting tlle wealtll of China. The foreign
policies of all imperial confederacies of Mongolia had a single aim: to extract
direct benefits from China directly by raiding or indirectly through subsidies, and
tlle establishment of institutionalized border trade agreements tllat met subsistence needs. WitllOUt such revenue tlle nomadic state would collapse. To get tllis
revenue tlle nomad rulers of Mongolia turned to China and made them an offer
tlley could not refuse.
ECONOMIC ORGANIZATION OF NOMADIC LIFE
Nomadism in central Eurasia has always depended on tlle exploitation of extensive but seasonal steppe grasslands and mountain pastures. Since humans cannot
digest grass, raising livestock is an efficient way of exploiting the energy of such
a grassland ecosystem. The herds consist, as the Mongols say, of the "five
animals": sheep, goats, horses, cattle, and camels. Of these, sheep and horses are
the most important, but the ideal was to have all the animals necessary for both
subsistence and transportation so that a family or tribe could approach selfsufficiency in pastoral production. There was never any specialization in the production ofa single species (such as developed among the camel-raising Bedouin
of the Near East and North Africa). The proportion of each species within a
herd always reflected the constraints imposed by local ecological conditions: a
higher percentage of cattle in wetter regions, proportionately more goats than
sheep in areas of marginal pasture, and larger numbers of camels along desert
margins. More than in any otller pastoral area, the nomads of central Eurasia
took full advantage of the multiple uses of their animals. Steppe nomads not
only rode horses but milked mares, ate horsemeat (and sometimes blood), and
used their skins for leatller. Similarly, while the camel was used primarily as a
baggage animal, it was also milked, utilized as a source of hair, and occasionally
eaten. Oxen were also employed to pull carts or carry loads. In any event, there
was little economic diversity, unless perhaps one wanted to trade cows for
camels. Everybody raised the same animals and produced the same products.
This was excellent for subsistence but provided a weak internal economic base
for a state.
This weakness was compounded by structural difficulties nomad leaders faced
if tlley wished to extract revenue or labor from their widely scattered subjects.
The outer frontier strategy
The number of nomads confronting China was small, perhaps about a million
people overall, and they were trying to extort Chinese dynasties that in Han
times (202 B CE-220 CE) ruled over fifty million people, and onc hundred
million in the Tang dynasty (618-907 CE). To succeed tlley had to influence
decision-making at the very highest levels of government because Chinese
foreign policy was made at court and not by frontier governors or border officials. To this cnd the nomads implemented a terroristic "outer frontier" strategy
to magnify their power. Taking n.1I advantage of tlleir ability to suddenly strike
deep into China and then retreat before the Chinese had time to retaliate, tlley
could threaten the frontier at any time (Fig. 1.4). Such violence and the disruption it caused encouraged the Chinese to negotiate agreements f.1Vorable to the
nomads.
The outer frontier strategy had three major elements: violent raiding to terrify
the Chinese court, the alternation of war and peace to increase tlle amount of
subsidies and trade privileges granted by the Chinese, and the deliberate refusal
to occupy Chinese land that they would tllen have to defend. The threat ofvioIence always lurked beneath the surf.1ce of even the most peaceful interactions.
Zhonghang Yue, a Chinese defector working for the nomads, once warned some
Han dynasty envoys of the danger they f.1ced in very simple terms.
Just make sure that the silks and grain stuffs you bring the Xiongnu are the right
measure and quality, that's all. What's the need for talking? If the goods you
deliver are up to measure and good quality, all right. But if there is any deficiency or the quality is no good, then when the autumn harvest comes we will
take our horses and trample all over your crops!
(Ssu-ma 1993,2: 144-5)
15
16
17JolllasJ. Ba/ficld
1.4 Stci'Pc 1lOlI/ads
oftCII C1IltipiTtcd a
ficrcc imagc whCII
dmling with thc
outsidc world. A 1II01lg
thc [(azl1ll.1', IlccjJilllJ
'mll tilllJ calJlc.\~ who
somc claim wcrc OIlCC
wcd ill {mule, Jits this
idmll!f'aJicrcc
warrior pcoplc. (Altai
MOlllltaill.l; Xinjiallll,
Pcoplcs Republic Id'
China, Jllly 1987.)
The Chinese had no good choices when confi'onted with fi'ontier violence. They
had three policy options: (1) respond defensively, fc)rtif)' the fi'ontier, and ignore
the nomads' demands; (2) respond aggressively, raise an expeditionary cavalry
(ixce, and attack the nomads on the steppe; or (3) appease the nomads with
expensive peace treaties that provided them with subsidies and border markets.
Each approach produced its own set of problems. If the nomads' demands were
ignored, they could continually raid the fi'ontiCl', looting to get what they wanted
and wreaking havoc with China's border population. But the altel'l1atives of
aggressive military action or appeasement WCl'e only slightly less problematic.
Seeming to pay "tribute" to milk-drinking barbarians violated the VCl'y essence
of a Sinocentric world order in which the Chinese empCl'or was deemed paramount. Such payments were particularly galling since Chinese court officials
recognized that in terms of population, military strength, and economic production, they WCl'e I:H' more powerflil than the nomads. Yet any sustained war
Impcrial statc fiJl'lllatioJl
atoll!]
the Chillese-Nollladfhmticr
conducted by China against the nomads f~lCed serious obstacles. While the
nomads could be driven away from the frontier, they could not be conquCl'ed
because they were mobile and simply moved out of sight until the Chinese
armies withdrew. Their land could not be permanently occupied because it was
unfit f(x agriculture. Although nomad attacks on the border could be stemmed
by means oflarge armies and campaigns on the steppe, li'ontier warfare was economically more disruptive for the Chinese than for the nomads. It drained the
treasury and strained the peasantry with ever increasing demands Ic)r taxes and
soldiers. for the nomads war was cheap. Steppe households were always prepared to provide horses, weapons, and supplies on short notice, and the loot collected in China repaid this investment many times over. Pinally, continuous
military operations threatened the balance of power at court by increasing the
political influence of the military and the emperor at the expense of the civilian
bureaucrats. Threatened with the loss of their hegemony, these oflicials moved
to cnd aggressive military campaigns, arguing that they were 1:11' more expensive
than simply paying the nomads to stay away. Consequently, no native Chinese
dynasty was able to maintain an aggressive /(JI'eign policy against the nomads /(:>1'
longer than the reign of a single emperor. I China disguised the true nature of
this appeasement policy by devising an elaborate "tributary system" in which
large payments to the nomads were described as gifts given to loyal subordinates
come to pay homage to the cmperor.
Once the agreements were in place with native Chinese dynasties, dlC (i'ontiers experienced long pcriods of peace because a nomad leader's ultimate aim
was to extort China, not conquer it. A symbiotic relation developed in which
some nomad leaders even allied with China to lend off rivals when they were
driven off the steppe and China tUl'l1ed more and more to the steppe nomads as
a source of auxiliary troops to put down peasant rebellions or revolting provincial governors. Indeed, in their final years Chinese dynasties often (HInd that (1111),
the nomads remained loyal. The nomads were dependent on the subsidies supplied by such dynasties and the collapse of' t-he latter was a f:ltal blow to any
nomadic state in Mongolia.
Circulation
(~f'.!1oods
and politicaJ power in steppe etnpires
Because llomadic states depended primarily on revenue extracted (i'om China in
various ways, we should examine why these goods were important. Sedentary
states were ultimately based on the labor of a subject peasantry in a landlorddominated agrarian economy that supported a complex class hierarchy and paid
the costs of state administration. Nomad states were more like redistributive
chicfdoms. They lacked a strong class structure and the leaders' main responsibilities intel'l1ally were organizational rather than extractive. 'They were
expected to provide real benefits and prestige goods to component tribes and
their leaders. They also took precedence in commanding armies, handling
{()reign afIlirs, and resolving disputes that threatened intel'l1al order. While I<lt'ce
17
18
Thomas J. Barfield
could be used to keep component tribes from rebelling or breaking away, the
system depended less on threats of force than on regular flows of outside
revenue. Initially these resources from China were acquired directly through
raids. At some point, however, every sophisticated nomadic ruler realized he
needed a more regular source of revenue and luxury goods to support tlle political elite, as well as an outlet for regular trade for ordinary nomads. It was at tllis
point tllat nomads changed tlleir policies from simple raiding to tlle extraction
oflucrative treaty agreements tllat provided tllem witll botll direct subsidies and
border markets.
Border trade in subsistence goods
What goods did the nomads seek and why? Because tlle steppe economy was so
undiversified the nomads naturally looked to tlleir sedentary neighbors for a
wide range of products and as an outlet for their own surpluses. The nomads
produced regular surpluses in items (horses, milk products, meat, hides, and
wool) tllat were in short supply and highly valued in agricultural communities.
These agricultural communities produced grain in abundance, as well as metal
goods, clotll, and luxury items such as silk and wine that were sought after by
the nomads. Trade was tllerefore a natural process along the frontier and Chinese
government attempts to restrict or prohibit it were the greatest source of tension
in frontier relations.
Grain was one oftlle products most in demand by nomads, but because this
trade was so ordinary it is scantily documented and scholars continue to argue
over whether the steppe nomads included grain as a regular part of their diet.
While in theory it may have been possible to survive entirely on a diet of milk
products and meat, historically most nomads have had a substantial grain component to their diet. Grain was an important food source because it could be
stored for long periods and complemented the milk products and meat supplied
by the animals. Grain could be grown in parts of the steppe but the early frosts
in Mongolia made its production there doubtnll. Growing grain was also not
compatible with nomadic movements, although part of the population (or
Chinese captives at some periods) could have been devoted to this task. The
nomads were willing to travel long distances to trade (or raid) for grain supplies
because they had the baggage animals like camels that could transport bulk
goods over long distances at low cost. The Chinese, by contrast, could not move
grain very far overland economically in the absence of canal or river systems
because they relied on grain-fed oxen to pull transport carts. It was easy to calculate the range at which the cost of feeding the oxen exceeded the amount of
grain being transported. Thus, grain surpluses on China's frontier that could not
profitably be extracted by the center were economically attractive to the steppe
nomads despite being moved much longer distances. Camels that carried grain
needed only nanIral pasture, hence their profitable transport range was almost
unlimited.
Imperial >fate formation along the Chinese-Nomad frontier
In addition to grain, ordinary nomads were also interested in other goods for
use, particularly cloth and metals. Linen clotll (from hemp, ramie, or kudzu) and
cotton (of Central Asian origin) were a useful supplement to tlle felts and
woolens produced by the nomads. Perhaps not absolutely necessary, tlley nevertheless made life easier and were much in demand (anyone who has ever experienced tlle discomfort of trying to dry steaming wet wool after a rainstorm can
appreciate tlle value of a change of faster-drying clothes!).
Metals were tlle most strategic of tlle common goods needed by tlle nomads.
Iron was in particularly high demand on tlle steppe for tools and weapons, but
China was also a good source of bronze and copper. The nomads had tlleir own
tradition of metallurgy, of course, but the Chinese produced bronze and iron in
such quantity tllat it was much simpler to acquire metal 6:om tllem and rework
it on tlle steppe tllan to have to mine and refine tlle ore tllemselves. Chinese coins
were a particularly good source of metal because when tlley went out of circulation they could be purchased in bulk even tllOugh tllis trade was often prohibited. In Han times trade in iron to tlle nomads was absolutely banned and
violators were punished by death, a penalty inflicted on 500 merchants in tlle
capital in 121 B CE when tlley (in ignorance oftlle law) sold iron pots to a delegation of visiting nomads (Yi.i 1967: 119).
Border markets where the nomad trade flourished were characteristic of
China's frontier areas. The relationship was a natural one and profitable to both
sides, but the Chinese insisted that these markets be closely regulated and during
many periods they prohibited all trade with the steppe peoples. This was because
native dynasties feared they would lose control of their frontier areas iftlley were
too closely integrated into the steppe economy. Banning trade, however, only
caused tlle nomads to get what they wanted by force and turned the frontier into
a zone of endemic raiding. Jagchid and Symons (1989) go so far as to argue that
peace or war between China and the steppe depended entirely on whether China
permitted such markets to be opened. While this argument is too simplistic, it
does capture the fact that the status of border trade in ordinary goods was a key
point of dispute between the nomads of Mongolia and China over the centuries.
Long-distance trade and tribute in luxury goods
If trade in ordinary goods made up the bulk of exchanges, it was the acquisition
of luxury goods (silk, gold, wine, etc.) that is the focus of most of the written
histories. Why the nomad preoccupation with these luxury goods, especially silk?
First, silk was a valuable luxury good. Although not well suited for steppe life, it
was a highly valued sign of elite status (Fig. 1.5). Perhaps more important, it was
a store of wealth, light in weight and high in value, that could be traded for more
utilitarian objects or luxury goods from elsewhere. Silk was not the only product
the nomads demanded. Gold, satin, precious metals, bronze mirrors, and even
musical instruments appear on lists of gifts. And alcohol (mostly as rice wine), or
yeast to make it, was a common trade item and given in large quantities as gifts
19
20
J,5 17)c Xio1JlJlIII
i1Jcorporatcd IIl1l11y
jiJ/'Cigll goods into the
stCjljlC, II'''crc they
beClllllc part (if'
cl'cI'yda), I~f'c, 77)e
cOlllbination {if'
Chincsc sill, i1Jto 11
shccpsldn IJllt lI'om by
t1'l1diti01w/ly d/'c.ued
[(azl1l, 1IICtI in
1I00,tlJll'cstc/'ll Chinl1
today is nil cXllmplc lif'
thc IOlllJ-tcl'/IJ "istoric
relatioll bctll'een
Chinll Ilnd t"c steppe
1101IJIlds, (Altlli
MOlllltains, XilljianlJ,
Pcoples Republic lif'
Chinll, JJI~)' J 987.)
Thomas J. Bm/icld
Iwperial .Itate /imlt atio 11 tllolllf the Chinese-Nolllad /hmtier
to nomad leaders, Throughout steppe history, the nomads' appetite t(J(' alcohol
was legendary and was associated with excess (Jagchid and Hyer 1979: 42-3),
which led the Greeks to refer to drinking wine unmixed with water as "Scythian
style" (Herodotus, The Hi.,tor)" 6,84,3),
The Chinese had strong reservations about the export of luxury goods generated by tributary gifts because the Han court lost revenue in these transactions,
Even private trade with distant foreign nations, it was argued, only served to
drain China's real wealth t(J(' the acquisition of expensive luxury items whose
only value was their rarity, This bias against international trade was closely tied
to a Confucian ideology that condemned merchants as a class t(J(' being leeches
on the hard work of peasants and artisans, vVhy, they argued, should a merchant
deserve any more than the cost of transport t(X movi ng goods from onc place to
another? That they could make phenomenal profits by moving merchandise
from areas of surplus to areas of shortage was not an entrepreneurial virtue but
a defect in the government administration that had allowed such shortages to
arise in the first place, This is not to say that trade was unimportant in China,
Many individuals, including government officials, profited li'om trade and
throughout the Han period there were wealthy merchant f:1I11ilies that controlled
large enterprises, However, at the elite level such enterprises wcre deemed illegitimate, and merchants were thereforc t()I'bidden /i'om competing in the imperial examinations which led to high officc and their wealth was subjcct to
arbitrary confiscation, (A modern analogy that captures the flavor of this official
distaste might be the public attitude toward I:lbulously wealthy drug slllugglers
whose businesses and morals arc condemned evcn as their money is welcomcd,)
Ideally China should be autarkic: sell~sullicient and sell~contained, The existcnce
of a merchant class was evidence that it had I:liled to reach this idcal. Such attitudes stood in sharp contrast to those o( the nomad elites in Mongolia, They
actively encouraged trade and attempted to attract merchants into their territories because the pastoral cconomy was not sell~sunicie11l except in terms o(sheep
01' horses, Far /i'om viewing export trade as a drain on national wealth, nomads
saw it as a source o( prosperity and stability,
Thc dcmand I(lr trade and the extortion of luxury items incrcased exponen-tially with the unification o(the steppe, As a I'cdistributive chieftain, thc Xiongnu
Shrt1I)'II'S powcr was securcd in large part by his ability to generate revenue fl'om
China and secure trading privileges there, But the nomads' increasing demands
ICll' such luxury goods, particularly silk, were not simply I(lr their own use, Once
they had acquired a surplus o( these valuable commodities the nomads in
Mongolia became thc center o( an international reexport trade which attracted
traders, especially fl'om thc oases of Central Asia, who became wealthy middlemen linking the economics o( China and the West. Indeed, when China under
Emperor Wudi did expand into Central Asia it was to "cut off thc right ann of
thc Xiongnu)) by stopping the revcnue the Xiongnu derivcd fl'om the city-states
of Turkestan (Hulsewc 1979: 217), The wealth of items f<'Hllld in nomadic
21
22
Thomas J. Barfield
tombs in Mongolia and their wide source of manufacture provide evidence of
this flow.
Thus, although Mongolia was never a center of production, as a center of
extraction the nomad imperial confederacies acted as a trade pump, drawing
surplus goods from China and redirecting them into international markets.
While it has often been noted that the political unity of the steppe facilitated
long-distance overland trade by securing the routes for peaceful passage, it may
be equally true that the nomads themselves (and not the Chinese) were the
source of much of what was traded along the silk route. This is particularly true
if, in addition to the goods the nomads themselves resold, we take into account
the number of foreign merchants who were incorporated into official tributary
visits or who traveled under the protection of nomadic states in order to participate in border markets. The latter may have been particularly important since
rich foreign merchants were less vulnerable to exploitation by Chinese officials
when under the diplomatic protection of a powerful nomad empire like the
Xiongnu. While this is supposition for the Ran period, it is amply documented
in the Tang dynasty in the eighth to ninth centuries when the Turks and Uighurs
provided protection to Sogdian merchants from Central Asia in the Tang capital
ofChang'an (cf. Mackerras 1969).
Imperial state formation along the Chinese-Nomad frontier
23
Table 1.1. Cycles of rule: major dynasties in China and steppe empires in Mongolia
Native Chinese dynasties
Dynasties of foreign origins'
Qin and Han
(221 BCE-220 CE)
Steppe empires b
XlONGNU
(209 BCE-155 CE)
Xianbei
(130-180 CE)
Three Kingdoms and Period
of Disunion
(221-581 CE)
Toba Wei (386-556 CE) and other foreign
dynasties directly before and after
Sui and Tang
(581-907 CE)
Rouran
FIRST TURKISH
(552-630 CE)
SECOND TURKISH
(683-734 CE)
UIGHUR
(745-840 CE)
Sung
(960-1279 CE)
Liao (Khitan)
(907-1125 CE)
Jin (Juchen)
(1115-1234 CE)
Dual unity
Because centralized empires on the steppe were economically dependent on
exploiting a prosperous and united China, they were structl\l'ally linked to them.
Nomadic empires came into existence simultaneously with the unification of
China and disappeared when China's political and economic organization collapsed. As Table 1.1 shows, there was a close correlation between the unification
of China under native Chinese dynasties and the rise of imperial confederacies in
Mongolia. This was particularly true of the relationship of the Ran dynasty and
the Xiongnu and the Tang dynasty and the Turks/Uighurs. For this reason
nomadic empires in Mongolia were intent on exploiting, not conquering, China.
Native Chinese dynasties never feared their replacement by nomads, but the
nomads' potential for disruption. With the exception of the Mongol empire,
foreign dynasties that established kingdoms in China were all from Manchl\l'ia,
and products of a very different tribal tradition (BaI'field 1989: 85-130,
164-86).
Although raids and crude extortion may have characterized the early interactions between nomad empires and native dynasties in China, they eventually
evolved into a more symbiotic relationship. To maintain their lucrative trade relations and imperial subsidies, leaders of imperial confederacies would give military assistance to declining Chinese dynasties to protect them against domestic
rebellions. The most prominent example was the importance of Uighur aid in
putting down the An Lushan Rebellion against the Tang dynasty when it was on
YlIan (Mongol)
(1206-1368 CE)
MONGOL (YlIan)
Oirats
Ming
(1368-1644 CE)
Eastern Mongols
Qing (Manchll)
(1644-1912 CE)
Notes:
• All but YlIan are 0(' Manchurian origin.
b Unified steppe empires that ruled all of Mongolia are given in capitals.
the verge of extinction in the mid-eighth century (Pulleyblank 1955). As leaders
of a steppe empire, the Uighurs sent the cavalry troops who broke the back of
the rebel army in battle and helped restore the dynasty to power. By 840 C E,
the Uighurs were collecting 500,000 rolls of silk a year in subsidies from China
(Mackerras 1972). Because they presented a few horses annually at court, the
Chinese officially deemed them "tributaries," an unrivaled example of the literate sedentary world's ability to disguise embarrassing facts about its relationship
with the steppe. But perhaps the best way to understand an imperial confederacy is to turn to the Xiongnu, the first and most stable nomadic empire the world
has ever seen.
24
Thomas J. Barfield
THE XIONGNU EMPIRE
The first political unification of Mongolia occurred with amazing rapidity at the
end of the Warring States period. China was first temporarily united under the
Qin dynasty (221-207 BCE, see Yates, this volume) and, after a period of civil
war, reunified more permanently by tlle Former Han dynasty (206 B CE-8 CE).
At almost tlle same time tlle steppe was unified by tlle Xiongnll under the leadership oftheir Shanyu (tlle nomad emperor) Maodun. This Xiongnu empire was
extremely long-lived, dominating the entire eastern Eurasian steppe from the
end of the third century BC E through the middle of tlle first century C E, and
surviving as a minor power into tlle fourth century.
The Xiongnu provide a classic example of an imperial confederacy, a form of
large-scale political organization that could not exist without a united and prosperous China to extort. The Xiongnu empire was founded by their leader
Maodun in 210 BC E, contemporaneous with the civil wars that reestablished a
unified China under the Han dynasty. AltllOugh the nomads on the steppe took
no part in tlle civil war that followed tlle collapse of the Qin dynasty in 206 BC E,
they did threaten to devastate border regions by raiding, wreaking havoc, and
stealing anytlling that could be carried off. They also plotted with frontier commanders against the central government. Such raids and border intrigues
induced the newly established Han dynasty to attack the Xiongnu in 201-200
BC E, but the war ended disastrously when the nomads encircled the Han army.
The emperor had to sue for peace to escape capture. It was the most humiliating defeat that the Chinese were ever to suffer at the hands of the Xiongnu and
the emperor sent envoys to the Shanyu to negotiate peace and establish the hoqin
("marriage alliance") policy as a framework for relations between the two states.
The hoqin policy had four major provisions (YU 1967: 41-2):
(1) The Chinese made fixed annual payments in goods to the Xiongnu (which
at their maximum amounted to somewhat less than 100,000 liters of grain,
200,000 liters of wine, and 92,000 meters of silk);
(2) the Han gave a princess in marriage to the ShallYII;
(3) the Xiongnu and Han were ranked as co-equal states;
(4) the Great Wall was the official boundary between the two states.
In exchange for these benefits the Xiongnu agreed to keep the peace.
Here we see the implementation of the outer fi'ontier strategy in full flower,
for as generous as the treaty provisions seemed to the Chinese, the Xiongnu were
still not satisfied. Mter expanding their own power in Mongolia, they renewed
their raids on China and then sent envoys seeking peace. Pointing out that the
Xiongnu were now the paramount power on the northern frontier, Maodun
demanded a new peace treaty in a letter to the Han court:
All the people who live by drawing the bow are now united into one family and
the entire region of the north is at peace. Thus I wish to lay down my weapons,
rest my soldiers, and turn my horses to pasture; to forget the recent aff.1ir [of
Impel'ial >fate formation along the Chinese-Nomad frontier
raiding China] and restore our old pact, that the peoples ofthe border may have
the peace such as they enjoyed in former times, that the young may grow to
manhood, the old live out their lives in security, and generation after generation
enjoy peace and comfort.
(Ssu-ma 1993,2: 140-1)
The Han court decided the Xiongnu were far too powerful to attack and so
agreed to renew the treaty and open border markets. Maodun died peacefully in
174 BCE, leaving his large steppe empire to his son.
Mter Maodun's death, the Xiongnu made greater access to these regular
markets their key demand, for the hoqin subsidy payments, although very profitable for the political elite, could not adequately compensate the much larger
number of ordinary nomads who were forced to forgo raiding. Without the guarantee of regular access to border markets where ordinary nomads could trade live
animals or other pastoral products for grain, cloth, or metal, the Shanyu could
not expect his people to observe the peace. Since the Chinese feared that such
widespread economic links between their own frontier people and the nomads
would lead to political subversion, the Han court was opposed to any increase in
the size or number of border markets. The Xiongnu were therefore forced to
extort increased trade privileges the same way they extorted increased subsidies:
by raiding or threatening to raid China. Loot from such raids kept the Xiongnu
tribesmen supplied until China finally agreed to liberalize its trade policy.
Once established, these border markets quickly became important trade
centers to which the Xiongnu flocked, exchanging pastoral products for Chinese
goods. Now instead of prohibiting trade, the Han court attempted to control it
by regulating what items could be sold, as well as the location and timing of trade
fairs. The whole relationship between China and the nomads became more stable
and old hostilities were t()rgotten: "From the Shanyu on down, all the Xiongnu
grew friendly with the Han, coming and going along the Great Wall" (Ssu-ma
1993,2: 148). This situation lasted until 133 BeE when, under the aggressive
leadership of Emperor Wudi, the "Martial Emperor," the Han court abruptly
abandoned the hoqin policy and mounted a surprise attack on the nomads,
beginning more than a half~century of f1'ontier warfare.
Although the hoqin policy had successfully preserved the peace for three generations, it was always unpopular at the Han court because treating the Xiongnu
as an equal state violated the very essence of a Sinocentric world order, a view
well expressed earlier by Jia Vi, an official at the court of Emperor Wen (r.
179-157 BCE):
The situation of the empire may be described just like a person hanging upside
down. The Son off-leaven is at the head of the empire. Why? Because he should
be placed at the top. The barbarians are at the tcet of the empire. Why? Because
they should be placed at the bonom ... To command the barbarian is a power
vested in the Emperor at the top, and to present tribute to the Son of Heaven
is a ril"llal to be perlormed by vassals at the bottom. Now the tcet are pm on the
top and the head at the bottom. Hanging upside down is something beyond
comprehension.
(Yii 1967: 11)
25
26
Thomas J. Barfield
Emperor Wudi was susceptible to such criticism. Although his predecessors
considered it expedient to appease the Xiongnu to avoid trouble, he now considered such a policy demeaning. China was an empire unrivaled in wealth and
military power that would invade the steppe, defeat the Xiongnu and destroy
their power forever.
Wudi's wars failed. Although China sent a series of massive expeditionary
forces against the Xiongnu, they found nothing to conquer but empty land. Lack
of supplies forced Chinese armies to retreat within a few months of each campaign. Although they occasionally defeated the nomads in battle and engineered
the defection of some of tile Xiongnu empire's component tribes, tile cost of
these wars in men, horses, and money was so high that tile dynasty practically
bankrupted itself. Nor did tile attacks destroy tile stability of tile Xiongnu
empire; ironically the invasions only reinforced tile Shanyu's position as protector of tile nomads against Chinese aggression. Mter decades of war, tile Han
court reluctantly concluded China had no more chance of ruling the nomads of
the steppe tllan tlley had of governing the fish in tile sea. By 90 BC E they had
abandoned tlleir attacks on the steppe and adopted a completely defensive position of cutting off trade while repulsing raids (Loewe 1974a).
The Xiongnu had long understood tllat the disruption of peaceful relations
over tile long term worked to tlleir disadvantage so tlU'oughout the war they had
sent envoys to China requesting a resumption of the hoqin treaties as a way to
restore tile status quo ante. But China had rejected such peace offers, insisting
tllat any new peace agreement take place within tile new framework of a "tributary system" in which, tlley told the nomads, the Xiongnu would be required to
pay homage to tile Han emperor, send a hostage to court, and pay tribute to
China. It was a relationship the Xiongnu considered unacceptable and explicitly
rejected in 107 BC E:
"That is not the way things were done under the old alliance!" the ShanYIJ
objected, "Under the old alliance the Han always sent us an imperial princess,
as well as allotments of silks, foodstuffs, and other goods, in order to secure
peace, while we for our part refrained from making trouble at the border. Now
you want to go against the old ways and make me send my son as hostage. I
have no use for such proposals!"
(Ssu-ma 1993,2: 157)
Yet with no subsidies, no trade, and borders too strong to raid, successive
Xiongnu Shanyus found tlleir political positions undermined. In 60 BC E a succession dispute split tile Xiongnu elite into rival f.1ctions who warred upon onc
another. The losing Shanyu, Huhanyeh, decided that his only chance of political survival was to come to terms Witll China and so he broke with Xiongnu tradition in 53 B CE by agreeing to accept the Chinese demands for peace under
tile terms of the tributary system. Surprisingly, the tributary system proved a
sham. In return for formal compliance, the Xiongnu received even larger gifts
and better border markets. During his first visit to the Han court in 51 BC E,
Huhanyeh received twenty jin of gold, 200,000 cash, seventy-seven suits of
Imperial state formation along the Chinese-Nomad frontier
clotlles, 8000 pieces of silk, and 6000 jin of silk floss; his followers were supplied
with 34,000 hu ofrice2 (Wylie 1875: 44-7).
The discovery of tile true nature of tile Han tributary system allowed
Huhanyeh to implement a new "inner frontier" strategy in steppe politics. In
essence he used Han wealtll and military protection to re establish unity witllin
tile Xiongnu empire. This strategy differed from outright surrender to China, in
which a tribal leader accepted Chinese titles and entered tile Han administrative
framework, disappearing from tile steppe political scene. Instead Huhanyeh
maintained his autonomy and avoided direct Chinese control while demanding
foreign aid and even military assistance to defeat rival Xiongnu leaders. The
Chinese were eager to support contenders in a civil war ("using barbarians to
fight barbarians"), a policy always popular at tile Han court witll the expectation
tllat by aiding tile winning side they would be able dominate their ally in the
future. While in tile short term such goals could be realized, in the long term
Chinese aid simply enabled the nomads to rebuild tlleir empire and return to
tlleir aggressive outer frontier strategy once again. In 43 BC E, after a decade of
receiving Chinese aid, Huhanyeh did just this and returned nortll to his homeland as supreme ruler of the Xiongnu, "and his people all gradually came
together from various quarters, so that the old country again became settled and
tranquil" (Wylie 1875: 47-8).
Even though they regained their unity and power, the Xiongnu never again
objected to the structure of the tributary system. Instead, they actively set about
exploiting it for their own ends. They continually demanded the right to present
"tribute" and send hostages to court because they profited so handsomely.
Indeed, they threatened invasion if their tributary missions were not received and
appropriately rewarded. For the remainder of the Former Han dynasty Xiongnu
regularly visited the Chinese court, with each Shanyu generally making at least
one visit during his reign. And with each visit the amount of gifts increased
(Table 1.2; also Yii 1967: 47).
The policy oflavish tributary payments continued into the Later Han dynasty
(25-220 CE) and expanded to include other newly powerful fi'ontier tribal
groups like the Xianbei, Wuhuan, and Qiang. By 50 C E when the system was
regularized, it is estimated that the annual cost of direct subsidies to the nomads
amounted to one-third of the Han government payroll or 7 percent of all the
empire's revenue, goods to the value of $130 million dollars in modern terms
(Yi.i 1967: 61-4).
This fragmentation of the tributary system in the Later Han was a consequence of a second civil war that permanently divided the Xiongnu into northern and southern branches beginning in 47 CE. As in the previous civil war, the
southern Shanyu allied himselfwith China and employed the inner frontier strategy, using China's wealth to defeat his rival. However, because this civil war
lasted more than forty years, the victorious lineage of the southern Shanyu was
unable to reassert its control over northern Mongolia which fell into the hands
of the rival Xianbei nomads. Instead, the southern Shanyu maintained his close
27
28
Imperial state formation along the Chinese-Nomad frontier
Thomas]. Barfield
Table 1.2. Xiongnu ),isits to the Han Chinese court
Year of visit BeE
Silk floss(jill)
Silk f.1bric (pieces)
51
49
6,000
8,000
16,000
20,000
30,000
8,000
9,000
16,000
20,000
30,000
33
25
1
connection with China and was content to leave the steppe fragmented, maintaining control only around the immediate frontier in order to dominate the flow
of goods to the steppe and keep the less well-organized nomads from gaining
access to the system.
By the end of the second century CE, the relationship between the Han
dynasty and the southern Xiongnu had become so close that they acted as "fi'ontier guarding barbarians," protecting China from attacks by other tribes on the
steppe and, not coincidentally, milking the dynasty for more subsidies. Although
dming the second century the southern Xiongnu became so closely tied to the
Han court that they fell under the indirect control ofHan frontier officials who
could determine succession to leadership by supporting favored candidates, they
never lost their identity as an independent state.
So important was this relationship that it was the nomads who provided the
last bulwark against domestic rebels when China fell into civil war in 180 CE.
But because nomad empires were dependent on a prosperous and stable Chinese
dynasty, they could not survive its collapse. When the Han dynasty finally dissolved in 220 CE, China's economy and population were devastated. The
nomads no longer had any rich provinces to loot, had no dependable border
markets in which to trade, and saw their subsidy payments disappear. Under such
conditions centralization proved impossible and the tribes in Mongolia reverted
to anarchy. Thus an empire as powerful and centralized as that of the Xiongnu
would not reemerge for another three hundred years until the Turks were able
to exploit a reunifying China under the Sui and Tang dynasties in the sixth
century to establish a relationship stl'l\cturally analogous to that of the Han and
Xiongnu. Like that relationship, unity on the steppe also disappeared with the
collapse of the Tang dynasty at the end of the ninth century (Barfield 1989).
EMPIRES AND SHADOW EMPIRES
When comparing the Xiongnu empire with Han China, an immediate question
arises. Can states that are so different both be empires? They were certainly politically comparable and both ruled over vast territories. But in most other ways
(sophistication of administration, political centralization, urbanization, size of
population, economic specialization, etc.), they bore almost no similarities. This
was because steppe empires were secondary phenomena, arising in response to
imperial state formation in China and largely dependent on exploiting a unified
China for their existence. However, the Xiongnu empire is not a unique case.
Looking at the other examples of empires discussed in this volume, we find a
similar sharp divide between those that most scholars would easily accept as
empires and those that are in some way problematic. The "primary empires"
would include Assyria, Achaemenid Persia, Rome, China, Inka, Aztec (though
this was still in its formative stage when destroyed by the Spaniards), Spanish,
and Ottoman. The problematic cases are the Xiongnu, Nubia, Carolingian
Europe, and the Portuguese Indies. But (to paraphrase Tolstoy) while all
primary empires are alike, each problematic empire is problematic in its own way.
In some respects, they are out\vardly empires, but each is missing something vital
that sets it apart and makes it a shadow empire.
Primary empires
What is an empire and how does it differ from other types of polities? An empire
is a state established by conquest that has sovereignty over subcontinental or
continental sized territories and incorporates millions or tens of millions of
people within a unified and centralized administrative system. The state supports
itself through a system of tribute or direct taxation of its component parts and
maintains a large permanent military force to protect its marked fi'ontiers and
preserve internal order. Empires also share a set of five common internal characteristics:
First, empires are ot;ganized both to administer and exploit diJ1ersity, whether economic, political, religious, or ethnic. While empires may begin with the hegemony
of a single region or ethnic group, they all grow more cosmopolitan over time
with the incorporation of new territories and people very different from themselves. Indeed it is characteristic that, once established, the elite of an empire may
change or be replaced without the necessary collapse of the state structure.
Egypt's many dynasties are a notable example of this, as was the tendency of
Roman emperors to be drawn from non-Italian regions after the end of
Augustus' line. Even in China one finds that dynasties that drew their elite from
one region during the formation of a new empire moved to broaden their base
to countrywide recruitment within a couple of generations. It is their ability to
incorporate large numbers of different ethnic, regional, and religious groups that
makes empires so different fi'om tribes and locality-based polities such as citystates that organize themselves on the basis of some common similarity.
Empires are comfortable with, and even thrive on, diversity. The f.1mous frieze
at Persepolis with all the Persian empire's many component satrapies lined up
before the Great King in their native dress to present tribute of distinctive local
products is a physical representation of this diversity. Of course this was not
because empires thought well of peoples different from themselves, but rather
that their policies were designed to make all groups integral parts of the empire
29
30
Thomas]. Barfield
and share in a common political order. It was no missionary enterprise. The first
steps were often brutal: to conquer and destroy any groups that opposed them
militarily or politically. This was accomplished by wholesale population transfers
of conquered populations to distant parts of the empire, settlement of imperial
troops and immigrants in new territories, and tlle destruction (or incorporation)
oftlle group's indigenous political elite. Once rival groups were politically neutralized, empires displayed a high tolerance for local variation (as long of course
as it did not interfere Witll good order and tlle collection of taxes). The success
of tllis policy can be seen in tlle decline of troop concentrations and military
fortifications within tlle empire and tlleir transfer to tlle frontier to confront
outsiders.
Second, empires established transportation systems designed to serve the imperial
center militarily and economically. Sophisticated and well-maintained transportation systems were characteristic of all great empires. No place in the empire was
beyond the center's military reach and supplies needed for military operations
were stored tllfoughout tlle empire. The Persian, Roman, Chinese, and Inka
road systems were particularly impressive in size. In maritime or riverine environments, empires made large investments in port f.'lcilities to exploit sea trade
or canal systems to link rivers for bulk inland transport. In arid landlocked areas
tlley created and maintained systems of caravansarai and river crossings that facilitated caravan trade. In all cases, the amount of investment in these infrastructures was well beyond the capacity of any single part of the empire to finance on
its own, particularly in sparsely populated marginal territories.
Economically this transportation network and centralized revenue collection
allowed imperial centers to support a population and level of sophistication well
beyond the capacity of its local hinterland. Where bulk transportation of commodities was possible, the empire's capital (or sometimes, dual capitals) became
a mega-center that dwarfed all other urban centers. Here water transport was
key. Roman imports of grain from Egypt and North Mrica were vital to the
capital's survival. China invested heavily in a series of canals that linked the north
and the south of the country. Aztec success in conquering the lake regions of
central Mexico underlay the rapid growth of their capital to a size that astonished
the Spanish. Areas that did not have access to such water transport focused on
overland transport such as caravan routes using pack animals. This allowed the
circulation of high quantities of goods (particularly luxury items), but was not
enough to support the mega-city capitals that had access to maritime or canal
commerce. Capitals such as the Inka's Cuzco or Assyria's Nineveh were architecturally impressive as imperial centers and covered large areas, but they were
subject to much more strict upper limits on their size because they were supported mostly by the agricultural surplus of their local hinterlands.
In economic terms, empires provided large-scale economic integration tllat
permitted the expansion of trade and production. AltllOugh arising out of bloodshed and conquest, an imperial state was most admired for tlle peace it gave its
component parts. Areas that had suffered endemic warfare could now turn their
Imperial state formation along the Chinese-Nomad frontier
attention to trade, investment, and production of goods. The market for such
products was also greatly increased. The level of production and distribution of
goods reached unprecedented scales, including large-scale foreign trade with
distant peoples for luxury goods. These economic links bound the empire's component parts together far more strongly than any army. Roads and ports
designed to ensure the rapid transport of troops and weapons to put down possible rebellions eventually became the lifelines of civilian commerce tllat superseded military force as the key to maintaining unity.
Third, empires had sophisticated systems of communication that allowed them to
administer all subject areas from the center directly. If trade and taxation were the
material lifeblood tllat flowed through the empire's veins, then the development
of a communications system could be likened to its central nervous system. AlIimportant policy decisions in empires were made at the center, so tile expedited
flow of information was critical to imperial survival. Roads that transported
armies also sped information from the very edges of empire to the center for
analysis and disposition. Although an army on the march was a more highly
visible sign of imperial power, the quieter flow of information to the center and
instructions from tile center was perhaps more impressive. All empires had some
sort of official postal system (often surprisingly swift in moving important information) that variously included horse relay stations, runners, or fast boats. In
admiration of the Persian empire's messenger service, Herodotus (8.98.2)
observed:
Than this system of messengers there is nothing of mortal origin that is quicker.
This is how the Persians arranged it: they say that for as many days as the whole
journey consists in, that many horses and men arc stationed at intervals of a day's
journey, onc horse and onc man assigned to each day. And him neither snow
nor rain nor heat nor night holds back ti·oll1 for the accomplishment of the
course that has been assigned to him, as quickly as he may.
But a communications system was much more than just a way to transmit
information physically. It required a sophisticated record keeping system (most
often writing, but also recording devices like Inkan Ithipu, see D'Altroy, p. 203),
a permanent bureaucracy that managed the information flow, and a system for
dealing with information in a timely manner. Underlying this was a common language of administration and education that all members of the imperial elite
shared. This could be accomplished in a number of ways: with a common writing
or symbolic system that transcended language differences (Chinese characters,
Inkan Izhipu), using a common language of imperial administration that all
members of the elite shared (Latin and Greek in the Roman world, Arabic in the
Islamic world), or by employing a cultural lingua franca of administration
adopted by new rulers even when it was not their own native tongue (L'ltin in
the post-Roman West, or Persian in Central Asia and Mughal India). Less noted
(but equally important) were empires' impositions of standardized measures (for
weights, distance, volume, troop size, and money) and common numeral
31
32
Thomas J. Barfield
systems for recording numbers and accounting. Such systems did not necessarily displace localized customary measures, but they did serve as a common
denominator understood throughout the empire and meant that imperial officials did not have to keep track of myriad local variations.
Fourth, empires proclaimed a monopoly offorce within the territories they ruled
and projected their military force outward. This may be a baseline requirement of
all states, but because they were founded on the basis of conquest and had to
administer very large territories, empires faced problems of scale. Preservation of
internal order required the maintaining of a permanent imperial army that could
control disturbances in any part of the empire. But to the extent that empires
regularly relied on such armies to preserve internal order, they were short-lived
polities. As a Chinese adage had it, "You can conquer an empire on horseback,
but cannot rule it from there." Successful empires therefore maintained internal
order by effective administration, including implementation of a common legal
system that could be relied upon throughout its territory and a centralized
system of government appointees responsible for carrying out imperial policy.
Local officials were often quite constrained about what they could do without
permission from the center. In successful empires, internal rebellions were relatively rare and considered a sign of administrative failure.
Externally, empires sought to expand well beyond the limits of other types of
states. In their expansive phases they generally stopped only for three reasons:
(1) when they reached the frontiers of another empire of similar power to their
own (Rome/Iran); (2) when they reached an ecological frontier (desert, steppe,
mountains, jungle) that they could not effectively occupy (China and Mongolian
steppe, Rome and the Sahara and Arabian deserts); or (3) where an advance that
could be accomplished militarily was foregone as part of a strategic policy
designed to create a defensible frontier (Rome on the Rhine), or where cost of
administration was deemed to exceed the benefit of running it (China in Central
Asia).
Once established, however, imperial borders displayed remarkable persistence
and continuity. In part this was because empires stationed the bulk of their troops
on the frontiers, not at their centers. Even in decline, empires sought to defend
the whole of their territory. Very few (notably the Byzantine) retreated gradually to the core from which they started when pressured on the ft·ontier. Instead
empires tended to direct ever scarcer resources from the center to the frontier to
hold the line even at the risk of collapsing the whole system.
Fifth, empires had an ((imperial project» that i'mposed some type ofunity throughout the syste'l'n. One of the reasons that empires were so tolerant of diversity was
that they expected that their own cultural system would create a common core
of values that would override local variation. This was often reflected in such
material attributes as common systems of measurement, architectural styles, cosmology, ritual, art, and fashion that marked an imperial presence, even at the
margins. It was a vision of unity that extended beyond force and created what
we often identifY as a civilization (see Woolf, this volume). It was a project that
Imperial state formation along the Chinese-Nomad frontier
allowed wide participation and was implemented in a series of stages that moved
from coercion through cooptation to cooperation and identification. Those
empires that did not seek to develop long-term cooperation and identification
were generally shorter lived than those that did. In such long-lived empires this
legacy of belonging often survived its political collapse and remained alive as a
historic model to be emulated in the future (see Moreland, MacCormack, this
volume).
From empires to lat;ge states?
It could be argued that these definitions could be equally applied to large states,
not just empires. This should not be surprising because from an archaeological
perspective it appears that empires were the templates for large states, and not
the reverse. Historically, empires were the crucibles in which the possibility of
large states was realized. Indeed, it is difficult to find examples of large states in
areas that were not first united by an empire. Pre-imperial political structures
were generally small and parochial: city-states, regional kingdoms, and tribes.
States that did expand in this environment either grew to become empires themselves or collapsed into their component parts. It was the experience of empire
that changed the political and social environment and created the capacity to rule
large areas and populations in the states that followed. Imperial methods of
government administration, military organization, and ideology were modified
and used as models on a smaller scale. Thus large states were most common in
areas where empires broke up and the imperial pieces became large states.
It is only as we approach the modern period that large states rather than
empires become common. This may have to do more with the expansion of
western Europe, where this process was most pronounced, than with any
changes in other parts of the world where empires as political structures ruled
supreme (if not always independently) in South Asia, China, and the Near East
until the twentieth century. It is also true that with the expansion of the world's
population, states commonly found themselves ruling over large populations
(40 million plus) that had been previously found only in the biggest empires of
the premodern period. For most of history, there was an order of magnitude difference between the size of primary empires and any other type of state.
Shadow empires
If classic empires were primary polities, that is, the product of an indigenous
internal development, shadow empires were secondary phenomena. They came
into existence as a response to imperial state formation that was initiated some
place else. They could not exist except as part of an interaction with an imperial
state because they lacked most of the essential characteristics of primary empires
described above. However, in terms of power and historic influence, they mimicked empires in their actions and policies. They were "shadows" in that they
took on the form of empires without all of their substance. They were in some
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Thomas J. Barfield
way parasitic on a larger systems, although under exceptional conditions they
could transform themselves into self-sustaining primary empires. The cases in
tlus volume illustrate at least four types of secondary empires: mirror empires,
maritime trade empires, vulture empires, and empires of nostalgia.
Mirror empires
Mirror empires emerged in direct response to imperial state formation of tl1eir
neighbors. They rose and fell in tandem witl1 their rivals because tl1ey were
responses to tl1e challenges presented by a neighbor's imperial centralization.
Nomadic imperial confederacies are prime examples of mirror empire. The
Xiongnu empire, and tl1e steppe empires tl1at followed it in Mongolia, rose and
fell in tandem witl1 native Chinese dynasties because they were parasitically
attached to them. Such empires lacked tl1e internal sophistication of a primary
empire: no distinct economic classes, no standing armies, little literacy witl1 a
milumal bureaucracy, few craft specialists and (most important) a subject population that could not be easily exploited. But externally, the steppe ruler's
monopoly on foreign relations and command of a very effective centralized military force enabled him to impose his will on tl1e steppe as a whole and to create
an imperial structure tl1at could deal as an equal witl1 even very large empires.
The creation and maintenance of a unified empire as a response to a neighbor's imperial expansion was found mostly among nomadic people, and then primarily on tl1e Eurasian steppe. The reason for this was that the nomads' political
structure was determined more by their relations with the outside world than by
any internal dynamic. Drawing on cases from southwestern Asia where polities
were much smaller, Irons (1979: 362) observed that, "among pastoral nomadic
societies hierarchical political institutions are generated only by external relations
witl1 state societies and never develop purely as a result of internal dynamics in
such societies." As a corollary one might add that the degree of hierarchy mirrored the level of organization of their opponents. In gross terms there was historically an arc of growing political centralization that ran ft'om East Africa to the
steppes of Mongolia with four increasingly complex types of tribal organization
(Barfield 1993: 17): (1) age sets and acephalous segmentary lineages in subSaharan Africa where tribal societies encountered few state societies until the
colonial era; (2) lineages with permanent leaders but no regular supra-tribal
organization in North Africa and Arabia where tribal societies f.1ced regional
states with which they had symbiotic relations; (3) supra-tribal confederations
with powerful leaders who were part of a regional political network within large
empires distributed throughout the Iranian and Anatolian plateaus linking tribes
to states as conquerors or subjects; and (4) centralized tribal states ruling over
vast distances on the steppes of central Eurasia, north of China and Iran, supported by predatory relationships with neigh boring sedentary empires.
In Mongolia, f.1cing a united China, the steppe nomads regularly reached an
empire level of organization. In part this was because their horse cavalry gave
them the military means to challenge China. But it was also because their social
Imperial state formation along the Chinese-Nomad frontier
structure (unlike tllOse of nomads in the Near East or East Africa) was ruerarcrucal and culturally predisposed to accept tl1e claims of imperial lineages tl1at proclaimed an exclusive right to rule (Barfield 1991). As we have seen, steppe
empires like the Xiongnu were not interested in conquest but extortion, and
once tl1ey had established tl1eir lucrative relationship witl1 China (peace for
goods) wealth poured into tl1e steppe and maintained tl1e imperial structure.
For tl1e most part, mirror empires displayed little potential to transform tl1emselves into primary empires. The only case of this on tl1e steppe was the Mongol
empire established by Chinggis Khan in the thirteentl1 century. He too started
out intending only to extort his neighbors, but the technical skill and power of
his army ended up destroying them and creating a true empire (t11e world's
largest) t11at ruled directly from a center and relied on direct conquest and taxation of sedentary areas. For a time t11eir capital, Karakorom, became tl1e center
of power for all of Eurasia, but within a few generations it broke down into its
component parts.
Maritime trade empires
Maritime trade empires held only the minimum territory (usually at the margins)
needed to extract economic benefits through trade from anotl1er polity run by
someone else who was responsible for production and political organization.
This form of empire, at least in the premodern period, was problematic because
it attempted to extract wealth without the occupation or extortion of a large territory. To do this they attempted a monopoly, or at least direct control, over the
means of exchange and transport rather than the means of production. For this
reason all trade empires were maritime because it was possible, with adequate
naval forces and fortified bases, to maintain control of shipping over large areas
of ocean, particularly at the choke points of sea routes or at key embarkation
points. By contrast, it was not possible to institute such controls over a land route
without also dominating the territory surrounding it. Such control allowed
imperial centers to amass the degree of wealth needed to finance the military
power and act as empires in their dealings with other states.
If the ultimate goal of empire was the centralization and control of resources
to be used by the center to enrich itself and control the periphery, then such maritime empires could accomplish this task without the need to rule over large territories and populations. However, like the equally parasitic steppe empires, such
polities were in many respects hollow (for a different perspective, see
Subrahmanyam, this volume). They were vulnerable to collapse if their source of
wealth, over which they had no direct control, was cut off. They were also vulnerable to attack ft'om surrounding states and rival naval powers. The solution
to tl1ese problems involved either devolution (to become the center of a trading
network that was not autonomous or in private hands) or evolution (expand into
a true empire by conquering neighboring hinterlands and the populations that
produce tl1e goods traded).
In the ancient world, maritime trading empires arose most commonly as the
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36
Thomas]. Barfield
consequence of the growing power of a city-state in a world of city-states. The
trading network of Phoenician city-states, or perhaps Bronze Age Crete, may
have been the first examples. The ancient Athenian empire of the fifth century
BC E, with its collection of colonies and clients from whom it benefited but
which it did not rule directly was a classic example of an empire based on trade
ratl1er t1un conquest. It took advantage of Atl1ens' superior navy and network
of alliances t11at had emerged during the Persian Wars and used its position to
become a center of wealth and power. The weakness of such a structure was also
clear when, during the Peloponnesian War, the Athenians found themselves vulnerable to land attack and trade disruption by the Spartans and t11eir allies. The
rise of centralization in the Mediterranean under Alexander and his successors,
and then Rome, put an end to such polities. In t11e medieval Mediterranean
world, city-states such as Venice and Genoa also created trade networks but they
were unable to achieve a degree of autonomy that would lead anyone to call
them empires.
Later examples were on t11e cusp of the modern age and involved the expansion oftl1e Atlantic European powers into the Indian and Pacific Oceans. These
included t11e Portuguese in the Indies, as well as the later ventures by t11e Dutch
and British. As Subrahmanyam's analysis (t11is volume) of the Portuguese empire
in Asia during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries makes clear, they dominated a lucrative trading network with a surprisingly small numbers of men and
boats. This domination was not due entirely to technical superiority (gunpowder weapons were quickly acquired by states across the region), but to the fact
that the Indian Ocean had no local regional hegemony (but see Morrison, this
volume). When the region's neighboring land-based states decided that they
were losing something important, they turned on the Portuguese. The Ottoman
Turks built a navy and increased their control of the Red Sea region, the Saf.wids
in Iran retook the Persian Gulfport ofHormuz, and the Mughal empire in India
united much of the subcontinent and excluded the Portuguese from many of
their strongholds. In addition, the profits of the sea trade attracted the Dutch
and English. The latter two straddled the boundary between state and private
company, with the state taking predominance when they decided to occupy and
directly administer the territory they exploited. Over time, these trade empires
therefore evolved into primary empires in which colonial dependencies were
ruled directly from London and Amsterdam.
Vulture e'mpires
Vulture empires were created by leaders of frontier provinces or client states or
by allies that sat on the geographic and cultural periphery of an empire. They
were formed after the internal collapse of their imperial neighbors, when peripheral leaders were able to seize the imperial center and form a new empire.
Frontier regions on the edge of empires were always considered to be places
apart culturally and administratively even though they had strong economic and
political ties to the empire. At some periods, they were formally incorporated
Imperial state formation along the Chinese-Nomad frontier
into an empire and occupied by imperial garrisons; at other times, they were
ruled indirectly as client states or allies. In either case, empires typically compromised their usual policies of direct incorporation and cultural assimilation in
favor of t11e cooptation of local e1ites who maintained much autonomy and preserved t11eir indigenous social structure. They were f.'lmiliar witl1 the dominant
imperial culture but still strongly linked to t11eir coetlmics in t11e hinterland who
maintained older indigenous ways of life.
Long experience witl1 the dominant empire transformed local culture and
political organization. During times of centralization, participation in t11e imperial system allowed cooperating local leaders to use their links witl1 t11e empire
to overcome rivals with economic and military aid from the center. However,
when the center weakened or witl1drew, these areas became independent. TillS
led to a struggle between t110se local leaders who wished to return to a more
autonomous and less hierarchical political structure, and those who wished to
employ the tools of the witl1drawn imperium to create their own centralized
state. This contest often took generations to resolve. If it resulted in the emergel1Ce of a new centralized state, it was one that combined elements of local
indigenous culture with an administrative system modeled on the old empire
(and sometimes employing its leftover personnel).
If the center was weak enough, particularly if civil wars had created anarchy,
leaders from such marginal territories could seize control of the center t11emselves and found new imperial dynasties. Although the new dynasty might be
named after its new elite's frontier homeland, its success depended on maintaining domination over the existing administration of an older empire that it ran as
a dominant minority. Such dynasties were, if you will, the tails that wagged the
imperial dog occasionally, but even when dressed in imperial regalia they were
always recognizable as tails and never dogs.
The best example of clients at the margins in this volume would be Nubia,
which Egypt treated as part of its political and economic sphere. Nubia absorbed
much from Egypt but remained distinct culturally fi·om the lower part of the Nile
Valley. As MOl·kot (this volume) points out, Nubia was an Egyptian frontier on
the upper Nile, where Egypt initially established bases for direct control but also
depended on the incorporation of a local elite as their agents. Over the course
of time, interaction with Egypt had an enormous influence on the Nubian population. They were drawn into Egyptian politics and culture without becoming
fully Egyptian. After Egypt withdrew, a process of state formation based on
Egyptian models took place, its details largely undocumented, that resulted in
the establishment ofNubian dynasties that later ruled Egypt. This was not really
a Nubian empire so much as Nubians taking control of a declining Egyptian
empire as a new dominant group. The population and economic locus always
remained in Egypt proper, even though Nubia became more of a center politically than it was before.
Similar examples can be drawn from other parts of the world, particularly frontier regions like Manchuria that play a similar role in Chinese history (Barfield
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38
Thomas J. Barfield
1989). Like Nubia, Manchuria was a thinly populated border region that came
under imperial control, directly and indirectly, when China was unified under
native dynasties like the Han, Tang, and Ming. What parts escaped China's
control fell under the imperial sway of tile Mongolian steppe empires. During
these periods the Manchmian tribes were very weak and disorganized. However,
upon tile collapse of imperial autllority within China (and tile consequent collapse of unity of tile Mongolian steppe), Manchmian tribes became autonomous. Rival tribes struggled for dominance in tllis vacuum and rulers became
dominant by creating a new system of dual administrations Witll one branch
(staffed by tribesmen) in charge of tribal affairs and war while tile otller branch
(staffed by Chinese bureaucrats) handled civil affairs. Using tllis as a base, tlley
expanded into areas of nortllern China weakened by civil war. When successful,
tlley established dynasties in which tile Manchurians were a dominant elite in an
empire still ruled by Cllinese officials under Chinese law. It was a new empire but
built on an existing foundation. Table 1.1 shows tllat this pattern occurred regularly after tile collapse of central order in China. The final, and most successful,
dynasty in tllis line was tile Qing (1644--1912), tllat eventually unified all of
China and ruled it for almost tluee centmies. In tile process it underwent significant Sinification so that after a few generations it was transformed into a powerful primary empire in which Manchuria itself once again became a backwater.
Empires of nostalgia
The last group of shadow empires, empires of nostalgia, were based on remembrance of organizations past. They claimed an imperial tradition and the outward
trappings of an extinct empire, but could not themselves meet basic requirements of true empire, such as centralized rule, direct control of territory, a significant imperial center, or enough territory to make tile imperial grade (i.e., a
province of former empire).
Long-lived empires left lasting marks on the regions they ruled (but see
Sinopoli, this volume). When empires collapsed (particularly if that collapse
resulted in political anarchy, population decline, and economic depression) the
old imperial structure was often imbued with the aura of a former "golden age"
now lost. More importantly the memory of the lost empire retained such an
ideological hold over a region's population that it could be used as a powerful
tool by rulers attempting to build new states and empires. It also provided a template for building a large-scale administration.
As Yates (tllis volume) has shown, this tendency was strongest in China where
the cosmological myth of a necessary emperor who linked heaven and earth was
so influential that it served as the ideological foundation used by all succeeding
states. The memory of empires past provided the foundations for empires of the
future, and a united empire itselfwas seen as the highest political goal. A divided
China was considered so incomplete that any group that could reunite it, including foreign invaders like the Mongols, was perceived as legitimate rulers when
tlley accomplished this task. These efforts were so successful that, unlike the
Imperial state formation along the Chinese-Nomad frontier
West, primary empires came to reunite Cllina after each period of state collapse.
In many time periods, the reestablishment of a primary empire was, however,
more often a distant hope tllan an achievable goal. The idea of empire provided
the ideological basis and adnlinistrative model for the creation of a new empire,
but in most cases was little more tllan an influential fantasy because tile material
base was lacking and tile ability of leaders to centralize power was opposed by
powerful local elites. The Carolingian empire fell into tllis category, as did tile
small Cllinese states tllat arose in periods of disunion tllere (third tluough Sixtll
centuries, tentll tlu·ough twelfth centuries), or tile many dynasties tllat claimed
tile mantle of empire in Etlliopia. The Carolingian empire (Moreland, tllis
volume) is a particularly good example because it meets almost none of tile criteria listed above for primary empires. It did not have a permanent standing
army, a true central administration, or effective transportation and communication systems. It parceled out territory on a feudal basis and local notables felt
under little obligation to carry out its orders. Its capitals were small and temporary; its soldiers and officials moved to where the food was because tlley could
not transport it. Imperial architecture was impressive only when compared to the
peasant huts tllat surrounded it. Still, it was recognized as an empire at the time,
and it continues to hold a hallowed place in European history. Carolingian influence was so great because, as the first major attempt to bring back the idea of
empire modeled on Rome in the West, it struck a powerful cultural chord and
served as a potent ideological weapon in the (eventually unsuccessful) drive to
centralize the petty states that occupied the former provinces of the Western
Roman empire.
In empires of nostalgia, rulers tied their own legitimacy to something that no
longer existed but that had the power to command loyalty, a source of power
tllat has been much underrated by scholars who have focused only on material
conditions. Petty struggles for power and supremacy were tied to loftier goals.
Cooperation was easier to achieve and the recognition of the fiction of a new
empire and emperor provided the basis on which to build a new structure. For
this reason, empires of nostalgia need to be seen as secondary phenomena that
drew their power largely from the symbolic world of cultural memory. The only
thing that could kill it was the inculcation of a new cultural order. Thus, while
the idea of Rome remained strong in the West, the tradition was lost in Nortll
Mrica after the Islamic conquest. From that point on, the empires of nostalgia
there were drawn from the Islamic tradition. Similarly the long-lived Byzantine
tradition did not survive the Ottoman conquest and its cultural transformation
into the Turkish world, although its legacy did survive in far-off Russia, which
saw itself as the inheritor of the Byzantine legacy of Orthodox Christianity.
CONCLUSIONS
Understanding the dynamics of empires demands coming to grips Witll what tlley
took for granted, issues tllat often require us to examine our own assumptions
39
40
Thomas]. Barfield
about what made them work. When we compare primary and secondary empires
we can see that they relied on their ability both to centralize power and to maintain control at a distance. Primary empires did this by creating complex structures that were self-sustaining and self-reproducing. Secondary empires achieved
the same ends but without the complexity because they did not generate their
own revenue directly.
Two of our secondary types, tlle mirror empires of tlle steppe and tlle maritime trade empires of the seas, developed specific military technologies tllat magnified their power and disguised tlleir weakness in numbers. For the steppe
empires, this was horse cavalry, for maritime empires, a naval force. BOtll permitted military strikes at a distance and allowed for a small but concentrated force
to attack and dominate an enemy at a chosen point. The steppe empires used tllis
power to establish empires financed by extortion and subsidies drawn from
China. The maritime empires used tlleir power not so much to extort revenue
directly as to dominate tlle international terms of trade to tlleir benefit. In both
cases, military power did have the potential to transmute a secondary empire into
a primary one ifit began to conquer distant lands directly. This rarely happened
because these empires were run by people whose numbers were few and scattered. Their power also lay in their ability to retreat into tlle steppe or over tlle
seas WitllOut putting tlleir key military assets at risk when confronted by a powerful counter-force. Extortion and trade were their strategic tools of choice. Both
of tllese types of empires depended on the existence of more complex states to
survive and existed simultaneously with powerful primary empires.
Vulture empires and empires of nostalgia, by contrast, existed only in the wake
of the collapse of empire. If there was enough of the structure intact, then
vulture empires were able to keep them going (usually with a simpler organizational structure) by creating new empires or dynasties on the remains of the old.
If an imperial system had collapsed more completciy, or its structural integrity
had completely disappeared, then attempts to recreate it had a provisional quality
to them, more symbolic than real. It was the myth of empire that ran at the heart
of empires of nostalgia, but it was a powerful myth indeed, capable of inspiring
people to recreate what was lost even when they lacked the means to do it.
For archaeologists in particular, secondary empires like the Xiongnu provide
an example of powerful long-lived imperial polities that break out of the normal
mold. And, as this examination has shown, different lypes of polities, which I
have classified as primary and secondary, can both produce imperial structures,
but of quite different types. Perhaps because empires were so large they have
been treated for too long as isolated phenomena and not as spheres of interaction (see also Smith, this volume). Once the process of empire was established it
had an enormous impact internally (a process that has been well studied), but
also externally (a process that has been neglected). Empires influenced one
another and surrounding peoples even at long distances. Whether creating a
frontier with tribal peoples (Rome and Germany, China and Mongolia) or confronting rival empires (Rome and Iran, Ottoman and Spanish), the dynamics of
Imperial state formation along the Chinese-Nomad frontier
empire shaped tlleir development. Much of this development was not documented in written sources but did leave an archaeological record. It is to this
archaeological record tllat we should turn to better understand how empires
worked and the impact they had at home and abroad.
41
Designs and dynamics in the Portuguese Estado da India
2
Written on water: designs and dynamics in
the Portugese Estado da India
/
Sanjay Subrahmanyam
Many physicists are working very hard to put together a grand picture that
unifies everything into one super-duper model. It's a delightful game, but at the
present time none of the speculators agree with any of the other speculators as
to what the grand picture is.
(Feynman 1985: 150)
PROBLEMS OF DEFINITION
42
Comparing empires obviously requires some reflection on the nature of the
domain itself, and more particularly, in this context, on the vexed question of the
criteria for inclusion and exclusion (Duverger 1980). Empires are states, but not
all states are empires; we may begin with this simple dictum. But going beyond
such rather evident wisdom, it appears clear that there are at least two quite different ways of thinking about empires. One approach, relatively structuralist in
orientation, would require a very large number of criteria to be met by any state
that has pretensions to being an empire. The "symptoms" of empire would
include elaborate hierarchical systems of administration, extensive military power
(and the fiscal mechanisms that go with it), the control over extensive landmasses, a large subject population, and substantial revenues. Not only might all
of these be taken into consideration, but some of our colleagues would even wish
to define quantitative thresholds to be met in each of these cases. I must confess,
at the outset, to considerable skepticism with regard to this quite peremptory
manner of proceeding. If one is to use the concept of empire as much for antique
political formations, when the world population was a mere fraction of what it
was in, for example, around 1700, and the technologies of state-building rather
different from those of the medieval and modern periods, it is obvious that the
same demographic, or fiscal, or even military thresholds could simply not work
for, say, the Achaemenids and the sixteenth-century Ottomans. The problem is
roughly the same as defining an idea such as the "city": many quite minor settlements in South Asia today would exceed in population what were considered
cities in antiquity, but tlley do not function as cities.
It would hence appear to me far more sensible to propose a rather more
minimal, contingent, and conjunctural definition of empire, one that controls,
.
:.
inter alia, for tile passage of time; thus, one ought not anachronistically to
demand from empires of tile centuries before tile Common Era tile same tilat
one does from early modern empires, for instance. But, equally, I would propose
that even within a synchronic sample, such as one from the early modern period,
tile notion of "empire" be nuanced somewhat. In the period between 1400 CE
and 1750, some clear candidates exist for the status of empire. Amongst these
are the Ottomans, tile Mughals in South Asia, the Mings and Qings in China,
tile Spaniards (or tile Spanish Habsburgs) after about 1520, tile British and tile
French in tile eighteenth century and later. But many more cases exist whose
status was indeterminate even to contemporary observers. Were the Mexica in
Tenochtitlan (or the Aztecs as they are sometimes called in the literature; see
chapters by Brumfiel and Smitll, tllis volume) at the head of an empire, as tile
size of tlleir domains might suggest? What of the Burmese monarchy of the
Toungoo Dynasty in the years from 1530 to 1600? In brief, what is one to do
with seemingly "imperial" states tllat do not fit into the mold and heritage
defined in antiquity by four classic, and generally admitted, precedents: the
empire of Alexander, tllat of the Achaemenids in Persia, the Roman Empire, and
China? This is tile problem that one f.1ces with the Portuguese in the sixteenth
century. For while it is clear that the Portuguese monarch in tile years before
1580 (the year when tile Portuguese and Spanish crowns were united) did not
term himself "emperor," bOtll the Italians and the northern European rivals of
the Portuguese saw the overseas possessions controlled from Lisbon more or less
in those terms. But, ironically, it was only far later, in 1822, that Dom Pedro of
tile House of Bragan~a officially accepted in his Brazilian exile the title of "constitutiona emperor." Thus, f.1r from the "maximal" approach summarized
above, I would propose a "minimal" approach, in which empires would be rather
modestly described as follows: (1) as states with an extensive geographical
spread, embracing more than one cultural domain and ecozone; (2) as states
powered by an ideological motor that claimed extensive, at times even universal,
forms of dominance, rather tllan the mere control of a compact domain; (3) as
states where the idea of suzerainty was a crucial component of political articulation, and where the monarch was defined not merely as king, but as "king over
kings," with an explicit notion of hierarchy in which various levels of sovereignty,
both "from above" and "from below," were involved.
Writing in 1985, in a classic essay on the administrative and political structure
of the Portuguese state in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Asia, the most
innovative Portuguese historian of that domain, LUls Filipe Thomaz (1994
[1985]: 208), wrote presciently of his subject matter: "When we confi'ont it with
the clll'rent notion of empire, the Portuguese Estado da India may appear to us
to be somewhat original, and even disconcerting." He nevertheless proposed to
include the Portuguese presence in Asia within the category of empire, while
equally making a studious effort at contrasting the Portuguese with tile
Spaniards in the Americas in the same period. If the model for the Spaniards was
Rome (see MacCormack, this volume), it was argued by Thomaz, the precedent
43
44
Sanjay Subrahmanyam
for the Portuguese may well have been the Phoenicians. In marked contrast,
some years later, another study, also by a quite well-known authority on the
Portuguese Estado da india ("State of India"), concluded with the following
remarks, of some relevance for the reflections brought together in this volume:
It has to be extremely doubtful that what the Portuguese constructed in Asia in
the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries should really bear this title [of empire 1
at all ... Given tile su·ong image conjured up by the use of tile word "empire,"
and tile difficulty of reconciling tile actual content of the Estado da i"dia for
most ofthe sixteentll century to tile real meaning of the term, it might be more
appropriate to drop it altogetller.
(Disney 1995: 34-5)
The same author then went on to suggest 1:\'10 alternatives: first, the quite vague
idea of "network," to which one could immediately raise myriad objections on
account of its imprecision, and absolute lack of reference to the idea of power;
and second, the idea of a sort of proto-empire, a presence that was arguably in
the process of becoming an empire, which to all intents and purposes merely
pushes the problem to one remove. Some other writers, more imbued perhaps
with the spirit of political correctness, have gone even further since then. The
mere mention of words like "empire" in a Portuguese context, it is argued by
historians like M. N. Pearson, means that suspicion should fall on the political
motives of the authors themselves, whose use of such terminology "come[ s]
close to invalidating their work" (Pearson 1996: 7).
At the core of this, admittedly at times overwrought, discussion is a serious
matter, an issue that needs to be aired: namely, that various sorts of imperial polities have existed in the past, which do not all conform to a single profile, with a
contiguous landmass, centralized fiscal and cadastral organizations, and a powerful and continuous imperial military presence in peripheries that are rigorously
controlled from a well-defined center. Did the Mongol "empire of the steppes"
really constitute an empire in the same sense as, say, the Mughal empire in South
Asia? Is the fiscal and bureaucratic structure of Vi jayan agar a at all comparable in
its extent and depth to that of the Ottomans? This matter is made even more
complex in the case of the Portuguese Estado da india, a structure that was - to
employ and adapt a popular Indian expression of the epoch - "written on water."
It should be made clear then that the idea of a Portuguese empire in Asia in the
early modern period will necessarily be a more contested one than, say, the proposition that there was indeed a Roman empire in antiquity, which no historian
at present seems noticeably interested in denying.
DIMENSIONS AND MOTIVATIONS
This chapter presents a concise and somewhat schematic narrative of the
Portuguese presence in Asia and the Indian Ocean between about 1505 - the
year when Dom Francisco de Almeida was sent out as the first viceroy of
Portuguese India - and 1665, when hostilities between the Portuguese and their
Designs and dynamics in the Portuguese Estado da India
main European rivals, the Dutch, had nearly come to an end in Asia. My narrative will be broadly chronological, and its main analytical purposes are three in
number. First and foremost, I wish to argue that unlike an earlier historiography
on the Portuguese, which had focused on an Age of Consolidation in the first
half of the sixteenth century, followed by an Age of Decadence (reaching its nadir
under the later Habsburgs in the 1630s), it is in fact necessary to look to the
Portuguese presence in Asia as a constantly evolving one, responding to a multiplicity of stimuli in both Asia and Europe. This itself thus requires a direct disavowal of some of the more structural methods used to define tlle essence oftllis
or tllat empire, which one so commonly finds in the literature. Second, it is an
implicit argument tllat it is necessary to move away from an exclusive focus on
tlle western Indian Ocean (Kerala, Goa, and Gujarat) to a view that allows a far
greater importance to the Portuguese presence east of Cape Comorin, namely
around tlle Bay of Bengal, in Southeast Asia, and the Far East. Thus, my second
objective is to propose a geographical opening out in our general conception of
what constituted Portuguese expansion in Asia, and thus an exploration of the
interface between "formal" and "informal" empire (as well as tlle shades of gray
in between; Coates 1998). Third, there is a question of the social groups to be
addressed in defining a history of Portuguese expansion in Asia. Rather than
focus exclusively on the official hierarchy of viceroys, governors, and aristocrats
(fidalgos), we need to look at other social categories, ranging from trader-settlers
(or casados), to renegades, to mixed-blood (mestiro), and to other groups such
as Christian converts who participated willy-nilly in building the edifice of the
Portuguese presence in Asia. In sum, if many empires that we recognize as such
were agrarian ones, we should in my view also permit the possibility of a commercial and frequently semi-formal empire within our range of possibilities.
The Portuguese presence in Asia extended by the middle years of the sixteenth
century from East Africa to Japan, via the Persian Gulf, India, Sri Lanka, the
Malay Peninsula, and island Southeast Asia (Fig. 2.1). There is thus no doubt
about its sheer physical spread, with problems being posed, on the contrary, by
the density of the presence in each of these areas. What then were the human
dimensions of this structure? Around 1540, one frequently cited contemporary
estimate puts the number of Portuguese between Sofa la and China at 6000 to
7000; in the 1570s, the chronicler Diogo do Couto puts the total number of
Portuguese in Asia at about 16,000. But with the process of miscegenation, and
acculturation, the numbers of people within the official settlements of
Portuguese Asia were obviously rather higher. These included the casados or
casados moradores, which is to say married settler-colonizers; soldados or soldiers;
and religiosos or ecclesiastics, as the main categories. The account of Ant6nio
Bocarro from the mid-1630s provides us a breakdown by settlement of the
casados, showing their presence to have been a vigorous one still at that time,
when the Portuguese presence had entered somewhat into decline. Interestingly,
he insists on listing not only the casados brancos (white casados) as was usually
the case in official compendia, but also the native Christian settlers of the towns,
45
DCS{lJltS and dYllamics ill the Portugucse Estado da India
Table 2.1. Casado settlements i1l Port1lguese Asia) 1635
Settlcmcllt
Macall
Goa
Daman
Basscin
Collll11bo
Cochin
Mclaka
Challl
Nagapattinam
Jafflla
Sao Tome
Thana
Galle
Others
Total
White
Rtflell
850
800
400
400
350
300
250
200
140
140
120
80
70
800
850
2200
4900
600
2000
200
50
360
270
200
100
130
525
7485
tu
co
i=
z
~CI)
Cl)w
<IJ
(J)
Cl)
~
<t:!;(u
....Iz:ii
<t: <t: cy
OC
,"
I
I-~~
Z
(j)
~
.
.
:;
{ij
'"
{ii
uc·
~
~
<t:
«j
e!
3i':l"
co
0
~
u.:
<t:
Cl)
z
~
~
t::
0
0
0
~~
~
,...
'«
0
0
J
l()
----
0
z
whom he terms casados jJl'etos (black casados) (Subrahmanyam 1993). Bocarro
thus arrives at a figure of about 4900 white ca.mdos and some 7500 "black"
cC/sados, spread out over settlements ranging fi'om Macau and Goa at the largest
to Sof~lla and Chuamba at the smallest (Table 2.1).
No less significant in geographical spread, as well as perhaps in its long-term
influence, was the missionary presence, with the major religious orders ft-om the
second half of the sixteenth centll1'y being the Jesuits, the Pranciscans, and the
Augustinians (Table 2.2). There is thus surely some justice to C. R. Boxer's
(1969) view that the purse and the cross continued to be the two poles of attraction around which the Portuguese presence in Asia fUllctioned as late as the midseventeenth century. Reading a Illlmber of contemporary travelogues, this is the
lasting impression onc is left with, although the writers of such texts may not
have been particularly sympathetic to the missionary ambitions of the
Portuguese. I t is through the combination of'missionary activity, miscegenation,
and private trade that Portuguese creole dialects survived into recent times.
Indeed some of the lasting architectll1'al remains in what was once Portuguese
Asia (besides some f()rtresses) arc in the {ill'll1 of religious architectlll'c, promoted
by both the Crown Patronage of' Missions (padl'oado real) and the powerful
religious orders (Fig. 2.2).
-'
Wc should not imagine that this history was contlict-ti'Ce, and in point of fact
the conflict was not limited to that between Christians and Muslims (as it was in
late-fitieenth- and early-sixteenth-century Iberia and North Afl·ica). With the
Counter- Reformation, Hindus, Buddhists, and others came under increasing
critical scrutiny; by the late sixteenth century, even the eastern Syrian Christians
47
48
Designs and dynamics in the Port1lguese Estado cla India
SallJay SlIbrahmanyam
49
Table 2.2. Ecclesiastical orders ill Asia, 1635
2.2 Cathcdmlo/nom
!CJ/lS, GOfl.
were being obliged to con/(lI'Ill to rites and standards set by Rome, and implemented through the Portuguese jladl'oado. Nevertheless, as Table 2.2 shows,
there is a broad correlation between the great centers of the official prcscncc
(such as Goa, Malabar, and Sri Lanka), and thc missionary prescnce.
Besides these two prcsences, of trader-settlers and ecclesiastics, the Portugucse
Rstado, at any given time in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, also comprised several thousand soldiers and mariners, spread across a variety of garrisons
and fleets. There was, besides, an increasing number ofmerccnaries and renegades
who worked not I()r the Portuguese but I()r Asian powers of the period. And
finally, wc need to bear in mind the existence of a subject population of varying
dimensions, largely concentrated in Goa, the so-called "Northern Province"
(north of Goa, in coastal western India), in the Sri Lankan coastal lowlands that
Settlement
rranciscan
Goa
East Africa
Ethiopia
West Asia
Sind
Dui
Daman
Bassein
Challl
Prv. do Nortc (other)
Mllghal Court
Kanara
Cochin
Other Malabar
Malabar Province
Sri Lanka
Cot'Omandcl
Bengal
Mclaka
China etc.
Solo!'
Othe!'
149
0
0
0
0
3
12
15
Total
423
182
Capuchin
75
8
0
Augustine
Dominican
J(suit
102
10
",{)
10
12
15
0
148
14
21
0
0
8
8
15
8
38
5
0
0
0
190
0
0
0
0
190
0
15
302
256
660
()
0
0
0
0
10
10
0
15
12
0
0
15
125
8
0
33
3
0
6
8
15
20
0
0
20
()
()
0
10
0
0
18
8
17
6
15
0
()
()
38
26
27
0
6
58
20
0
96
0
0
0
0
0
()
0
Cl
8
6
12
31
7
0
0
20
0
0
18
5
0
the Portuguese controlled I()r a time between the 1580s and the 1630s, and in
parts of the Zambezi valley in East A/'·ica. I f we were to add up the residents of
these areas, wc would certainly come up with a population of several hundred
thousand, and perhaps even a million, persons who were more or less under the
power of the Portuguese li.l'tado, besides the in/(H'Il1al "client" populations of
Christians, who were partly controlled through ecclesiastical institutions. These
figlll'es remain very rough, and obviously vary ("om time to time, increasing gradually over the lirst halfofthe sixteenth centlll'y and reaching a peak between 1590
and 1610.
How did this extensive, if thinly spread, presence come about? At the risk of
appearing old-bshioned, an initial consideration of the metropolis of the empire
may not be out of place at this juncture. Thus, some briefrdlections may be neeessary on the European background to Portuguese expansion in Asia. It has
often been remarked that Portugal was one of the less "advanced" countries in
Europe at the time that it began its expansion, and indeed historically much less
prosperous than northern and central Italy, France, or Spain. In all of Iberia,
Portugal was the last area to resist the Romans, the last to be incorporated into
50
Sanjay Subrahmanyam
the empire of the Visigoths, the last to adopt the Christian calendar, and the last
to adopt tities for its nobility in accordance with what obtained elsewhere. Earlysixteenth-century t:ravelers from elsewhere in Europe to Portugal often
remarked on tile remoteness and poverty of tile country, in apparent contrast to
Venice, or Florence, or tile Spain of the CatilOlic Monarchs and Charles V.
Arguably, what made overseas expansion possible in tilese unpromising circumstances was tile intervention of tile Portuguese state. For, at tile outset, it may
be wortil insisting that Portugal in the crucial period of Dom Manuel
(1'. 1495-1521) was a sort of mercantilist state, and that its overseas expansion
was hence motivated by a series of "materialist" motives as much as by "idealistic" ones. Modern historians tend to shy away from tile term "mercantilism,"
claiming tilat it simplifies far too complex a set of state policies. Yet, as historians
of bOtil Asia and Europe in tilis period well know, certain policies can indeed be
seen to transform states into quasi-commercial enterprises, and also into rivals of
tilose of tileir subjects who were engaged in such activities. In the case of
Portugal, a comparative historian has in a well-known work spoken of "monarchical capitalism" (capitalismo monarquico portugues), and it is tius phenomenon
tilat we need to pose here within tile framework of mercantilism (Dias 1963-4).
Historians of the later medieval period have shown convincingly tilat tile
Portuguese monarchy was a crucial instrument, a fulcrum tilat from the fourteentil century held the balance between opposing elements in the country, in
tile sense not of a class struggle pure and simple, but of a struggle between
regions, between interior and coast, between a nobility attracted to Castile and
an urban bourgeoisie and artisan class that saw trade as the obvious key to prosperity, given Portugal's - and especially Lisbon's - position at tile cusp of tile
Mediterranean and tile Atiantic. What made this struggle particularly complex
was the fact that the nobility itself was divided on some crucial questions concerning tile nature of both internal politics and expansion, which in turn was
furtiler exacerbated by the entry of some merchants into the lower nobility.
The basic strategy of the Portuguese monarchs, whose sphere ofinfluence was
naturally enlarged as a consequence of the vacuum created by opposing groups
pulling in different directions, does not seem wholly different at times from the
policies followed by the Catholic Monarchs, Ferdinand and Isabela, in neighboring Castile-Aragon. There too, an alliance of the cities (the so-called hermandad) was built up in the 1470s to combat the power of the rural-based
aristocracy; tilere too, the crown sought to gain control of the military orders
(in Portugal, those of Christ, Santiago, and Avis being the most important). But
the crucial difference lay in the attitude toward trade itself. However hard the
Spanish rulers may have tried at times to imitate the Portuguese "model" setting up their own Casa de Contratacilm in January 1503, for example, as an
explicit mirror image of the Portuguese Casa da India - the nvo projects
remained very different in spirit until fairly late in the mid-sixteenth century.
One of the most important, and rather original, institutions in the latefifteentil-century Portuguese overseas system was the feitoria or f.1ctory.
Designs and dynamics in the Portuguese Estado da India
Medieval cities in both Europe and Asia, which had numerous colonies of resident foreigners, tended to develop systems of internal regulation for these
foreign communities, which at times gave them considerable social and juridical
autonomy. In cities like fifteenth-century Melaka (in Southeast Asia), for
instance, tilis took the form of tile system of multiple community-heads (or syahbandars), with tile Gujaratis, Tamils, Javanese and otiler groups each having a
"representative" leader. In tile Mediterranean, and also in tile Low Countries,
tile system of consuls of different "nations" had a sinular aspect and function.
Thus, in medieval Bruges for example the Venetians and Genoese each had Jheir
own consul, as did tile Hanseatic merchants and tile south Germans. But this
post of consul must be distinguished, bOtil in theory and in practice, from tile
Portuguese notion of f.1ctor (feitor), who derived his legitimacy (and also his
remuneration) not fi'om tile merchant commllluty in which he was resident, but
from an external state authority. One of the earliest Portuguese feitorias whose
history we can trace in detail was located in tile city of Bruges. This factory
remained in Bruges until the late fifteenth century, eventually shifting to
Antwerp in 1498 (the year of Vas co da Gama's arrival in India) after a decade of
unstable existence due to local political turmoil.
The feitor's activities here, as elsewhere, were related to an increasingly important aspect of the royal household's interests in the fifteenth century: the trade
conducted on royal ships (naus del-Rei). From at least the third quarter of the
fourteenth century, there is sporadic evidence of the Portuguese crown's direct
interest in trade. In the middle years of the next century, the celebrated Infante
Dom Henrique both owned merchant ships, and even financed corsair ventures;
still later, the ruler Dom Joao II, while still heir apparent, had vessels trading to
Middelburgh. These royal merchant-capitalists, albeit still operating on a relatively small scale, traded in slaves and sugar, sold the grain, wine, and fruit produced in their reguengos (estates), and were imitated by a number of other nobles
- notably the Duke of Bragan~a, the Condc de Vila Real, and even the Duke of
Beja (the future Dom Manuel I) who in the 1480s already had his own factor in
Flanders. Thus, the contemptuous epithet used by the French King Fran~ois I
to describe Dom Manuci in the early sixteenth century - the "grocer king" (le
roi epicier) - had roots going back at least into the early fifteenth century.
The phenomenon of Portuguese royal mercantilism reached its apogee in the
period fi'om the 1480s to the 1520s, under Dom Joao II and his successor Dom
Manuel 1. Before this, the reign of Dom Monso V (I'. 1448-81) had been characterized by a preoccupation with military adventurism in North Mrica, rather
tilan the direct control of maritime trade. Initially, it was the king's uncle, the
Inf.1nte Dom Henrique, who concerned himself with the business of overseas
expansion. After his death, Dom Afonso in 1469 gave over to a prosperous
Lisbon-based merchant what was potentially the most significant of his mercantile avenues, namely the right to trade on the Guinea coast, for a period of six
years. The contract also stipulated that the merchant-contractor push the exploration of the African coast along, and as an unforeseen result, in 1471, the
51
52
Sanjay Subrahmanyam
Portuguese were able to attain what was later called Sao Jorge da Mina, which
became a major center of gold trade and export. Little could be made of this discovery until the 1480s, altllOugh its significance was undoubtedly appreciated
quickly.
The policies of Do m Joao Il are in direct contrast to tllOse of his fatl1er. Quite
resolutely turning his back on Castile, and executing Portugal's most powerful
nobleman, tl1e Duke ofBragans:a, were two early signs of his impatience witl1 tl1e
territorial nobility and its predilections. Again, when it came to soutl1ward
expansion, it was not tl1e costly route of Nortl1 Afi"ican adventures - pleasing
tllOugh tl1ey may have been to the nobility, who could send tl1eir second sons
and bastard offspring tl1ere - tl1at he opted for, but rather the Atlantic route. In
early 1482 a major fortress was built at tl1e gold-trading center of Sao Jorge da
Mina, and by tl1e early sixteenth century around a dozen caravels made tl1e trip
between Lisbon and tl1e gold-trading factories each year, bringing back a large
sum of gold every year. It is tl1is preoccupation witl1 commerce ratl1er than military conquest tl1at made Dom Joao a logical choice as patron for men like
Columbus, who in 1486 presented tl1e king witl1 a proposal to seek a westerly
route to India. As is well known, Dom Joao rejected Columbus' proposal, but
tl1is was not because of a return to traditional, North Mrican, preoccupations.
Instead, Dom Joao had his own plans. He had sent out emissaries overland to
East Mrica and India via the Mediterranean, and then, in 1487-8, was able to
savor tl1e triumph of having his subject Bartolomeu Dias round the Cape of
Good Hope. The all-sea route to India was now open, though internal opposition in Portugal seems to have prevented its actual use for a decade. It was only
after the succession of Do m Manuel in 1495 that an expedition was actually sent
out to explore tl1e Indian Ocean, and that too the tiny fleet commanded by Vasco
da Gama.
The building blocks stressed so far have been two in number: first, capital and
expertise, and second, an institutional structure founded largely on the feitoria,
and its head the feitor. Since the exploration of the Atlantic was largely centered
around the discovery and settlement of desert islands, force was of little importance there save in the so-calledguerra do corso, the corsair activity equally practiced by Portuguese, Spanish, and French. Military force - the preoccupation of
onc section of Portuguese society - was given full expression elsewhere, in the
sanguinary campaigns of North Africa, such as in the capture of Ceuta and
defense of al-Qasr al-Saghir, Arzila, or Tangiers.
IDEOLOGIES OF EMPIRE-BUILDING
Taken to its logical extreme, it might seem that I am arguing that the Portuguese
expansion enterprise of the fifteenth century was conceived in compartments. In
one resided rational calculation and commerce, and in another the atavistic passions of anti-Muslim feeling were to be found. But this was not really the case,
and in f.1Ct royal mercantilism itself cannot be seen in Dom Manuel's reign
Desigm and dynamics in the Portuguese Estado da India
WitllOut its inevitable counterpart - royal messianism. That Porulguese expansion in general had a religious side to it is a commonplace in writings on tl1e
subject, which speak of the "Crusading spirit" of tl1e Lusitanians, tl1e residual
momentum left by tl1e "reconquest" (reconquista) oftl1e Iberian peninsula, and
so on. Support for tl1is view can be found in tl1e writings of the greatest contemporary ideologue of Portuguese expansion, the sixteenth-century chronicler
Joao de Barros. Barros, charged by his sovereign Dom Joao III to write of the
deeds that tl1e Portuguese did in the discovery and conquest of the seas and lands
of the Orient, nevertheless began his great chronicle of Asia by referring to how
in the land of Arabia tl1at "great anti-Christ" Muhammad had risen to power in
tl1e late sixtl1 century, leading to the Muslim conquest of Arabia itself, as well as
parts of Syria, Persia, and Egypt. It was thus the rise of Islam that, in Barros'
view, provided tl1e logical starting-point for an understanding of how the
Portuguese came to be in Asia; he looks at the Muslim conquest of Iberia, the
reconquest, the Atlantic explorations, and the charting of the west coast of
Afi·ica, only arriving at the first Portuguese expedition to the Indian Ocean in
the fourth book of his first Decada.
However, the careful reader of Barros and of other contemporary writings and
documents soon discovers that those who were so religiously motivated could
often be equally the persons in whose breasts the most fervently mercantilist
spirit resided. An example is the Infante Dom Henrique, Master of the Order of
Christ and creator of the Portuguese Crown Patronage of Missions (the
padroado da Ordem de Cristo, later to become the padroado rea/under Dom
Manuel) by virtue of Papal Bulls, but equally a trader in sugar and slaves, and a
patron of corsair ventures. Still, religious though Dom Henrique was, he was not
really a messianist. Portuguese messianism is often associated quasi-exclusively
with Dom Manuel's great-grandson, Dom Sebastiao (d. 1578), the focal point
of a messianic cult after his death in North Africa in 1578. But, more recently,
historians have pointed to the existence of a messianism of a somewhat different
sort in the court of Dom Manuel. Revealed in the writings of some of his courtiers like Duarte Galvao and Duarte Pacheco Pereira, the proximate psychological reason for this messianism was the monarch's rather improbable accession to
the throne, after the fortuitous demise of six persons closer to the throne than
he (Aubin 1996). Furthermore, in his early life, Dom Manuel's educators seem
to have imbued him with religious ideas derivative from Joachim of Fiore
(c. 1130-1202), a Cistercian monk born in Calabria, who had a somewhat
ambiguous reputation in Christian theology, being regarded by some as a saint
and others as a heretic (Thomaz 1990). Joachite philosophizing centered around
some key ideas: the literalist belief that onc had to wrestle with the letter of the
scriptures to get at the spirit, a trinitarian approach to history, and an apocalyptic vision that held that a new age would soon dawn, corresponding to the Fifth
Empire of the biblical Book of Daniel. Further, a powerfulmillenarian conjuncture operated in Europe in the late fifteenth century, and not only Christians like
Columbus and Savonarola, but Iberian Jews (persecuted in both neigh boring
53
54
Sanjay Subrahmanyam
Spain and Dom Manuel's Portugal), seem to have subscribed to such eschatological notions to some degree.
Encouraged by some influential members of his council after his accession to
the throne, these messianic beliefs seem to have enabled Dom Manuel at times
to act in a highly autocratic fashion, since he believed that he was directly inspired
by tile Holy Spirit. But tile Joachite influence on tile ruler also brought with it
another effect: a specific preoccupation (indeed, even an obsession) Witll tile
recapture ofJerusalem, which under Dom Manue! came to be seen as tile logical
culmination of overseas expansion, and the crowning achievement that would
enable him to claim tile title of Emperor of the East (or perhaps even Universal
Emperor). The Jerusalem enterprise was one tllat lived and died Witll Dom
Manuel, for neitller his predecessors nor his successors seem to have been particularly enamored of the idea. We should stress tllough tllat even in tactical
terms tllere was no necessary contradiction between royal mercantilism and messianism, since tile former could be accommodated to tile latter. Dom Manuel's
plan was to mount a two-pronged attack on tile Mamluk Kingdom of Egypt (or
tile "Sultanate of Babylonia," as his messianist supporters termed it), witll one
force attacking via North Africa, and the other via the Red Sea, once the
Portuguese were in tile Indian Ocean. It is true tllat tllis policy required reactivating tile North African front, after a lull under Dom Joao Il, and hence a diversion of resources from mercantile activity. But tile Red Sea strategy was truly one
of killing two birds with one stone: a blockade of the entry to the Red Sea would
not only give tile Portuguese a decisive advantage in the European market for
pepper and spices over their Venetian rivals (who were supplied through Cairo
and Alexandria), but also cut into the revenue-base of the Mamluks.
In order to do this, however, the support of other Asian powers was deemed
necessary. Here Dom Manuel and his supporters were badly misinformed; for
they believed, even after Vasco da Gama's return to Portugal in 1499, that the
number of Christian kingdoms in Asia was far larger than was in fact the case.
Eventually, this meant a strategy centered around an alliance with Ethiopia, the
state ruled over by the Negus, whom the Portuguese identified as the fabled
Prester John. This alliance was deeply opposed by other parties, both in Portugal
and in Portuguese Asia. Thus, royal mercantilism was in part a necessary condition for the putting into effect of messianist plans: making war required
resources, especially a war that was unlikely to enthuse the nobility (as the
Jerusalem campaign is unlikely to have done, had it ever been prosecuted; Costa
and Rodrigues 1992). The idea of maintaining a larger standing army, that
became popular in the reign of Do m Manuel, was a natural outcome of this logic.
It was also the next step in tile development of royal absolutism, albeit a step that
was never wholly put into effect. The central problem with the two guiding principles of Do m Manuel's overseas policy was hence not their mutually contradictory nature, but rather the hostility they evoked in certain quarters, and on
account of which they remained circumscribed in reality.
As is well known, after a series of individual maritime trading-cum-military
Designs and dynamics in the Portuguese Estado da India
expeditions, including two led by Vasco da Gama himself in 1497-9, and ilien
again in 1502-3, tile Pornlguese presence in Asia acquired a certain solidity and
permanence with tile sending of D. Francisco de Almeida as tile first viceroy to
Portuguese Asia in 1505. The four years of his viceroyalty remain controversial.
Besides tile defeat of a Mamluk expeditionary fleet off the Gujarati port of Diu
in 1509, notlling of major geopolitical significance is to be reported from iliis
epoch, otller than a number of exploratory missions (in which the viceroy seems
only reluctantly to have acquiesced). However, tile next six years, from 1509 to
1515, are dramatic ones. The governor in this period, the celebrated Afonso de
Albuquerque, who was closely attached to tile messianist Manueline ideology,
succeeded in capturing first Goa, then Melaka, and finally the Persian Gulf
island-port of Hurmuz. By 1521, the extant forts in Portuguese hands were tile
following, Witll their construction dates being indicated in brackets: from west
to east Sofala (1505), Mozambique (1508), Hurmuz (1515), Chaul (1521),
Goa (1510), Cannanore (1505), Calicut (1513), Cochin (1503), Kollam
(1519), Colombo (1518), Pasai (1521), and Melaka (1511). Forts earlier constructed and abandoned included Kilwa (1505-12), and the islands of Suqotra
(1507-11) and Anjedive (1505-7). Undoubtedly some major gaps still
remained. One of these was Aden, guarding the entrance to tile Red Sea, which
Albuquerque was unable to take, and the long and busy coastline ofGujarat and
tile Konkan too was as yet not host to any Portuguese settlement.
THE CREATION OF A DIALECTIC
The action of the period noted above largely took place in the wcstern Indian
Ocean, between Sri Lanka and East Africa. From as early as 1505, the intention
was always to build a string of fortresscs in that rcgion (Fig. 2.3), and
Albuqucrque only extended this conception to its logical cnd. The one major
ventmc prosecuted by Albuquerque outside the western Indian Ocean was the
captme of Melaka, which he took in August 1511. This act had profound and
even somewhat unforeseen consequences for the Portuguese enterprise, leading
to the creation of a second pattern of activity, to the cast of Cape Comorin.
In the comse of their protracted actions leading up to the taking of Melaka,
the Portuguese had acquired allies fi'om within the town's mercantile community. These were mostly Tamil merchants of considerable standing in the trade
within the Bay of Bengal and cast of Melaka. The other major community in
Melaka, the Gujaratis, concentrated tor the most part on trade to Malabar,
Gujarat, the Red Sea, and the Persian Gulf - and fled Melaka en masse on the
Portuguese capture. It was through the Tamils that Albuquerque, and his representative in Melaka, the first captain Rui de Brito Patalim, sought to make
contact with other parts of the Bay of Bengal littoral, insular Southeast Asia, and
the Far East. Between 1511 and Albuquerque's death in 1515, a series of mar itime ventures was organized on a cooperative basis between the Portuguese
crown and sevcral Tamil merchants (but especially a certain Setu Nayinar): ships
55
56
2.3 FOl't Clmjiol'fl,
(;ort.
Srmjay Sltbmlmtallyalll
went to Martaban in Burma, to Pulicat in southeastern India, to the Moluccas,
and so on (Subrahmanyam 1990a, 1990b). Such ventures continued until about
1518. Therea(ter, they were replaced by Portuguese crown shipping with a
captain, (:1Ctor, and scrivener on board each vessel, all ofwhol11 were Portuguese.
In the initial phase, onc of apprenticeship and exploration, things were somewhat different: the crown was no more than a partner in the venture, and the
other (Tamil) partner also sent his representatives on board the vessel.
From these ventures there gradually emerged the system of m1'l'cims (or
crown voyages), between designated ports in Asia such as Pulicat and Melaka,
or Melaka and Chittagong (in Bengal). The system was not peculiar to the areas
east of Cape Comorin. In the western Indian Ocean, there was similarly a set of
wI'I'ci1'lls linking, say, Hurmuz to several ports on the Indian west coast.
However, (i'om the 1520s, the (1Il'l'cim system represented a compromise
between crown and private interests. The captain and other officials were allowed
the (i'ee use ofa certain proportion of the cargo-hold (their qlliT/ta/ada), in addition to being given a salary. It was not uncommon by the early 1520s for noblemen embarking /I'om Portugal lix Asia already to have letters of authorization
li'om the king, appointing them to the eaptaincy of this or that voyage. The
crown supplied the vessel, and its trading interests were secured in part by its
control over the greater part of the cargo space.
Desigm rll/d dYllamics
ill
the POl'tIIBIICSC Estado da India
East of Cape COl11orin, the first official trading routes to emerge were those
from the Indian west coast to the Banda Islands in the Moluccas via Melaka, to
Coromandel (that is, Pulicat), and to Pegu in lower Burma. There then (c)l!owed
others: to Bengal, and to a whole host of ports on the Malay Peninsula. The captains of these were at times asked to play the role of diplomats and ambassadors,
and to establish relations between Goa and the rulers of the ports to which the
wrl'cims were destined.
Albuquerque was replaced, even bcfi)l'e his death, by his bitter rival Lopo
Soares de Albergaria, who represented a wholly different conception of Asian
affairs than his predecessor. Nevertheless, it should be stressed that the govern01'ship of Lopo Soares (1515-18) was in its own way as startling in its impact as
that of Albllqllerqlle. Lopo Soares was an avowed "(t-ee trader." He is supposed
to have proclaimed that Portuguese in Asia were (i'ee to go anywhere to seck
profit, and thus set inl11otion what has been termed the "great ("eedom" (Bratldc
Joltltm) , the diametric opposite of Albuquerque's dil'~fJiJmc (Bouchon and
Thomaz 1988). By 1520, this had already had dramatic effects. Private
Portuguese settlements sprang up in most major ports of the Bay of Bengal littoral, and in such places as Patani, and Pahang on the Malay Peninsula. The
numbers ofPortugllese involved were by no means negligible. In Pulicat, on the
Corol11andel coast of southeastern India, it is reported that there were two or
three hundred Portuguese by 1520, and smaller nuclei could he (Jllnd in
Martaban, Tenasserim, and other centers on the l:1Cing littoral of the Bay of
Bengal. The presence of the private Portuguese was undoubtedly an embarrassment fC)I' the captains of the erown ships that visited these ports, the more so
since some of these Portuguese were not above turning pirate or corsair on occasion. Or worse still, {I'om the official Portuguese viewpoint, they could turn renegade, convert to Islam, and seck entry into an Islamic polity sllch as that of the
Sultanate of Bengal.
The two patterns described above have sometimes been compared to two
earlier patterns in Portuguese expansion that of the western I ndian Ocean to
North Aft'ica, and that of the Bay of Bengal and Southeast Asia to the west coast
of Africa. By this, it is meant that in the 1(>I'I11er case, the military aspect dominated the commercial one, and the upper nobility was a relatively strong presence; while in the IattTr case the mercantile impulse dominated the military onc,
with the middle and lower nobility and the marginal elements in Portuguese
society being more in evidence. The processes of the period 1525-40 served (lr
the most part to entrench rather than disturb this distinction.
It may be llseful here to take stock briefly of the human numbers involved in
empire building at this point. As early as 1516, there were probably something
like 4000 Portuguese in Asia; by 1540, Dom Joao de Castl'o stated that the
number was lip to between 6000 and 7000. Of these, something like 400 were
in Cochin alone, Melaka had some 250, and Hlll'I1lUZ less than 150. But a large
number were also olltside the Portuguese state's control. In Ethiopia there may
have been as many as 200 by 1550, and something like three to f(llll' times that
57
58
Sanjay Subrahmanyam
number in all the ports of the Coromandel coast of eastern India taken together.
But equally important were centers acquired on the Indian west coast after
Albuquerque: Bassein, Daman, Chaul, and Diu.
Two of these, Bassein and Diu, were reluctantly ceded to tlle Portuguese by
Sultan Balladur of Gujarat in 1534 and 1535. The former seems to have been
acquired for two reasons: first to secure the supply lines of Goa, which suffered
from a deficit of food; and second, to provide a means to pamper tlle residual
seignorial pretensions of tlle fidalgos, who were given estates (called prazos) in
tlllS area, which came to be known as tlle Northern Province (proJlincia do norte).
Chaul, where a fortress was built as early as 1521, was meant to act together Witll
Diu in order to serve as a check on Gujarati mercantile activity between the
Indian west coast and tlle ports that were identified as "enemies" of tlle
Portuguese state. We may see these as supplementing, but not fundamentally
altering, tlle Portuguese western Indian Ocean network as it stood in 1515. The
fact tllat tlley yielded a not inconsiderable amount from land-revenue and commercial taxes was a furtller reason for tlleir acquisition. Similarly, tlle changes in
tlle Portuguese presence in East Mrica in tlle 1530s were by way of consolidation ratller tllan fundamental restructuring. Already in Albuquerque's time, tlle
Portuguese had abandoned tlleir fort at Kilwa, and in tlle 1530s tlley began to
penetrate up tlle Zambezi, in an attempt to come to grips with the inland supplylines of the coastal ports. Small settlements were set up at Sena and Tete, and
tllen, in 1544, in Quelimane.
The western Indian Ocean was also where the major part of the Portuguese
state's maritime resources continued to be concentrated. An anonymous text
called the Lembranra das Cousas da india (Memorandum on India Mf.'lirs),
authored in 1525, gives us detailed data on the shipping available to the
Portuguese governor at the time, Dom Henrique de Meneses (the immediate
successor to Vasco da Gama, who had died in office as viceroy in December
1524). The disposition of these vessels is of some significance. Three of the
largest, totaling something like 1500 toneis, were in Hurmuz; several others were
being deployed at Calicut. One galleon and a round-ship were at Melaka;
another galleon was to go to Melaka. In the Bay of Bengal there was a single
vessel, in which the captain of Coromandel had left for Pulicat. This is in itself a
demonstration of the relative weight given to different areas by Portuguese officialdom in the period.
Did these relatively weak shipping resources mean that the main Portuguese
objective - securing the Asia-Europe pepper and spice trade - could not be
attained? The curious fact remains that despite the relatively poor Portuguese
position, trade to the Red Sea fi'om India and Southeast Asia was rather limited
in this period. The Arabic chronicles from the Hadramaut (southern Arabia) in
tlle late 1520s and 1530s suggest that the only vessels conspicuous enough for
the Portuguese to chase and capture in these years were some pepper-bearing
ships from tlle port ofBhatkal, south ofGoa. It is possible that there were others,
from such ports as Kollam, Calicut, and Cannanore, to which the Pormguese
Designs and dynamics in the Portuguese Estado da India
routinely turned a blind eye, but that remains in the realm of speculation. It is
more or less clear, however, that tlle pepper and spice trade from South Asia and
Southeast Asia to West Asia continued in tlle 1530s and 1540s after a rude shock
in tlle 1500s, when the older trade route went into depression. Despite tlle fact
that tlle Portuguese controlled Hurmuz, spices continued to pass through tllere;
the key question is, however, tlle market for which tllese were destined. There
appears to be a good case to be made for the fact tllat tlle spices tllat passed
tllrough here were intended in good measure not for tlle European market but
to meet Iranian, Turkish, and North Mrican consumption.
Thus, in the case of the western Indian Ocean, tlle logic of tlle early years
worked itself out, so tllat a species of compromise was attained. Once tlle basic
network of fortresses was in place, and once tlle European distribution of pepper
and spices was more or less in Portuguese hands, tlle true nature of Asian
demand too could be gauged. By 1518, tlle return cargoes to Europe spanned
a great diversity of products, unlike the rather pepper-centered cargo that was
brought back, say, in 1505. The crown's fundamental trade revenues were tllllS
assured, and continued to be substantial through tlle 1520s and early 1530s
(Godinho 1990: 411-26). There remained the intra-Asian trade, run on the
system of crown carreiras, and here tlle situation was ratller more complex. From
the late 1520s, a tendency becomes manifest to limit tlle number of carreiras;
some, such as the Bhatkal-Hurmuz route, ceased to function in about this
period. Again, from 1521 to 1535, the clove trade from the Moluccas operated
as a crown monopoly. But from the latter date, private merchants were also permitted to participate, provided they paid the crown a levy, and also gave over
one-third of the cloves they brought back to the crown at a fixed price (lower
than the market rate).
But what of claims of generalized monopoly over Asian trade, sometimes
inferred from the title taken on by the Portuguese monarch Dom Manuel after
Vasco da Gama's return from Asia: "Lord of the Conquest, Navigation and
Commerce of Ethiopia, Arabia, Persia and India"? It has been pointed out by
scholars who have analyzed the content of these epithets in the light of juridical
usage in medieval Portugal, that the generalized doctrine of closed seas (or mare
clausum) was not adhered to by all in the Portuguese court, and could only be
justified if one adopted a radical position - one that had, incidentally, been refuted
by theologians like St. Thomas Aquinas - to the effect that the non-Christian
powers were by definition illegitimate and had no standing. To the extent that
the Portuguese ruler had sanction for his rights, it came fi'om the Papal Bull of
Nicholas V in 1455, which was careful, however, to note that the monopoly was
of navigation to India (that is, usque ad in dos) and not in tlle Indian Ocean. Thus,
what was being discussed was the right over the Atlantic, and in particular in relation to other Christian powers like Spain or France. Those Portuguese who
extended this to navigation within Asia were in fact taking a rather wide interpretation oftlle Papal grant (Thomaz 1994: 222-3).
The only manner in which the larger claim could be justified was as follows:
59
60
Sanjay Subrahmanyam
first, the Portuguese ruler, as a monarch, had the right to assert a monopoly in
relation to his own subjects, and could thus forbid them from trading in certain
goods. Second, the state of war could be used as a justification for the denial to
certain ships of the right to navigate. From the latter stems the so-called cartaz
system, a system of safe-conducts issued to Asian ships by the Portuguese, initially on the Malabar coast, and later on Coromandel, in Gujarat, and elsewhere.
According to the chronicler Gaspar Correia, in 1502, cartazes were first issued
by Vasco da Gama to ships from the Malabar ports of Kollam, Cochin, and
Cannanore, in order to certify to the fact that they pertained to areas that were
not at war with the Portuguese. In the first stages, it is hence clear that the cartaz
was not really a revenue-raising measure, as has sometimes been claimed.
The limited claims that the Portuguese monarchs in fact made in this period
can also be seen from their preoccupation with pareas, or tribute. We have
already noted that there is some basis to the idea that Dom Manuel wished to
declare himself Emperor of the East in the years before he died, and was possibly
waiting for the Jerusalem enterprise to be brought to a successful conclusion
before doing so. His pretensions rested, however, not on the exercise of sovereignty over large territories (for the colonization of Brazil was still a thing of
the future); instead, he wished to have himself declared suzerain over as many
rulers as possible in Asia. Thus, in 1521, when the fortress at Chaul was constructed by Diogo Lopes de Sequeira, it was with the provision that the Nizam
Shahi rulers of Ahmadnagar (to whom the port belonged) would pay pareas
worth 2000 gold pagodas; this "tribute" was raised to 7000 pagodas after 1539.
In Ternate, in eastern Indonesia, the pareas were in terms of palm-leaves and
sago; in Kilwa, the Sultans were required in the early sixteenth century to pay
pareas in gold.
Though the sums of money (or quantities of goods) involved were thus often
trivial, the point was much more the juridical f.1Ct of tribute than its amount.
Harking back to the political concepts of the taifa (or system of "Party
Kingdoms," deriving in turn from the Arabic notion of td)ifat), that had been
in vogue in Iberia in the later Islamic period, the Portuguese monarch intended
to assert a widespread rather than deep influence, as we see from other evidence
as well. The most crucial evidence in this respect may be the fact that the
Portuguese did very little explicitly to interfere with local administrative systems
in the first years of their mle. In Melaka, at first they tried to persuade the Sultan
to return as their vassal. Failing this, they strengthened the hand of the bmdahara (or "prime minister"), and eventually made the office a hereditary one in
the hands of a Tamil family. Similarly, in Hurmuz, they established not full sovereign rights but a protectorate, permitting the Shah to remain in place, even
though they gradually encroached on his revenue-base. Again in Goa, the cmcial
post of tanadar-mor was held for over two and a half decades by a certain
Brahmin entrepreneur called Krishna, who in the early 1520s visited Portugal,
and managed to secure a number of plum posts for himself. The charter (fora!)
Designs and dynamics in the Portuguese Estado da India
ofl526 in Goa, put together by Monso Mexia, reflects tlus "conservative" ideology, and is usually seen more as an attempt to record existing rights than to redefine them. However, as I have shown elsewhere, tlle longer-term effects of such
a "museological" approach were not quite tllose tllat had been intended. Matters
were already somewhat different in tlle case of the so-called provincia do norte
(north of Go a), where the earlier prebend-holders oftlle Gujarat Sultanate were
not displaced in tlle initial phase after the Portuguese takeover. Still further
changes took place in the next phase, and particularly from tlle late 1540s.
Unlike the earlier decades, the 1530s are a difficult period to characterize in
tlle history of Portuguese Asia. This is partly because its main feature is of a
period in which the logic defined in an earlier period seeks to work itself out consolidation, ratller than departure from the earlier trend, seems to be the rule.
But it is also a period in which much is occurring at the fringes of the consciousness of Portuguese in Asia, processes that eventually impinged on their Asian
enterprise in a major way. We can broadly sum these up under three heads. First,
tlle 1530s mark the creation in Brazil of the donatory-captaincy system, owing
to which the colonization of the Brazilian interior truly gets under way; the man
initially given charge of this, Martim Monso de Sousa, was later to be governor
of Portuguese Asia in the 1540s. Brazil as a competitor of Asia for resources,
both human and financial, was thus on the verge of coming to life.
Second, the Ottoman rulerSuleyman (1'.1520-66), whose expansionary focus
had mainly been to the west in the 1520s - in Egypt and Hungary - turned his
attention in the 1530s and 1540s to the southern "underbelly" of his domain.
The first major Ottoman fleet, constructed at Suez, had been ready from the
early 1530s, but it was only after the Ottoman conquest of Basra that the fleet
was sent out, under the command of Hadim Suleyman Pasha in the celebrated
"first siege" of Diu of 1538. The expedition had mixed results, helping to consolidate Ottoman control over the Red Sea littoral, but being unsuccesshll in its
attack on the Portuguese stronghold of Diu. But this expedition was only a
portent of things to come in the next phase, as Portuguese-Ottoman rivalry continued to fester into at least the 1570s.
Third, the 1530s saw the gradual emergence in the Bay of Bengal of a new
complex of trade and political power. As the Husain Shahi Sultanate in Bengal
declined in the early 1530s, two processes became visible. On the one hand, the
1530s witnessed the emergence of two aggressively mercantilist states: Arakan in
northern BUJ'ma, under Minbin (I'. 1531-53), with his capital at the city of
Mrauk-u, and the Toungoo empire in lower BUJ'ma under Tabin-shwei-hti (I'.
1531-50). Trade on the BUJ'mese coast, which had earlier proceeded in fits and
starts, became relatively stable, and the ports of Cosmin (in the western
Irrawaddy delta) and Martaban (at the mouth of the Salween river) vied with
Mrauk-u in the trade to Coromandel. At the same time, Bengal and Burma
became the f.wored hunting ground oflarger and larger numbers of Portuguese,
perhaps several hundred by 1540 (Subrahmanyam 1990a).
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62
Sanjay Subrahmanyam
THE MID-CENTURY INFLECTION AND AFTER
Much evolved in the next three decades, years that were also marked by a profound fiscal and economic crisis in Portuguese Asia. The roots of this crisis must
be sought in a number of separate phenomena that came together in a conjunctural pattern: poor weather and failed crops in the 1540s leading to large-scale
famines in India and a shrinkage of commerce; pernlrbations in the patterns of
trade in Europe as well as on the Cape Route; political difficulties faced by the
Portuguese on a number of fronts; as well as the development within Portuguese
Asia of virulent forms of internal opposition to official trade. Private trade
expanded apace in tlus period, as tlle official carreira system gradually lapsed into
apatllY. Private traders pushed frontiers furtller and furtller, opening up tlle Japan
trade (and as a consequence creating Japan as a missionary field for tlle Jesuits)
by about 1543. In the late 1550s, tlle troubled Portuguese presence off the
soutlleast coast of Cluna at last found an official blessing from tlle Ming dynasty,
Witll tlle creation of tlle settlement of Macau. It began to appear in tllese years
tllat tlle center of gravity of tlle whole Portuguese enterprise in Asia had started
to drift eastward, Witll a major sluft from the network offortresses defined under
Monso de Albuquerque.
Thus, by 1570, the Portuguese had a presence in almost every region of Asia
tllat tlley were to penetrate in tlle course of tlle sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. In a sense tllerefore, tllis period marks a limit to tlle geographical extension of Portuguese Asian expansion, Witll what remained being tlle more
intensive exploitation of spaces that had been explored by 1570. Small colonies
of Portuguese -missionaries, private traders, renegades or crown representatives
- were to be found by now in Japan, China, mainland Southeast Asia, the
Indonesian archipelago, the South Asian landmass, Iran and the Ottoman
domains, and East Mrica. The historian of almost any part of coastal Asia can by
this period be certain that some Portuguese sources and accounts exist of his or
her region of interest, some of them impressionistic and wildly inaccurate, others
more based on detailed, empirical, materials. This is what makes possible the
creation in this period of such compendia as the celebrated and oft-reproduced
COdice Casanateme, a portfolio of seventy-six watercolors, depicting the racial
characteristics, customs, and costumes of the peoples of coastal East Mrica and
Asia. Beginning with tlle "Kaffir of [the Cape of] Good Hope," the anonymous
painter takes us through Ethiopia, the Red Sea, Iran, Gujarat and Goa (to both
of which he devotes several watercolors), the K'\I1ara and Malabar coasts,
Coromandel and Orissa, Bengal, Burma, the Malay world, Sumatra, Java, the
Moluccas, eventually ending his visual odyssey in China. We are now far from
the fantasies of tlle ancients, and even the medieval Italian travelers; what has
now been imposed on tlle area is a vision in which the experiences of tlle sixteenth cennlry have made their mark.
Still, most materials generated by the Pornlguese up to tllis period - the
politico-military chronicles of Ban'os and Castanheda, for instance - still stick
Designs and dynamics in the Portuguese Estado da India
fairly close to tlle littoral in what they retail. The Portuguese Estado da indiaas tlle settlements and territories under tlle control of Go a came to be called from
roughly tlus period - remained therefore essentially a maritime affair. Even the
little official expansion and conquest undertaken in tlle 1560s continued to be
in line Witll tllis conception oftllings. In 1568-9, tlU'ee Kanara ports - Honawar,
Basrur, and Mangalore - were taken by tlle Portuguese, for quite traditional
reasons, such as the need to control tlle Kanara pepper trade, and tlle need to
secure Goa's supply lines from these rice-producing areas. The fact tllat tlus
period was chosen was fortuitous, since tlle defeat of tlle Vijayanagara empire in
SOUtll India in 1565 by her northern rivals - tlle Sultanates of Bijapur,
Allmadnagar, and Golconda - created a political vacuum in tlle area tllat the
Portuguese were quick to exploit (see Morrison, tlus volume). It was tlus essentially littoral character tllat was put into question in tlle decades tllat followed
1570.
To sum up a complex process very rapidly, the four decades after 1570 are
characterized on tlle one hand by a growing interest in the land and territorial
adventurism, and on the otller by tlle rise of a set of maritime networks to rival
tllose of the Portuguese Estado. But one must not neglect the changes tllat took
place in official Portuguese intra-Asian maritime trade eitller; when Philip II of
Spain became ruler of Portugal in 1580-1, tllese changes were already under
way, and they accelerated further in the next three decades (Parker 1998). As an
information-obsessed ruler, Philip appears to have commissioned, in the very
first year of his reign over the Portuguese empire, a compendium on the extent
and nature of his Asian possessions. This text, the Lilwo das Cidades e Fortalezas
("Book of Cities and Fortresses") is somewhat misnamed, for at least a quarter
of it deals with neither cities nor fortresses, but instead with maritime trade
within Asia. We do not know who its author was, but it is very likely to have been
a former fiscal official in Portuguese Asia. It provides a detailed description of
the changing f.1ce of the Estado in an epoch when the old carreira system was
giving way to the private concessionary-voyage (or Jliagem), when new frontiers
of trade and settlement were in the process ofbcing established, and when speculative (at times, f.1r-fetched) projects of territorial conquest were being mooted
in places as diverse as East Africa, Sri Lanka, Burma, and Cambodia.
These complex changes of the late sixteenth century have often proved difficult for historians to digest. Thus, it is sometimes asserted that, after the midcentury, the Portuguese Asian enterprise lost its vigor, falling into a pattern
usually summed up as that of imperial decline (decadencia). In this view, then,
the crisis that we have discussed briefly in the context of the mid-century can be
seen as a decisive one, which left the Portuguese Asian empire hollow on tlle
inside, and ripe for demolition by the Dutch and English. Such a reading oftlle
record is based in good measure on the great chronicler of the epoch, Diogo do
Couto (1543-1616) in texts such as his Soldado Pratico, of which at least two
quite distinct incarnations are known (Martins 1985). However, recent writings
on the idea of "imperial decline" in tlle early modern period should give tllOse
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Sanjay Subrahmanyam
historians who have accepted Couto's vision uncritically some pause, for it
emerges that "decline literature" was in fact itself a sort of literary genre that
emerged in the development of historiography in even the broadly contemporary Ottoman and Mughal cases as a reaction to social realignments that were
taking place.
THE ASIAN BACKLASH
The first phase of the Portuguese presence in Asia was, coincidentally, one of
rapid political transformations in the western half of the continent. In the first
thirty years of their presence in the Indian Ocean, the Portuguese were witness
to Selim I's expansion into Egypt and the Red Sea (arguably one of the most
important phases in Ottoman history), to Safavid consolidation in Iran under the
founder of the dynasty Shah Ismail, to the setting up of Mughal rule in northern India by the Timurid dynast Babur in the 1520s, and to the apogee of the
power of Vi jayan agara in southern India under Krishnadevaraya (r. 1509-29).
As the Portuguese themselves saw it in around 1530, the major political powers
in Asia were the Ottomans, Vijayanagara, and the Ming Chinese; they actively
feared and combated the first, dealt by diplomatic means with the second, and
kept a wary distance from the third.
The next four decades were relatively less momentous ones, with the only truly
significant political shift in the western Indian Ocean from the Portuguese viewpoint being the realignment in power in the Deccan (or south-central India)
with the decisive defeat in 1565 of Vijayanagara forces by the rulers of the
Deccan Sultanates. Goa, whose trade was linked to the demand ofVijayanagara
city, felt the aftershock of this shift, but soon the trade to Bijapur grew in order
to compensate partially for this decline. Furthermore, by the 1560s, trade in the
Bay of Bengal was of growing interest to the Portuguese private merchants, who
brought back news of the great new state machine being built up there. Burmese
rule became a prepossessing presence in Portuguese accounts of these decades,
until its temporary collapse in the 1590s.
But from the 1570s, a new political order came into being in the arc stretching from Bengal, through northern India and Iran, to the Red Sea, which
endured - with some relatively small realignments - into the early eighteenth
century. The single most important f.1.ctor that influenced this new order was the
expansion of the Mughal state from a landlocked kingdom astride the Gangetic
valley in northern India to an empire with maritime access not only into the
western Indian Ocean, but into the Bay of Bengal. The shift took place during
the reign of Akbar (I'. 1556-1605), the first of his lineage consistently to be called
the Great Mughal ("Grao Mogor") by the Portuguese, and was the culmination
of earlier attempts by his father Humayun in the 1530s to gain control ofGujarat
and Bengal. In 1572-3, Akbar's forces easily conquered Gujarat, and the
Mughals signed a treaty with the Portuguese in March of tlle following year.
Then, in 1575-6, the Mughals conducted a successful campaign in Bengal,
Desig1lS and dynamics in the Portuguese Estado da India
bringing tlle ports of Pipli and Satgaon under Mughal control, and permitting
the creation of the Mughal siiha (province) of Bengal. Finally, in 1591-2, the
Mughals took lower Sind from its ruler; tllis gave them control over Thatta and
its port Lahori Bandar, at the mouth of the Indus.
However, until about 1610, the Mughals were largely content to use the
tlll'eat they posed to Portuguese settlements on land as a way of keeping the
Estado da india from pursuing policies that were indiscreet. It is significant that
in a phase dominated by grandiose projects of conquest, no one really thought
to venture the conquest of Mughal territories as a possibility. The most the
Portuguese hoped for was tllat the Jesuit presence in Akbar's court might tempt
him to convert to Christianity and tllltS make him more malleable; but in the
event, this conversion project too was shown to be chimeral. As New World
silver, and especially the rea/es de a ocho coined from the produce of the mines of
PotoS! (once the mercury amalgamation process had been perfected), began to
flow into Goa via the ships of the Carreira da india, Gujarat and Goa acquired
a comfortable trading link. Equally, in the late sixteenth century, ships from
Gujarat continued to trade to the Red Sea, and bring back precious metals from
there in exchange for Indian textile exports. This silver, like that from Goa,
served to feed the mints of the Mughal empire.
A far greater immediate worry than the Mughals was their western neighbors
and sometime rivals, the Saf.1.Vid rulers ofIran. Portuguese official relations with
the first rulers of this dynasty, Ismail, Tahmasp, and Muhammad Khudabanda,
seem to have been relatively trouble-free. But all this was to change in the reign
of Shah Abbas I (1587-1629), who established trade links with Moscow, sent
ambassadors and trade representatives to Emope, and began to resent
Portuguese control over Hurmuz, which effectively dominated the entrance to
the Persian Gulf. Safavid military power, earlier put into question by successes
enjoyed against them by the Ottomans on the frontier, was given a new lease of
life as a professional army was built up by Shah Abbas from the far smaller force
that had been maintained by Tahmasp. Abbas and his advisers set out an elaborate strategy, to combat the Ottoman threat and to deal with the Portuguese.
In July 1599, he thus sent out an embassy with letters to the Czar Boris Godunov
in Moscow, the rulers of Poland, Hungary, France, and Scotland, Queen
Elizabeth I of England , the Doge of Venice and the Grand Duke of Tuscany, and
Philip III of Spain. He suggested an anti-Ottoman alliance in these letters, a
theme taken up again by Englishmen acting as his ambassadors in Europe, in
1608. The proposals met with a lukewarm response, particularly from the
Habsblll'gs, forcing Shah Abbas to consider moving against Hurmuz, the only
other means he had of conducting external trade freely. The matter was neatly
summed up about this time by an English diplomat, the Oxford-educated Sir
Thomas Roe, who wrote that Shah Abbas must "constantly resolve to go
through with the Spaniard, or to make peace with the Turk; one of them he must
do."
The exchange of embassies between Madrid and Goa, and Isf.1han, continued
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Sanjay Subrahmanyam
through the 1610s, but it soon emerged that this was merely a way for Shah
Abbas to bide his time while waiting for English support to come through. The
setting up of an English factory at Jask in 1616 signaled the beginnings of the
Anglo-Iranian alliance against the Portuguese. Thus, trade was a resource to be
taxed and from which funds could be raised, enabling Shah Abbas to free himself
and his court from dependence on the original support-base of his dynasty. One
of his first steps therefore was to declare the lucrative trade in silk a state monopoly, and to attempt to control its sale price. But so long as the two silk routes one heading northwest over land, and the other southeast via the Persian Gulf were blocked, tllis strategy had strict limitations. Tllis tllen is what eventually led
to the conflict between Safavids and Portuguese over Hurmuz.
I have so far concentrated on developments in SOUtll and west Asia in tile
decades leading up to 1610, from wllich it has emerged tllat the new political
configuration in tllese areas boded ill for tile Portuguese. The same was true in
tllese years for tile far corner of the Portuguese Asian enterprise - Japan. As has
been noted above, tile entry of tile Portuguese as intermediaries between Cllina
and Japan in tile 1540s and 1550s was largely tile result of local circumstances.
Again, tile purely coincidental expansion of silver mining and production in
Japan in these years facilitated the groWtll in Portuguese trade, so tllat the "Great
Ship from Amacon" became one of the major intra-Asian lines of tile concession
system. Between 1560 and 1600, it has been estimated that tile Portuguese
carried between 22,500 and 37,500 kilograms of silver from Japan every year.
But managing tile political and cultural situation was by no means simple. The
early years of their presence had seen local lords (daimyo) vie with each other for
Portuguese trade, in a situation of internecine conflict. But in the last quarter of
the sixteenth century, matters began to stabilize, under first Oda Nobunaga,
then Toyotomi Hideyoshi, and finally Tokugawa Ieyasu - the so-called "Great
Unifiers." Troubles between Hideyoshi and the Portuguese arose on two
counts, one religious, and one to do with reasons of state. The years since Francis
Xavier's arrival in Japan had seen the Jesuit mission grow from strength to
strengtll, Witll the conversion of many thousands ofJapanese, ranging from peasants to members of Hideyoshi's own entourage, to Christianity. Important
Christian daimyo took to destroying shrines of the native tradition, and some
went so far as to convert peasants forcibly in territories under their control. It is
evident that Christianity had to be tolerated up to a point by men like Nobunaga
and Hideyoshi, given the fact that its "carriers" - the Portuguese - had their uses.
It was, after all, under Portuguese influence that firearms had been introduced
into Japan, and had become an important part of military strategy under the
Great Unifiers. But the Jesuits began, by the 1580s, to threaten to be too assertive. This led Hideyoshi to issue an edict in 1587 declaring that since Christianity
was a pernicious doctrine, it could not be permitted in Japan, "the land of tile
Gods." However, in reality, tile missionaries were not expelled, but instead
forced to tone down their activities considerably. Nevertheless, conflicts persisted, as we see from tile well-known case of the public execution of twenty-six
Desigm and dynamics ill the Portuguese Estado da India
Christians (including three Jesuits and six Spanish Franciscans) in Nagasaki in
early 1597.
In sum, by 1610, tile Portuguese had a taste of the changed circumstances
that obtained in post-Civil War Japan, and what the new, relatively centralized
order, as distinct from tile old daimyo-dominated dispensation, meant. But it is
likely, nevertheless, that they underestimated the seriousness of intention of tile
new order put in place by Hideyoshi and his successor, Tokugawa Ieyasu. The
relative absence of persecutions in the first decade of tile seventeentll century was
however illusory, as the Portuguese learnt in 1614, when tile definitive order for
tile expulsion of all missionaries was promulgated. Thereafter, the Portuguese
conducted tlleir trade on borrowed time. Their eventual expulsion from Japan
in the late 1630s was nevertlleless a particularly serious blow for tile network of
private trade that tlley had put in place witllin Asia.
Paradoxically, the first real blows came however neither in the Mughal territories, nor in those of the Safavids, nor indeed in Japan. Rather, they came fi:om
tile Dutch, who, in 1605, took Ambon, and also occupied a Spanish fort at
Tidore. The Spaniards recovered soon, making inroads into Ternate, wllile the
Portuguese continued to procl\l'e cloves and spices via Makassar, which emerged
by 1610 as a major entrepot in eastern Indonesia. Far more telling and significant a blow came from quite a different quarter, namely Burma. Taking advantage of political strife there in the late 1590s, a private Portuguese entrepreneur
called Filipe de Brito e Nicote had managed to carve out for himsclf(and for the
Estado da india) a position in the Irrawaddy delta port of Syriam, from where
he collected customs on shipping from India and sought to restrict regional navigation. However, despite his success in staving off a number of threats, Filipe
de Brito was ultimately unable to make common cause with the greater part of
the Portuguese and mestifosofthe area, who might otherwise have provided him
with the necessary manpower to sustain his enterprise. The tUl'l1ing point came
however with a shift in the political situation in lower Burma itseW After about
1600, the focus of political power for the ruling Toungoo dynasty shifted upland
to Ava, and they began the process of reconsolidation. By 1612, Syria m was a
besieged enclave in a unified political zone. When the fort eventually surrendered, Brito was brutally killed, while many of his companions were carried off
as prisoners to Ava and tied to the crown on a hereditary basis as military
specialists.
The fall of Syriam opened the way for the free expansion of trade between
India and Burma, which reached substantial dimensions by the 1620s. In the
medium term the Dutch too benefited ft'om this change in trading conditions,
as did a number of local Asian networks of traders. In f.1Ct, to see the decline of
the Portuguese presence in Asia in the seventeenth century purely in terms of
the rivalry with the Dutch would not be just. For even the Luso- Dutch conflict
in Asia was not a two-dimensional affair but rather a multi-dimensional one. It
involved not only the Portuguese and the Dutch but also the rulers of a vast
number of states, ranging fi'om Iran to Japan. We should bear in mind that some
67
68
Sanjay Subrahmanyam
of the major losses that the Portuguese suffered in the half-century after 1610
had little or notlling to do witll tlle Dutch: tllis is tlle case with first Syriam
(1612), then Hurmuz (1622), followed by Hughli (1632), then tlle Japan trade
(1638), and finally tlle Kanara ports (1654).
Designs and dynamics in the Portuguese Estado da India
Asian empire had already led to spatial diversification in tlle years from 1515 on.
It was again spatial diversification, into China and tlle Japan trade, tllat had given
a fillip to tlle Estado in the context of the crisis of tlle mid-sixteenth century; still
once more, in tlle years between 1570 and 1610, pushing back tlle, fr~ntier had
a crucial role in defusing tensions at tlle margins of tlle Estado da Indza.
SURVIVAL AND PRIVATE TRADE
Nevertlleless, tlle Portuguese sought and found strategies to survive in tlle
1630s and 1640s. Some of their more ambitious projects, such as tlle short-lived
East India Company founded Witll New Christian capital in tlle late 1620s, failed
miserably on tlle Cape Route. But tlle private trade carried out by private casado
merchants in the Indian Ocean continued to find new markets and centers of
operation. Besides, a number of Portuguese chose from tllls time on to reside
outside the ambit of the Estado da india, in mestifo commUlllties that survived
into far later times. We are aware tllat tlle Portuguese presence in Asia in the sixteentll and seventeentll centuries was not based on emigration on a mass scale
by tlle Iberians, and tllls serves to differentiate it to an extent from Brazil, especially in the latter part oftlle period under consideration. Furthermore, the official Portuguese presence was for the most part an urban one Witll the exception
of a few areas - such as tlle proJlf:l'tcia do norte, Sri Lanka, and the Zambezi valley.
The institutions tllat defined tlle matrix of social interaction with the local
context were hence largely urban ones, and frequently had precedents in peninsular Portuguese practice. Some of these institutions like the Cdmara Municipal
(City Council), or the Santa Casa de Misericordia (Holy House of Mercy) are
furtllermore to be encountered elsewhere in the Portuguese empire as well, be
it in Angola or Brazil.
In his Fatalidade historica da ilha de Ceiliio ("Historical Tragedy oftlle Island
ofCeylon"), the Lisbon-born soldier Joao Ribeiro (1622-93), veteran of some
two decades of fighting in Sri Lanka, summed up the years with which the
present chapter has been concerned in the following fashion:
.',
"
~I
From the Cape of Good Hope onwards wc were unwilling to leave anything
outside of OUl' control; wc were anxious to lay hands on everything in that huge
stretch of 5,000 leagues from Sof.1la to Japan; and what was worse was that we
set about this without calculating OUl' strength, or thinking that even with the
natives themselves this conquest could not last for ever.
(in Subrahmanyam 1993: 179-80)
No doubt benefiting from hindsight, Ribeiro also offered his views on what he
thought should have been the Estado's strategy, namely concentration on Goa,
Hurmuz, Melaka, and Sri Lanka. Such an approach, which we may term "intensive" ratller than "extensive" in character, was what the Estado had perforce to
adopt in tlle years after 1665. But Ribeiro may really have missed the point in
arguing tllat tllis should have been tlle Portuguese strategy from the very outset.
As we have seen, the logic ofinterests and pressure groups within the Portuguese
CONCLUSION
The elements that have been presented above, albeit in a ratller schematic
manner, allow us to return to tlle question posed at the outset. To what extent
can tlle Portuguese presence in Asia in tlle sixteentll and seventeenth centuries
be understood as an "empire"? If, indeed, we insist on tlle idea of territoriality
as central to tlle notion of empire, then we must probably exclude tlle Estado da
india from this category, for the phase between 1570 and 1610, when a clear
territorial drive is visible, is brief and rather inconclusive. Nevertheless, tllls did
not prevent a certain number of contemporary authors from using tlle term,
most notably Frei Serafim de Freitas, in his celebrated treatise De iusto imperio
lusitanorumAsiatico (Freitas 1983). The reason for tllis was simple: to the extent
that the Portuguese in Asia controlled a series of centers tllat were spread out,
had claims of suzerainty over a number of Asian political structures through the
idea of pltreas (whatever the precise reality on the ground), and used force to
enforce these claims, it seemed natural to treat the Estado da india as an empire,
albeit a rather "original" one, as one imagined might have been the case for the
Phoenicians.
There are thus three possible conclusions that this chapter potentially leaves
open. Onc would be to argue, as has been the brunt of the chapter for the most
part, that the Portuguese did have an empire in early modern Asia, but that in
order to recognize this, wc need to adopt a rather more flexible view of empire
than has been espoused by some. A second, and perhaps more devious, position
might be to argue that the Portuguese in the period had an empire on a worldscale, if onc takes into account the Atlantic islands, Brazil, the few North African
garrisons and West Africa, as well as Asia. The weight of Brazil from the closing
years of the sixteenth century would thus lend more territoriality to the whole,
and a greater demographic weight to the view that this was indeed an empire;
we could then propose that the Estado da india was not by itself an empire, but
rather part of onc. If, however, onc opts for the third conclusion, and rejects
these two propositions, the onus must surely be on the skeptic to explain what
the Portuguese Estado da irldia indeed was. It was certainly not a trading "diaspora" in the usual sense (for it had a significant military and fiscal dimension, and
quite large subject populations), nor was it a unitary state. Perhaps it is the
example whose destiny it is to destabilize olll' comfortable generalizations that
are based on the preconceived view that we, as historians and social scientists,
really do know what empires are. Empires do strike back, and in unexpected,
even epistemological, ways.
69
The Wari empire of Middle Horizon Peru
DEFINITIONS OF EMPIRE AND
ARCHAEOLOGICAL CORRELATES
3
The Wari empire of Middle Horizon Peru:
the epistemological challenge of
documenting an empire without
documentary evidence
Katharina Schreiber
70
The Wad empire of prehistoric Peru expanded from its capital in the central
Andean highlands approximately AD 750, controlled territory presently located
t11roughout most of the highlands and the coastal desert of Peru, and collapsed
some time before AD 1000. Unlike t11e other examples of empires reported in
t11is volume, Wari was an aliterate society and produced no written documents.
Nor are t11ere eyewitness accounts, such as exist for the Inka, because Wari collapsed and disappeared long before the European invasion of the New World.
Wari presents a nearly unique case of an empire with no documentary source
material upon which the historian or archaeologist may draw.
Undocumented empires may be quite rare. In the Old World, the known
empires, beginning with the Akkadian empire in Mesopotamia, arose after the
development of systems of writing, so all are amenable to historical study as well
as archaeological investigation. In the New World, the Aztecs are known on the
basis of their own writings, on Spanish eyewitness accounts, and on archaeological data (Brumfiel, Smith, this volume). In South America the Inka are likewise
known from Spanish documents (MacCormack, this volume), and archaeological data (D'A1troy, this volume), but the Inka themselves are mute l except for a
few native documents written many decades after the European invasion. For the
earlier Wari empire we can rely only on archaeological data. We have no literary
record of the words or thoughts of the people ofWari; we do not even know
what they called themselves.
The questions fi'amed by the historian and the archaeologist about empires
are by necessity conditioned by the source material utilized by each. While the
written words and ideas of a long-gone people are available to, and trusted by,
the historian, only the material remains of the actions of those people are available to archaeologists of preliterate empires. The archaeologist is challenged to
interpret those data not only to discern the various aspects and processes of prehistoric imperialism, but even to defend the existence of prehistoric empires.
I
For some, empire is a state of mind, and empires are self-identified as such. Put
simply, t11e Assyrians in the Near East (Liverani, this volume) or the Portuguese
in Asia (Subrahmanyam, this volume) were empires because they themselves said
they were. But autodefinition cannot be used as a defining characteristic by the
prehistoric archaeologist, who has no direct access to the written words of the
empire. Rather we must turn to definitions of empire that contain material elements amenable to archaeological methods of discovery, such as that provided
by Barfield (this volume). Empires are states that expand, usually rapidly, and at
least initially by conquest. Empires are subcontinental in size and have a population in the millions. Empires control diverse ecozones, and they are diverse culturally; they are organized to handle this diversity. Empires have central
administrations; they support themselves through t11e extraction of tribute or the
payment of taxes. Empires maintain standing armies. Empires maintain sovereignty over all people and territory in their realms.
The rapid military expansion of empire
Empires grow so rapidly that to an archaeologist it may appear as a single
episode: a full-blown empire where before there was nothing. There are many
areas in which archaeological data are less than satisfactory, and perhaps the most
critical of these pertains to the temporal sequence of events. Archaeological chronologies are rarely sufficiently fine-grained to place events any more precisely
than within a particular century, if that. Therefore, the detailed sequence of
imperial expansion may be unknowable, and may appear to be even more rapid
than it was. However, in some cases it may be possible to discern diachronic
change within the total period of empire, although the details of individual
events will rarely be knowable.
Whether an expansion was military or not is also difficult to know, although
usually assumed to be the case. What the archaeologist sees is the result - a province consolidated under imperial control - and a negotiated result will look no
different than a coerced one. However, a military infrastructure will often leave
material remains. The presence of military garrisons provides direct evidence of
the existence of standing armies. Permanent garrisons are to be found in strategic locations, often located apart from local population centers, and often associated with roads. They may have limited access from the outside, and may be
fortified. Inside there will be sufficient space to house large numbers of men, and
f.1cilities for the preparation oflarge quantities offood. Storage areas for material
are expected. And the location of garrisons should change through time.
Empires expand in a cycle of offense, and collapse in a cycle of defense. During
the initial expansion, garrisons are established as the empire expands witl1in the
71
72
eventual territory or margins of the empire; in the later stages of empire, garrisons will be found on the boundaries of the empire, as the enemies now are those
on the outside.
Certain forms of imagery may indicate military action as well. Aliterate societies may produce images that survive in ceramic, textile, or statuary art, among
other forms, and we may regard such imagery as a form of text in these cases.
For example, depictions of individuals in distinctive costume and wielding arms
may indicate not only military action, but also what garb distinguished the
people or soldiers of the empire from its enemies (or allies), and the types of
weaponry used. Depictions of battle scenes may further indicate military strategy or tactics.
Size and diversity
li'i
The Wari empire of Middle Horizon Peru
Katharina Schreiber
While estimating exact populations of sites or regions can be fraught with difficulties (e.g., Schreiber and Kintigh 1996), archaeological methods of analysis
can be quite efficacious in defining the spatial extent of an empire. Empires
develop tlleir own styles of material culture, including artifacts of various types
(ceramics, textiles, metal objects, etc.) and one might look first to the distribution of these portable items to estimate the spatial extent of the empire. But the
fact that these are indeed portable can also yield misinformation as well. Items
may easily be traded or exchanged, and thus found by the archaeologist outside
tile actual boundary of imperial sovereignty. Clearly a single isolated object in a
foreign cultural context can be seen as a trade piece, but even large quantities of
imperial style artifacts may occur outside the boundaries in areas connected
tl1l'0ugh economic ties or trading relationships to the empire.
More accurate in determining the spatial extent of an empire is defining direct
imperial investment, especially in the imperial infrastructure. I have already
treated the issue of military garrisons above, but here it is useful to emphasize
the locations of those garrisons; rarely if ever will a military garrison be located
outside the boundaries of an empire (but see Sinopoli, this volume). The spatial
extent of military posts should approximate the extent of imperial control.
Roads are another important element of the imperial infi'astructure, needed
both to move military forces efficiently around the empire, and also to facilitate
the transport of tribute and trade items. While roads themselves are difficult to
date with any precision, roads connect places. And those places, or sites, can be
dated to particular periods. Roads connecting towns and villages dating to a particular period can therefore be assumed to have been used during that period.
Roads connecting military garrisons and other imperial facilities can not only be
dated to the period of empire; they can also be identified as imperial roads. These
may make use of preexisting routes, but the empire coopts their use and maintenance. The level of investment in paving and improvements may also identify
tllem as imperial in construction. Inka roads were often paved, provided with
drainage or stone steps, and bridges were built and maintained (Hyslop 1984).
The extent of the imperial road network is an excellent measure of the size of the
empire, if the archaeologist can clearly define imperial roads and distinguish
them fi'om others.
Anotller element of tile infrastructure tllat indicates direct imperial investment
and tile spatial extent of power is tile construction of regional capitals or administrative centers. Empires are typically too large to be run from a single capital,
and local centers are established to house administrators, maintain control over
local polities, organize and store tribute for later transshipment, organize labor
for tile construction and maintenance of imperial facilities, etc. Typically these
centers will be located near local population centers or production zones. The
size and internal diversity of a regional administrative center will depend on tile
variety of functions carried out there, and perhaps tile size and diversity of the
region under its control. Physically these centers will be permanent establishments, usually Witll limited access and sometime fortified. They will include
domestic areas in which imperial bureaucrats lived, and areas for food production and storage. Indeed, tlley will appear very similar to military garrisons, and
in some cases may be one and tile same.
The extraction of tribute and its movement from the provinces to the imperial centers can be seen directly and indirectly in a number of ways. These include
movement of goods from one region to another in imperial-associated contexts,
changes in production and consumption patterns at the local level, direct control
over or limited access to particular resources or production zones, etc. Major
investments in the intensification of agricultural production indicating imperial
investment may include land reclamation, construction of extensive irrigation
systems, or the building of terracing in the case of the Andean highlands.
Centralization
Finally, all of these attributes of empires imply central administration: a capital.
Certainly there are polities termed empires that were acephalous, such as the
empire of Alexander the Great, or the Xiongnu (Barfield and Moreland, this
volume), but these are the exception rather than the rule. Most political empires
had capital cities from which the empire was administered. In the case ofundocumented empires there are a number of lines of evidence that the archaeologist
can follow to identify the imperial capital.
One might expect that centralized administration implies a capital located spatially centrally in the empire. However, the location of the capital is more likely
tlle result of the location of the home territory of whatever polity expanded and
grew into an empire, and the sequence and extent of conquest in different directions. Indeed, some empires grew spatially in such a way that they needed to
establish second capitals, such as Constantinople in the case of tile Roman
empire, or Quito in the case of the Inka.
The imperial capital will be diverse, and probably the most complex archaeological site in the empire. Capitals will have a large resident population including
73
74
7hc Wari cmpire
Katharillrl Schreiber
all social classes, from peasants to artisans to the ruling elite. Domestic architecture will reflect this diversity, ranging from simple dwellings to the palaces of
rulers. The capital will be the primary residence of the ruling elite, so the most
elaborate houses in the realm will likely be located in the capital. In those empires
based on market economics, the largest central markets in the empire may be
found in the capital. Major temples, the focal point of state religion, will be
located in the capital, as was the Templo Mayor located in the Aztec capital of
Tenochtitlan or the Coricancha in Inka Cuzco. Onc expects large areas given
over to storage, but with restricted access. Ethnic diversity will set the capital
apart from other large centers in the realm: f()l'eign elements representing the
diverse groups under imperial control may be {()lInd in the capital, while perhaps
the only ftlt'Cign elements {()lInd in provincial cultures will be those pertaining to
the empire. Finally, over time onc might expect a gradual depopulation of the
surrounding countryside as the "neon lights efIect" attracts the country f<>lks to
the big city, with all of its excitement and things to do. Finally, the capital is likely
to be very large in terms of absolute size, and may very well be the largest city in
the empire.
~
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,
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,..
....
-... , ... , .
" .... .... , ...
..
,
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,
....
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... ,
,,
I
,,
75
\
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,
Horizon PCl'lt
\ \
;
,,
,
,
....
..
-- ...
;
. -- ..
.
' \...
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,,
.EI Palacio
.Yamobamba
.Ichabamba
• Viracochap.ampa
Sovereignty
While sovereignty may seem to bc, on the tace of it, a difficult concept to elucidate from material cultural remains, scholars can turn to the effects of imperial
control on people at the local level. Establishment of sovereignty may be seen
in at least three ways. First, local political centralization may be reorganized in
order to establish imperial control. In some cases, empires may make use of/ocal
leaders and infi'astructure and establish what is often called hegemonic control;
in other cases they may establish entirely intrusive and (lreign administration.
And there arc numerous strategies of control that lie between these two
extremes (Schreiber 1992: 17-27). Second, local economics may be reorganized
in order to provide tribute (H' the empire, thereby intensifying or changing local
production. Such reorganization in turn restructures economic pllI'slIits of individuals in the region, and such changes persist (X the dlll'ation of imperial
control. Third, empires both co-opt local sacred beliefs, artif:lCts, or even landscapes, and replace them or augment them with imperial ideologies. The nature
of interaction with the sacred regime changes profcHll1dly (lr the local individual, trying to accommodate both local belief systems and imposed imperial state
religions.
..
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,
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H~nco Pampa
\
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Pacific
Ocean
.. -
.
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Wlsajircar
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• Yanahuanca
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,
I turn now to the case of the Wari empire of Middle Horizon PCI'll (Pig. 3.1),
an empire known only on the basis of archaeological data. Wari i:l11s within a
f()llr-millenniuI1l sequence of complex societies in the Andes, and was preceded
by at least two millennia of complex chiddoms and the emergence of state-level
I
I
~a~(8
~iticaca
,,'.Tlwanaku
THE PHYSICAL AND CULTURAL MILIEU OF WARI
3.1 The Wi~l'i empire
(dmhed lillc depict.!'
the political bOlllldflf),
a/modem Peru).
,
,,
o
100
200 km
76
The Wari empire of Middle Horizon Peru
Katharina Schreiber
societies. The physical setting within which this early empire arose conditioned
in many ways the opportunities and limits to expansion.
Physical environment
The actively growing Andean cordillera of western South America is the second
highest mountain range in the world (after the Himalayas), and the result of the
subduction of the Pacific oceanic plates under the South American crustal plate.
The proximity of the mountains to the coastline creates a series of distinct environmental zones that serve to enhance or limit human occupation and development. The rain-shadow effect created by the mountains, combined witl1 a cold
offshore current, causes the coastal plain of northern Chile and Peru to be the
driest desert on earth; it is also tl1e coldest low-elevation desert on earth.
(Preservation of archaeological remains is exceptional under such conditions.)
Until only the last half-century, human occupation has been limited to the coastline and to tl1e narrow valleys of tl1e rivers tl1at flow westward out of the Andes
and provide the only source of fresh water for human consumption and for irrigation. WitllOut irrigation, extensive agriculture is impossible on the coast of
Peru. However, the seemingly harsh coastal environment has supported the
highest population densities in the Andean region for centuries. In part, this is
due to the rich maritime resources produced by the upwelling of nutrients
through the cold Humboldt Current from warmer currents below. The modern
capital city of Peru, Lima, contains one-third of the population of the country.
And in prehistoric times, such cultures as Moche and Nasca arose in the fertile
irrigated valleys of the coast. Life on the coast, especially in the north, is disrupted periodically by bouts of flooding, the results of ENSO events 2
(Thompson et al. 1985).
The Andean highlands also supported substantial populations, despite the
extremes of altitude with the concomitant problems of hypoxia and cold temperatures. Rainfall is regular, occurring between the months of November and
May; the northern Andes receive the most precipitation, while the climate gradually gets drier to the south. Owing to the steep gradient of the Andes, environmental zones arc arranged vertically along valley sides (Murra 1972), ranging
from tropical to arctic. Below the permanent snowfields of the very highest
ranges lies the puna, a zone of rolling grasslands supporting native camelids domesticated llamas and alpacas, and wild guanacos and vicuna. Moving down
into agricultural zones, native Andean tubers (potatoes, oca, ttlluco) and qllirma
are grown at higher elevations, and maize is cultivated on terraced fields below.
At even lower elevations are chili peppers, other vegetables and fruits, and coca.
The traditional adaptation to this highland environment involved the control of
a single family or village over several vertical zones, or the reciprocal exchange
of produce between villages in different zones. Market systems did not develop,
or were only very weakly developed, in the Andes prior to the Spanish conquest.
The Inka capital ofCuzco, today a large city, is located at an elevation of3300 m,
at tl1e ecotone between the tuber and maize zones in tl1e southern Peruvian
Andes.
To the east of the Andean cordillera lie the Amazon lowlands, an area of low
agricultural productivity and population density, both today and in the past. The
eastern slopes of the Andes are subject to substantial rainfall, and these zones
have served for millennia for the production of coca. Coca served important
ritual functions in the past, as it does today, and is also chewed during all major
labor projects to prevent hunger. The Inka, and perhaps the Wari as well,
invested heavily in ensuring continued coca production for the state.
The cultural effects of these environmental consu·aints are threefold. First,
higher population densities are limited to the coast and highlands; therefore these
are the locations of the major prehistoric cultures of interest here. Second, areas
of high population density are very often spatially isolated from each other. On
the coast the fertile river valleys are separated by expanses of barren desert of
varying extent. In the highlands, cultivated valleys are separated by broad expanses
of high-elevation puna. And third, all the prehistoric cultures can be classed as
coastal- or highland-based. While a coastal culture might trade for access to highland products, or vice versa, no culture clearly occupied and controlled both coast
and highlands. Only in the situation of empires - interestingly, highland-based do we find political and economic control of both coast and highlands.
The cultural milieu
Humans have occupied the Andes for at least 12,000 years. By 2500 BC they
were growing cotton on the coast of Peru. By 1800 BC sedentary, agriculturebased villages were found in most areas of the coast and highlands, and construction of monumental platflxm mounds was underway on the central coast of
Peru. Archaeologists divide the last 4000 years of Andean prehistory into six
major periods: an initial period, /()llowed by three "horizons," which in turn
were separated by intermediate periods. Horizons are periods in which a single
well-defined style of material culture is f(Hlnd broadly distributed through the
Andes. The clearest case is the Late Horizon, the period of the spread of the Inka
empire. In this case, imperial expansion explains the presence of Inka-style
material culture /1·om Ecuador to Argentina. As we shall sec, the preceding
horizon styles did not enjoy nearly as extensive a distribution as the Inka horizon.
The Initial Period (l800-800 BC) saw the emergence of complex societies on
the coast of Peru, organized at the level of what anthropologists term chidaoms.
These societies organized the building of massive platform mounds and pyramids, as well as their regular renewal and rebuilding (Pozorski and Pozorski
1988). These mound sites range in location from the central to the north coast.
Little is known of the Initial Period in the sierra, owing in part to a lack of
research and in part to poorer preservation of early remains. However, the area
around Cuzco and south to the Titicaca basin saw the emergence of a religious
tradition based on pilgrimage (Chavez and Chavez 1975).
77
,
('
,
1-
78
The Wari empire of Middle Horizon Peru
Katharina Schreiber
The Early Horizon (800 B C-A D 100) was characterized by the presence of
complex chiefdoms on the coast and in the north highlands, and the emergence
of an important pilgrimage center at Chavln de Huantar (Burger 1992). Ceramic
offerings in its subterranean galleries indicate that people journeyed great distances to the temple to leave their offerings (Lumbreras 1977). The iconography associated with Chavln is found, either in pure form or in related forms,
throughout northern Peru and on the coast as far south as the Ica valley. Carved
in great stone monuments at Chavln, the images depict what may have been a
shamanic cult, with emphasis on animals of the jungle regions below and to the
east. Human forms also appear, including one that is of relevance to the understanding of the iconography of power in the later Middle Horizon. This image,
carved on what is called the Raimondi Stone, is a human figure with an elaborate
headdress, holding a vertical staff in each hand, and standing on two human
heads. This "staff deity" was an important image in Andean thought by the first
millennium BC, and continued right on to Inka times and after (see below,
p.92).
The Early Horizon distribution of similar styles can be seen as the result of the
exchange of a particular style of artifacts used by elites to mark their status,
coupled with widespread participation in a single religious tradition. It was the
first time that a single cultural tradition transcended local boundaries, and provided some sort of unifying elements for multiple cultures. There is no indication that Chavln influence had any political component; rather it was the center
of a shared belief system. This belief system was in turn reinforced by pilgrimages made by individuals from a variety of cultures to the center at Chavln.
Chavln influence ceased around 200 BC when several regional cultures began
to emerge, for example the sudden expansion of Para cas culture in Ocucaje phase
8 on the south coast or the developments of the Salinar phase on the north coast.
These and other developments coalesced into a number of well-defined regional
cultures in the Early Intermediate Period (EIP, AD 100-750). The EIP is especially relevant to studies ofWari because it was the expansion ofWari that led to,
or was correlated with, the collapse of these regional cultures.
Archaeologists have defined a series of regional cultures in the EIP, on the
basis of their very distinctive, and clearly distinguishable, artifact styles. The best
known and most complex of the EIP cultures is Gallinazo- Moche of the north
coast. Moche can be regarded as the very first Andean state (Billman 1996). The
eponymous Moche capital (also called Cerro Blanco) in the Moche valley combines enormous mound structures, with a large complex population, and evidence of centralized administration. While artifact styles perhaps indicate a
northern and southern half of the polity, it had only a single capital. Warfare
played an important role in the emergence and maintenance of Moche power.
Moche controlled the entire north coast - some nine or ten river valleys, stretching a distance of350 km from north to south by Moche IV. In Moche V, in the
Middle Horizon (MH, AD 750-1000), the state underwent some critical
changes, discussed below.
On the central coast, the Lima culture of the EIP was probably composed of
a series of interacting, and sometimes competing, chiefdoms that continued the
mound-building tradition of earlier periods. Both the culture and the building
of mounds came to an abrupt halt in the MH. The south coast Nasca culture was
organized as a series of simple chiefdoms that participated in a single ceremonial-mortuary complex centered around the site ofCahuachi during Early Nasca
times (Silverman 1993). Nasca produced some of the most spectacular ceramic
and textile art of the ancient world, and its ceramic style and technology strongly
influenced the later Wari culture. Nasca underwent a cultural upheaval around
AD 500, at which time the society was reorganized into a series of more complex
chiefdoms, and warfare became more prevalent (Schreiber and Lancho Rojas
1995). Nasca society underwent another great upheaval again at the beginning
of the MH around AD 750, correlated with the expansion of Wari into the
region.
In the sierra, a number of EIP regional cultures have been defined, although
none of them quite as distinct as Moche or Nasca. In the north highlands the
Cajamarca culture is known mostly for its fine white kaolin ceramics. Settlement
evidence suggests a series of chiefdoms rather than a single centralized polity
(Julien 1988). In Huamachuco a single large site, Marca Huamachuco, dominated the political landscape and was probably capital of a small polity there (J.
Topic 1991). The Recuay culture of the Callej6n de Huaylas produced a distinctive style of ceramics; settlement distributions suggest a series of chiefdoms.
In a tributary of the middle Mantaro valley, the Huarpa culture occupied the
entire Ayacucho basin. Settlement patterns suggest a series of complex chiefdoms, or perhaps a single unified polity. Toward the end of the EIP, Huarpa
ceramics show marked influence from the Nasca tradition, which coalesced into
the distinctive horizon markers of the Wari style.
The EIP Pucara culture of the northern Titicaca basin was centered on a large
site with religious architecture, but with its sphere limited to the very northern
part of the altiplano. Most of the altiplano fell under the control of the Tiwanaku
culture. The site ofTiwanaku had served as a pilgrimage center for many centuries, and in the EIP it emerged as the capital of a large regional polity. New evidence from settlement s\ll'veys around the basin strongly suggests that Tiwanaku
was organized as a state-level society in EIP Tiwanaku IV times (Stanish 1997).
There is also evidence that Tiwanaku colonies were established in the Moquegua
valley some 200 km to the southwest in Tiwanaku IV, perhaps to provide
resources not available in the very high elevations around Lake Titicaca
(Goldstein 1989, 1993). Artifacts in Cochabamba, Bolivia, also about 200 km
from Tiwanaku, indicate a strong presence there as well.
Discussion
By the end of the EIP, two probable states, Moche and Tiwanakll, and at least
six other regional polities organized at least at the level of chiefdoms or complex
79
t
iI'
,1
80
The Wari empire of Middle Horizon Peru
Katharina Schreiber
chiefdoms, were established in the Andean region. At the very end of the EIP
there is also evidence for an increased level of interaction between some of those
polities. For example, as noted above, Huarpa ceramics began including motifs
derived from Nasca ceramics. In turn, Nasca potters depicted Moche warriors on
their vessels, and copied Moche color schemes as well. As research progresses it
is not unlikely that archaeologists will find even more evidence ofincreased interregional interaction immediately prior to the Middle Horizon.
Smith (this volume) argues that, in the Aztec case, a Mesoamerican world
system was well in place before the emergence of the Aztec empire, and he suggests that this may have been true of all empires. The evidence presently available from the Andes is equivocal on this issue. The Middle Horizon Wari empire
emerged from a situation in which interregional interaction was just beginning.
There was little direct interaction between these regional cultures, minimal evidence of trade, and there were no markets to draw groups together. Perhaps it
is the lack of markets in the Andes that explains the absence of a single world
system such as Smith documents for Mesoamerica. We do have an intriguing
glimpse into the beginnings of interregional interaction at the very end of the
EIP, but the Wari empire almost immediately came to control most of the central
Andes.
"
THE WAR! EMPIRE
The Wari empire is so named because Wari is the modern name of the presumed
capital city; Wari simply means honored ancestor. The name of the capital city at
the time of the Spanish conquest was Vinaque (Cieza 1984 [1553]), but this
may not have been its name in the previous millennium. Legends recorded in
the sixteenth century about two Wari sites, Wari and Jincamocco, report that the
installations were built by a people called "Viracochas," but this word can refer
to any foreigner and does not necessarily indicate the prehistoric name of the
empire.
The existence of an empire was first suspected in the early twentieth century
when the widespread distribution of a very distinctive iconography was noted by
a variety of researchers (Uhle 1903; Kroeber 1944; Larco Hoyle 1948); this iconography formed the basis for the definition of the Middle Horizon. Initially
thought to have originated from the highland site of Tiwanaku in Bolivia, it
quickly became apparent that the horizon style fell into two spatially and stylistically discrete groups. The northern of these styles, stretching some 1300 km
through most of the Peruvian sierra, was thought to be the result of either the
spread of a religious movement or the expansion of an unknown empire (Menzel
1964, 1968a, 1968b). The southern style did indeed pertain to the site of
Tiwanaku and its area of influence.
The source of the northern horizon style - Wari - was finally identified by
Peruvian archaeologist Julio C. Tello in the 1930s (Tello 1970; see also Bennett
1946). By the 1950s, the distinctive architectural style at Wari had been linked
to similar constructions found far-flung tluough the Peruvian highlands (Rowe
et al. 1950), and excavations had been undertaken at Wari to c1arit)r its chronological associations (Bennett 1953, 1954; see also Isbell and McEwan 1991 for
a summary of tile history of research on Wari).
Identifying the capital
As discussed above, the core region, the upper Huanta drainage or Ayacucho
basin, was home to the Huarpa culture of the preceding Early Intermediate
Period (Benavides 1971; Lumbreras 1975; Knobloch 1976). Huarpa included
several large sites that may have been political centers, and the culture was probably organized as a series of chiefdoms. In MH phase 1 three Huarpa sites coalesced into a single large city, Wari, that grew very rapidly at about the same time
the empire began its expansion. Wari therefore may present a case in which an
empire did not grow out of an existing state, but rather the state and the empire
arose as part of the same process.
Wari is one of the largest sites known in the Andes (Lumbreras 1960, 1975,
1980; Isbell and Schreiber 1978; Gonzalez Can'e 1981). Its architectural core,
characterized by densely spaced structures, many of them monumental in size,
covers about 250 hectares. The greater extent of the site, including areas ofhabitation with less durable structures and trash disposal, covers up to 15 square
kilometers (Isbell et al. 1991: 24). The architecture of the site core is of the distinctive planned cellular forms characteristic of all Wari imperial sites. Although
the site had a long earlier occupation, all of the standing buildings in the core
date exclusively to the Middle Horizon, indicating a complete remodeling of the
site and a huge investment oflabor. The core comprises areas of great rectangu1ar enclosures, most at least two stories tall, along with areas set aside for special
purposes. One area of typical rectangular architecture was excavated by Isbell
and his students in the late 1970s (Brewster-Wray 1983; Knobloch 1983; Isbell
et al. 1991).
Recent work by Peruvian archaeologists has revealed the construction of a
religious precinct, and the location of the Templo Mayor (Gonzalez Can'c and
Bragayrac Danilla 1986; Bragayrac Danilla 1991; GonzaIez Can'c et al. 1996).
The earliest structure was a large U-shaped mound that may date to the first millennium BC E. Later, probably in the Middle Horizon, one of the wings of the
temple mound was truncated by the construction of a large enclosing wall that
created an orientation along a north-south axis. Within the arms of the old Ushaped mound, a large D-shaped temple was built. Additional small D-shaped
temples were built around the precinct, oriented to cardinal directions (A. G.
Cook n.d.). D-shaped temples are located throughout the core of the site, at
other sites in the immediate hinterland, and at MH2 installations in the provinces, such as Honco Pampa (discussed below).
Adjacent to the religious precinct is an area of extensive subterranean stonelined galleries, currently undergoing excavation. Nearby is an area with cut stone
81
TIJC Wari cmpirc afMiddle Horizoll Pcnt
Kathal'illa Schreibel'
82
u----
83
rr
11
11
,11
fl
·:]1
k-I.
3.2 A partitl1 Jite
plml of the plal/lIcd
mcloJul'c at
Jincamocca, n
propillcin! Wari Jitc.
Note the rigid grid
layo1l t, as welt as the
to/lg narrow gal/cries
sIII'ro1l11ding ope1l
celltrn! patios. With
fcw exccptio11J, tlJt:
intcrior width I~f'thc
gallerics is 2.2 Ill.
chambers that may have served as royal tombs (Iknavides 1979, 1991); unfortunately these chambers were completely looted, probably in prehispanic times,
so their exact content may never be known.
Many habitation sites were located throughout the immediate hinterland
during MHl, but in MH2 there was a marked drop in the number of sites, while
Wari grew to enormous proportions (sce Benavides 1978; Ochatoma 1989).
Like the area around Teotihuacan in Mexico, it appears that the countryside was
nearly depopulated, and everyone moved to town, perhaps owing to the "neonlights eHect." At the cnd of M H2 Wari was completely abandoned; the population of the region dropped drastically and the empire collapsed.
E.xtent and
ir~f'raJtr1tcttt1'C
The extent ofWari control can be best estimated li'om the distribution of its built
inliastructure: an extensive series of administrative centers or military garrisons,
and a network of roads (Schreiber 1987b). Wari administrative architecture is
very distinctive (Schreiber 1978; Spickard 1983). A typical site comprises a large
rectangular enclosure, regularly subdivided into square or rectangular cells; the
individual cells include onc or more open patios, surrounded by long, narrow
galleries (Figs. 3.2, 3.3). This architectural style is unique, unmistakable, and
clearly associated with Wari. Many of'the sites arc in tUI'll associated with prehistoric roads, some of which were later incorporated into the Inka system of royal
highways (Schreiber 1984, 1991 a). Indeed, some of the vVari installations were
first discovered and identified during investigation of the Inka roads (Hyslop
1984: 271-3). Most known sites arc I<llllld in the sierra, but clll'rent research in
coastal drainages continues to discover previously unknown Wari sites in the
Pacific watershed. Even in the sierra, however, large tracts of territory remain
uninvestigated by archaeologists; certainly the occupation of most Wari highland
territory by the Shining Path, fix most of the last two decades of the twentieth
centlll'Y, has not improved the situation.
In the sierra, the nor the I'll extreme of vVari control seems to have been
the Cajamarca region, some 800 km north of Wari, where three sites have been
identified: El Palacio, Yamobamba, and Ichabamba (Hyslop 1984: 61; Williams
ct al. 1985; }uliell 1988: 163). Moving southward toward Wari, there is
Viracochapampa in the Huamachuco region (McCown 1945; Topic and Topic
1985; J. R. Topic 1986, 1991; T. L. Topic 1991), and then three sites in the
CaIJejon de Iluaylas: Pariamarca, Honco Pampa, and Tocroc (WiIJiams et al.
1985; [sbell 1989, 1991). Between the CaIJejon and Wari are I<HlI1d several III ore
sites with Wari imperial architecture: Wisajirca (MacNeish ct Ill. 1975: 60),
Yanahuanca (Hyslop, pcrsonal communication 1988), Calpish (Mac Neish ct al.
1975: 60; see also Browman 1976), and Wad Willka (Flores 1959; Matos M.
1967,1970). The latter site stiIJ served as a major shrine of the Wanka peoples
at the time of the Inka conquest.
To the south of the Wari core, the empire expanded both south and southeast
through the highlands, as the Andean chain widens. To the southeast, in the
Cuzco region, arc two of the largest Wari sites: jlikillaqta (Fig. 3.4, Sanders
1973; G. F. McEwan 1983, 1987, 1989, 1991, 1996) and the recently discovered Huaro (Glowacki, personal comnHlIlication 1997; Glowacki and Zapata
1998). The southel'l1most site known is Cerro Bald, located in the Moquegua
region, a coastal drainage, some 525 km south ofWari (Lumbreras et 111. 1982;
Watanabe 1984; Feldll1an 1989; Moseley ctlll. 1991). Also located in the highlands, but nearer ~Wari, is }incamocco in the Sondondo valley, along with three
smaller satellite centers (Schreiber 1978, 1987a, 1991 b, 1992, 1999).
3.3 A pic", I!f
Pihillllqta, ill ",hich
lIlt: eflltm! OjlCII patio.\'
aNd SIII'/,OIl1ldill/T
II Il/TO 11' /TIII/t:l'ics
CIIII
Ill: delll'~Y SI'CII. 'fl)(:
walls III'C jll'cJCl'l'cd 10
"ei/TIJI of'tIJ!o Jtol'ics
IIbll)J(: tIlt: !Jl'oll1ld
11
sllI/ilec; !'isib/e III'C
I'OIJ!S I!{'eo/,III:!J t!J1I1
stT!'cd IIs/lool' SlIjljlol'ls
fill' 1Ij1j1tT slol'ieJ.
84
KMhal'illa Schreibcr
Tbc Wari empirc ofMiddlc HorizoN PCi'll
Investigations in valleys to the cast (Grossman 1983; Meddens 1984, 1989,
1991) and west (Vivanco and Valdez 1993) of Son don do also indicate extensive
vVari occupations.
Moving north tt'om Moquegua, vVari sites in coastal drainages include several
in Arequipa: Sonay (Malpass, personal communication) in the Camana valley,
Nllll1ero Ocho in Chuquibamba (Sciscento 1989), two sites in the Cotahuasi
region (Mary frame and Adriana von Hagen, personal communication 1996;
Justin Jennings, personal communication 1998). Two vVari sites have been identified in the Nasca region: Pacheco (Menzel 1964) and Pataraya. A ceramic production site was located in the Pisco valley at the site of Maymi (Anders 1990) by
the late Martha Anders. Near Lima, the site of Pachacamac (Uhle 1903; Shimada
1991; Rostworowski de DieI'. Canseco 1992) rose to become a major center of
religion and a pilgrimage center, and still functioned as such during the Inka
empire. The site dates originally to the Middle Horizon, but it is not clear what
degree of sovereignty Wari held over the site, ifany. North of Lima, the last clearly
identifiable Wari installation is Socos, in the Chi1l6n valley (Isla and Guerrero
1987), although impressive tombs and artif~1Ctual remains arc found in Anc6n and
the 5upe valley (Reiss and Stuebel 1880; Menzel 1977). Wari remains arc rare on
the north coast of Peru, and whether or not Wari controlled this region is a matter
of some controversy (Mackey 1982; Wilson 1995). There arc Wari artif~1Cts in
varying densities in most valleys, but no clearly definable imperial centers or garrisons, so I do not include it here in estimating the size of the empire.
Given this distribution ofWari imperial installations, the extent ofWari control
reached 800 km north and 525 km south through the sierra. East to Cuzco, Wari
control extended 275 kill, and west 350 km to the coast at 50cos. Thus, the
empire extended over 1300 km along its north-south axis; it varied in width
ri'om only about 100 km in the north to about 400 km in the south. The total
spatial extent of the empire, not including the north coast, I estimate to have
been some 320,000 square kilollleters.
Expwnsio'fl: speed tu/A Htilittrrisrn
3.4 D)c 1Il1lfC-SCII!t:,
illljlc/'iala/'chitcctll/,t'
ld'Pillilll1lJtll jI/'CJc/'PCJ
its ril]id grid layout.
III SOIIIt' portiolls ld'tbc
sitt', SlIcI) ITJ this OIlC,
gill/cries were tlm:c
stories in hCLlJhtj pllt ios
werc IlIlr(}(!fi:d alld
opcn.
From archaeological data, it appears that the vVari expansion was very rapid, but
this may also be an artifi\Ct of the lack of precision of available chronometric
methods. Based on the well-developed relative chronology, most of the major
known sites were built, or initiated, during Middle Horizon phase I; this phase
is thought to have lasted no longer than a celltmy. Whether or not the conquest
was accomplished as a single continuous evellt or involved a series of separate
campaigns cannot be known at this time. Most or all of these M H I sites were
probably built f()r political purposes, serving both as administrative centers and
as military garrisons. Some of the sites continlled to be occupied into Middle
Horizon phase 2 times, while others were abandoned. New sites built in MH2
thus fill' appear to have been primarily economic in purpose, suggesting a shift in
Wari strategies, and/or were situated on the borders of the empire.
85
Krrtharina Sc/Jrciber
The Wari eJJljJirc Id'lvliddlc Horizon Pcru
87
Political Jopereignt)'
Issues of sovereignty arc closely tied to the identification of the extent of the
empire and its control when the sole source of infiJrlnation is archaeological
data. In this section r shall discuss the details of the Wari occupation in a number
of regions, with two goals. First, I argue that the presence of imperial installations and infrastructure provides evidence for an investment by the empire of
resources and personnel in establishing and maintaining its control over a
region. Second, by looking at the effects of imperial control over each region,
wc can elucidate changes in political, economic, and ideological organization at
the local level, and arrive at a sense of the sovereignty of the empire over subject
peoples.
Bcf()I'e beginning this treatment of the data, it is useful to point out that the
imperial control does not mean that imperial installations were necessarily established in every region under its control. While the presence of imperial inti'astructme is a direct indication of imperial control, the reverse is not always true. The
presence of large Wari installations is a clear indication of the presence ofWari,
and some sort of intent on its part (Fig. 3.5). The size of the installation may be
related to the diversity of activities carried out there and/or the size of the region
or population under its aegis. Various writers have dealt with the issues of direct
versus indirect control on the part of empires (D' Altroy 1992; Sinopoli 1994a),
and I have dealt with {()!'Ins of control intermediate between those extremes
(Schreiber 1992, 1993). Dealing with purely archaeological remains wc make
the assumption that when the empire established its own infl'astructlll'e administrative centers, roads, etc. the existing infi'astructlll'e was insufficient {()r its
needs. This in turn implies that the particular region was not politically centralized and that there existed no controlling authority that had established the
intl'astructlll'e necessary {()r political control of the region. The study of settlement patterns in the region can also indicate an absence of central places, or only
weakly developed centralization.
However, in those areas with an existing centralized political system and
hence, with an extant infi'astructure an empire need not establish a wholly new
infl·astructlll'e. The study of settlement patterns can reveal the presence of central
places, levels ofcontl'Ol hierarchy, and extent of the region controlled. It is theref()re ironic that, when dealing with purely archaeological data, and in the absence
of written records, we are most certain of imperial occupations only in regions
in which the empire invested heavily in building the infi·astructure. Conversely,
some of the most important occupations those that coopted existing complex
societies may be the ones least visible to the archaeologist. That said, I tUl'l1
next to some of the better-studied Wari occupations to get a sense of the range
of integrative strategies used by the empire.
The first of these occupations is a small, unremarkable valley in southel'l1
Ayacucho, the Sondondo valley, where Wari created a new infi'astructure
(Schrciber 1991 b, 1992). Prior to the arrival ofWari, the valley was occupied by
people living in a handful of small villages, most of them at very high elevations
near the llpper limits of tuber cultivation. Dlll'ing the vVari occupation, an
administrative center was built at Jincamocco, three satellite centers were built,
and the local people were moved to newly established villages located at lower
elevations. In this case it is clear that the local cultlll'e was not centralized, and
that political centralization was imposed by Wari; there was vcry little political
alltonomy IeH to the people. As [ discllss below, Wari control increased markedly in M 1-12, owing to a new f(>cus on economic concerns.
At the opposite extreme is perhaps the case of' Iluamachuco, location of' onc
of' the largest Wari sites, Viracochapampa. The Huamachuco culture was well
centralized around the site of Marcl Huamachuco, and almost certainly hostile
to Wari takeover (Topic and Topic 19X5; J. R. Topic 19X6, 1991; 'l'. L. Topic
1991 ). Only 3 km fi'om that site, and in plain view fl'om it, Wari began construction of the large square compound at Viracochapampa, measuring nearly 0.5 km
on a side. But the site was never finished. The only evidence ofWari in the region
remains a handful of imperial style artibets and a possible Wari mausoleum at
Marca Huamachllco, a set of storerooms at the site of Cerro All1arll, an aqueduct, and various ceramic pieces (Thatcher 1975, 1977). This evidence suggests
that although Wari was present, Marca I-luamachuco remained essemially autonomous. The remains f<>ltnd within that site may represent only the trappings of
office due to a local ruler cooperating with the empire.
3.5
'/7)C
cClltml core
I!i' PillilllTqllT. 77)c
!1II~fTe o/Jell arm at
CCIIlcl' oflhe photo,
IIIm.wriT/efT sOllle 75
11CI'O,l)~ 11111)' hape
HI
scrpcd as 1I cen/m!
plaza .fill' ritllll! or
militllry IlCtiJlitics.
noli's {!f'.1'II1Il1I hoh'S
iNto which bfl1lflS II'Crf
iT/sertcd 10 slIpport
IIpper slories ITrc
I'isiblt: ill Ihe 11'11/1.1' ill
thl: Jill't;tlrOII lid.
88
Katharina Schreiber
And what ofViracochapampa? Why was it never finished? It is clear that Wari
changed strategies, perhaps when the local rulers agreed to collaborate (see
Robinson 1972 for a discussion of collaboration theory). The site was no longer
needed. But perhaps it had actually served an important purpose; construction
ofViracochapampa in plain site of the Huamachuco capital was a direct and open
threat to the locals: capitulate or be taken over. The Inka did just this when they
built "Little Cuzco" on tile central coast (Hyslop 1985).
In the far SOUtll, tile site of Cerro Bald was established on the top of a high,
formidably steep butte, Witll extremely difficult access (Lumbreras et al. 1982;
Watanabe 1984; Feldman 1989; Moseley et al. 1991). The existing Huaracane
population was located fartller down the valley, as were colonists from Tiwanaku
(Goldstein 1989, 1993), and there seems to have been minimal contact between
tllem and the Wari residents (Bruce Owen, personal communications 1997).
Several smaller Wari sites were located around the base of Cerro Balll, and agricultural terracing and irrigation systems there may be Middle Horizon in date.
The Wari occupations date only to MH1. In tllis case, tile Wari presence seems
to ignore the local population entirely, leaving them autonomous and outside
imperial control. Indeed, control of the impressive Cerro Balllmay have been an
effort to establish ideological sovereignty by taking over a most sacred part of
tile landscape.
Moving up the coast, there was a major Wari site established in MH1 at
Pacheco in the Nasca valley. Settlement studies in Nasca indicate that the existing Nasca culture had undergone political upheaval and reorganization about
two centuries before the Wari expansion. At that time, the people moved from
many small villages into a few very large sites or clusters of sites. This was apparently the result of climatic deterioration, the development of new water sources,
ncw power structurcs, and increased warfare within the region (Schreiber and
Lancho Rojas 1995). During Latc Nasca timcs a shift in sitc location had bcgun,
with pcoplc moving out of thc Nasca vallcy propcr, and moving to vallcys to thc
south. Thc southward shift of Nasca occupations continucd in thc Middle
Horizon, and mayor may not bc relatcd to thc Wari prcscncc in Nasca. Thc sitc
of Pachcco is bcst known as thc location of a major offering of tons of smashcd
fancy ccramic vcssels (Mcnzel 1964), but thc sitc apparcntly also contained
extensive architecture, only faintly visible on old aerial photographs. The site
today has bcen completely buried and lies under a large tract of cotton fields.
The prcscncc of a large Wari sitc in an area of relative cultural complexity may
indicatc a relatively direct form of control, at least in the Nasca valley itself. A
small polity was ccntcrcd around the site ofHuaca del Loro (W. D. Strong 1957;
Schrcibcr 1989; cf. Paulscn 1983), in thc Trancas vallcy, but thcrc is littlc cvidcncc that this polity fcllundcr Wari control.
While Pachcco was abandoncd in MH1, thc Wari prcscncc continucd in thc
uppcr Nasca vallcy in MH2, whcrc a small impcrial sitc was cstablishcd. Waristyle burial chambcrs havc bccn idcntificd in thc uppcr vallcys of both Nasca and
Trancas, and may mark thc physical boundarics of Wari control in MH2. Thc
The Wari empire of Middle Horizon Peru
abandonment of Pacheco and the shift to tile upper valleys may signal a change
in Wari strategies to a new conccrn with agricultural production, as will be discussed below.
On the ccntral coast, a few Wari sites havc been tentatively identified, but tile
major cultural event of the Early Intermediate-Middle Horizon transition is the
collapse of the Lima polity (Stumer 1956). This cululre was relatively complex,
probably organized at the level of multiple chiefdoms, and its large sites include
massive adobc mound constructions. Whilc all of these sites were apparently
abandoned by the start of the Middle Horizon, it is yet unclear whether the Lima
collapse was due to Wari conquest or to othcr factors, such as climatic deterioration. No clearly Wari sites are known in thc Lima area, but the Nieveria ceramic
style of the Middle Horizon cxhibits a blending of local and Wari elements.
The site of Pachacamac (Uhle 1903) in the Lurin valley had a religious rather
tllan a political focus, so is somewhat outside the scope of tllis paper. The Wari
may have coopted a local religious center, which then grew into an influential
pilgrimage center with a distinctive Wari-related ceramic style in MH2 (Shimada
1991). By Inka times Pachacamac was perhaps the most powerful and revered
oracle in the Andes (Rostworowski de Diez Canseco 1992).
The north coast presents an interesting problem. It is clear that the Mochc
polity underwent serious upheaval in the Middle Horizon (Bawden 1982), but
whether or not this was the result of Wari invasion is matter of great debate
(Mackey 1982). Thcre are no clear examples ofWari imperial sites, yet many artifacts arc present (sce Donnan 1968), and burial pattcrns changed from cxtended
to seatcd and flexcd (Donnan and Mackey 1978); thc latter is charactcristic of
the south coast and Wari. Thc Mochc culturc was thc most cxtensive and
complcx culturc cxisting at thc timc, with a wcll-developcd infrastructurc including administrativc centcrs and roads. Wc must cntcrtain thc possibility that this
may be a casc in which an empire simply uscd existing facilitics, and had no nccd
to build its own. Interestingly, G. E McEwan (1990) points out that thc subscquent Chimll culture apparently borrowed many aspects ofWari imperial architecturc, so thcy werc certainly awarc ofWari.
Economic reorganization: a change in focus
While the initial expansion ofWari in MH1 seems concerned with both political
and economic control, preliminary data suggcst that during MH2 Wari began
to focus morc intcnsively on economic control, specifically agricultural production. Near Wari, the site of Azangaro lies at an elcvation of about 2400 m, in
comparison to Wari's elevation of 3200 m, and was located within a productive
ecozone in which lower-elevation crops could be grown. Azangaro was established in MH2, probably to organizc and control agricultural production
(Anders 1986, 1989a, 1989b, 1991). Fully one-third of the site comprises storehouses, an indication of its use for economic concerns. Within its core territory
Wari was making increased efforts to control agricultural production in MH2. A
89
90
Katharina Schreibu'
small site located to the east of Wari, Jargampata, was also established for the
purpose of extracting and storing agricultural produce (Isbell 1977).
A second case in point is the Sondondo valley (Schreiber 1992). Although
Jincamocco was built in MHl, its three satellite centers were built in MH2, and
Jincamocco was greatly enlarged, from its initial 3.5 hectares to more than 15
hectares in size. Local villages located at the boundary between the tuber and
herding zones were moved downward to about 3300 m or lower, in order to
exploit the lower maize-producing zone. Extensive tracts of agricultural terraces
were built below 3300 m. The labor investment in this project was extremely
high, and certainly beyond the capacity of tlle small local population, which
numbered fewer than 1000 people. The total volume of Middle Horizon terracing in tlle valley is equivalent to the building of a single retaining wall 300 m
high and 8 km long, plus all tlle cutting and filling of soil that tllat entails. Wari's
investment in the intensification of maize production in this valley was remarkable. The enlargement ofJincamocco may have been due to the need to provide
quarters for imported laborers, as well as storage areas for the increased volumes
of produce. While tlle exact phase of village movement and terrace construction
cannot be specified, two of the small satellites were built adjacent to terraced
zones suggesting that they came into production in MH2. The third satellite is
located along the Wari road to the north (leading out of the valley toward Wari)
and adjacent to a small obsidian source (Burger et al. 1998).
In sum, in this region agricultural production was greatly increased at the
behest of the empire in MH2. Whether this was for local consumption or for
shipment elsewhere is unclear, but I suspect the latter. Certainly more maize was
being produced than was needed to support a local population and Wari occupation. The city ofWari is located some four days' walk to the north, a rather
long distance to carry foodstuffs, but it may be that the rapid growth of the
capital in MH2 outstripped the ability of its immediate hinterland to supply all
of its needs.
A third example of increased economic control comes from Nasca. Pacheco,
possibly the MHl Wari political capital of this region, was abandoned and a new
occupation was established in the upper Nasca valley in MH2. The recently discovered site ofPataraya is located adjacent to a tract of agricultural fields that was
probably used for the production of coca. Earlier sites dating to the Nasca
culture were abandoned, and new sites occupied by highland people were established in the Middle Horizon. This evidence suggests that Wari co-opted this
coca-growing zone for its own use, moved out the local people, and moved in
its own allies. Pataraya may also mark the border ofWari control in MH2, with
the lower portions of the Nasca drainage now outside the empire.
The establishment of other new state installations in MH2 may also reflect a
concern with protecting the empire from enemies outside. Honco Pampa, in the
Callej6n de Huaylas, is located adjacent to one of only three passes through the
formidable Cordillera Blanca, and the architecture of the site indicates that it was
built very rapidly. While Wari provincial sites were usually built as a single, large,
The Wari empire of Middle Horizon Peru
subdivided rectangular enclosure, Honco Pampa is a series of individual cells,
each built independently. Not only is it much faster to build in this fashion, it
also requires less planning or architectural expertise. When he excavated the site,
Isbell (personal communications 1988) was surprised to find that the associated
ceramics were MH2 styles, when he expected the site to be of much earlier date.
(See Isbell's later publications [1989, 1991] for his reconsideration of the dating
of tlle site.) I would argue tllat the late (and rapid) construction of the site is
entirely consistent with its being a border outpost, dating to fairly late in the
empire's history, at a time when areas to the north and east were no longer
subject to Wari. The newly discovered site at Huaro (Glowacki and Zapata
1998), also built of individual cells in this rapid manner, may be a border settlement on the boundary nearest to the territory ofTiwanaku.
SUMMARY OF WARI EXPANSION AND
REORGANIZATION
Wari appears to have emerged very rapidly as an enormous urban center in its
core region, and expanded its political control to a vast geographic area in a
period probably not much longer than a century. The initial construction of sites
such as Jincamocco in tlle eighth century AD gives us a good approximation of
tlle timing of the expansion. The focus of the expansion seems to have been primarily political at the beginning, moving into and taking over or establishing
hegemony with local cultures.
In MH2, the empire's political control was greatly reduced. Various imperial
centers built in MHl were abandoned, especially those at the northern and
southern extremes of the empire, suggesting a reduction in the polity's overall
size. At the same time, in the parts still under imperial control, economic control
took on much greater importance. Efforts were made to bring new regions and
environmental zones under production, and control over maize and coca cultivation was given high priority. And new installations may have been built on the
now established borders of the empire.
At the end of MH2 the empire collapsed, for reasons yet unknown. Data from
Jincamocco suggest that the site was abandoned gradually in MH2, with sections
of it f.'llling into disuse and used for trash disposal. Dating collapse is a complicated task for the archaeologist, as chronometric techniques tend to date construction and occupation, not abandonment. We can probably assume the
empire lasted no more than two to three centuries.
COMPARISON WITH TIWANAKU
Contemporaneous with Wari was a state centered at the impressive site of
Tiwanaku, located on the Bolivian altiplano near Lake Titicaca. Tiwanaku
emerged, probably as a pilgrimage center, by early in the Early Intermediate
Period. By the late EIP (Tiwanaku IV in the local chronology), it was a state that
91
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.,
i'1
'1
Katharina Schreiber
dominated the altiplano around Lake Titicaca. Tiwanaku colonists also relocated
to the Moquegua valley at that time (Goldstein 1989, 1993), and Tiwanaku style
artifacts are found to the south in Cochabamba, Bolivia. In the Middle Horizon
(Tiwanaku V), Tiwanaku control increased in intensity, and it is usually assumed
to have been an empire (Kolata 1993). For the most part, studies of Tiwanaku
control of distant areas have been confined to its immediate core valley and the
adjacent altiplano. There are as yet few data regarding horizontal or vertical integration, nor is there clear evidence of political or economic control outside the
altiplano. Until research is specifically directed toward identifying evidence of
Tiwanaku political control, we cannot be confident that the term "empire" is
appropriate. Certainly, though, Tiwanaku was a political capital of a regional
state (McAndrews et al. 1997), and it did directly control the entire altiplano
region.
Some oftlle confusion between Wari and Tiwanaku arose because of the similarity in tlle politico-religious iconography tllat the two cultures shared (Uhle
1903; Isbell 1983). Botll cultures prominently depicted images of the "staff
deity," a distinctive human figure, with elaborate headdress, holding two long
staffs, one in each hand. This image has its origins at least as early as the Chavln
culture of the first millennium BC, and throughout the Andes was probably recognized as an important ultimate symbol of power even through Inb times.
Careful analysis of the iconography of Wari and Tiwanaku indicates both striking similarities and differences (A. G. Cook 1983, 1985, 1987, 1992, 1994).
There are some clear differences bet:ween Wari and Tiwanaku in terms of the
medium of display of this power iconography, as well as in their respective architectural styles, that have been pointed out by William Conklin (1991) and merit
emphasizing here. Tiwanaku is a large open site, with empty spaces and plazas
designed to accommodate hundreds of people at a time. The iconography is
carved on great stone monuments. People came to Tiwanaku to participate in
its religious rituals, and to see the powerful icons. The sitc had been a pilgrimage center for centuries, and still played this role in the Middle Horizon.
On the other hand, Wari architecture, whether at thc capital city or at the provincial centers, was designed to keep people out. Wari sites are charactcrized by
large, formidable stonc cnclosures, sometimes three stories tall, with few entrics
and no windows. Wari depictions of the staff dcity, and other religious symbols,
are not carvcd in stone but rather arc depictcd on portablc artifacts such as
ceramics or textiles. There was no central place to which people needed to travel
to appreciate these religious monuments and symbols. Indecd, this is quite thc
opposite ofTiwanaku.
I would argue that this striking difference in the way Wari interacted with its
subjects indicates that it and Tiwanaku were profoundly different in terms of
their political organization. It is clear that Wari was an empire that established
political and economic sovereignty over vast regions and large populations.
Tiwanaku's influence and control over its subjects seems rather more benign.
4
The Achaelnenid Persian empire
(c. 550-c. 330 BeE): continuities,
adaptations, transformations
Amclie Kuhrt
INTRODUCTION
The Achaemenid empire was the earliest and largest of the known "world
empires." It developed around a tiny core in the modern southern Iranian province of Fars, the modern form of the Old Persian name for the region, Parsa.
"Achaemenid" derives from Achaemenes, the eponymous founder of the ruling
dynasty and was the name of the Persian royal clan (Herodotus 1.125) that ruled
the empire for nearly 200 years. Its formation began c. 550 BC E, with the conquests ofCyrus 11 (the Great) and Cambyses 11 (for regnal years, see Table 4.1);
it was brought to an end by the conquests of Alexander the Great of Macedon
between 334 and 323 BCE (see Table 4.2 for a chronology of major events in
Achaemenid history). For over 200 years, it was the largest empire the world had
seen, spanning from the Hellespont to northwest India, including Egypt (most
of the time) and extending into Central Asia up to the fi'ontiers of modern
Kazakllstan (Fig. 4.1). The Achaemenids had no contemporary peers, a marked
contrast to later imperial formations in the region. Indeed, it is probable that the
emergence of ncw strong states along Achaemenid frontiers during the last
decades of Achaemcnid ruic (e.g., Macedon to thc northwest and Mauryan India
to the southcast) was, at least in part, a response to Persian imperial pressures,
although this remains to bc fully analyzed.
Becausc of the empirc's vast sizc, problcms inhercnt in the evidence for studying it, and its fairly rapid destruction, scholars have long regarded the Persians as
weak, ineffective rulers. A pervasive imagc of Achaemenid history portrays thc
first decadcs of the great conqucrors (559-486 BC E) as a period of creative innovation and vigorous activity. In contrast, thc subsequent 150 or so years are charactcrized as a pcriod of stagnation and declinc: markcd by threatening uprisings
by members of the royal f.1mily or govcrnment, the loss of Egypt, military weakness, increased (and fatal) reliance on mercenary forces, replacement of cuitic
freedom with religious intolerance, a corrupt bureaucracy, degenerate court life,
and oppressive taxation. In short, by the fourth century the empire was perceived
as dying on its feet and hated by its subjects (e.g., Frye 1984). Further, the difficulty of tracing a Persian presence beyond the imperial heartland has been taken
93
94
The Achaemmid Persian empire (e. 550-e. 330 BeE)
Amelie Kuhrt
95
Table 4.2. Achaemmid empire: chronology of main political epents
Table 4.1. Regnal years of the kings of Persia
Ruler
Regnal years (BCE)
Date (BCE)
Event
Teispes (of Anshan)
650-620
Cyrus I (son)
620-590
590-559
550
540s
539
530
525
522
Cyrus 11 defeats the Medes
Cyrus' conquest of Lydia
Cyrus conquers Babylonia
Death of Cyrus; accession of his son, Cambyses
Cambyses conquers Egypt
Revolt of Bardiya, Cambyses' younger brother: assassinated by Darius and six Persian nobles;
Darius seizes throne; major series of revolts through large part of empire. At some stage:
northwest India and Thrace added to empire
Building of Persepolis begins
Ionian revolt begins
Battle of MaratllOn
Egypt revolts; death of Darius: succeeded b}, his son, Xerxes
Revolt in Babylonia
Persian invasion of Greece; revolt in Babylonia
Xerxes assassinated; followed after short period of confusion by his son, Artaxerxes I
Death of Artaxerxes I; succeeded by his only legitimate son, Xerxes 11. Xerxes assassinated by his
half-brother Sogdianos who claims throne
Sogdianos murdered by his half-brother Darius 11, who accedes to throne
Darius 11 dies; Artaxerxes Il (his son) accedes to throne
Attempt by the king's younger brother (CYl'lls) to topple him; Cyrus the Younger killed in battle
ofCunaxa
Egypt secedes
Artaxerxes Il dies; succeeded by Artaxerxes III
Egypt reeonquered
Artaxerxes III poisoned; fu'ses (=fu·taxerxes IV) accedes to throne
Arses murdered; Darius III (not a direct descendant) accedes
Battle of Issos between Alexander of Maeedon and Darius Ill: Persians defeated
Banle of Gaugamela ends in Macedonian victory: Alexander takes over the main royal Persian
centers
Darius III murdered by two Persian nobles (Bessos and Nabarzanes) one of whom proclaims
himself king of Persia in eastel'l1 Iran and Bactria; Alexander arranges fOl' Dm'ius Ill's burial at
Persepolis and proclaims vengeance on Bessos for the murder of Dm'ius
I-lard fighting in eastel'l1 Iran and Central Asia by Alexander
Alexander completes his conquest of the Persian empire by conquering Achaemenid-held regions
ofIndia
Alexander returns fi'om India through Persia to Babylonia; dies in Babylon
Cambyses I (son)
Cam byses 11 (son)
559-530
530-522
Bardiya (Smerdis) (brother)
522
Cyrus 11 the Great (son)
Darius I (son of H ystaspes, grandson of Arsames,
descendant of Achaemenes)
Xerxes (son)
522-486
486-465
Darius 11 (son)
465-424/3
423-404
Artaxerxes 11 (son)
405-359
Artaxerxes III (son)
359-338
338-336
Artaxerxes I (son)
Artaxerxes IV (Arses; son)
Darius III (second cousin)
Alexander of Macedon
336-330
330-323
to mean that, in the absence of effective rivals, they made no effort to root their
power in the imperial provinces and create an effective and durable infrastructure
of rule.
In reaction to this negative stereotype, a new approach has emerged in the last
twenty years, and is now beginning to dominate perceptions of the Achaemenid
empire (see, in particular, Achaemenid History, I-VIII, 1987-94;1 WiesehOfer
1993; Kuhrt 1995: 647-701; Briant 1996). Scholars have stresscd that, despite
internal revolts, recurring problems along frontiers, attempts at seccssion
(including the loss of Egypt for nearly sixty ycars), sllcccssion crises and regicidcs,
thc Achaemcnid empire held its enormous territorics and divcrsc subjcct populations together for more than 200 years. The question thus becomes not why
did it comc to an end, but rathcr how was it so succcssful? Two fundamcntal
points should be noted. First, aftcr a serious crisis in the formative decades of the
empire, when Darius I violently usurped the thronc (522/1 BeE), the
Achaemenid family never lost its exclusivc hold on the kingship. Second, in view
of this, it is more helpful to see the empire in the rcigns ofDarius I and his son
Xerxes as moving into a new phase of maturity and stability. In other words, the
"vitality" of the foundation decades gives way, not to "stagnation" and a process
of terminal decline, but to imperial consolidation. After this transition, "nationalist revolts" scarcely occl1l'red;2 from then on, the aims of rebels centered on
who should sit on the impcrial throne, not on establishing separatist states. Also,
from Xerxes on there was no further territorial expansion; efforts were directed
509
499
490
486
484
480/479
465
424
423
404
401
405-400
358
343
338
336
333
331
330
330-327
327-325
324-323
to tightening and adjusting thc administration of thc provincial system
(Horn blower 1982; Stolper 1989; Pctit 1990). Grcater uniformity in taxation
and accounting provide evidence of this (Descat 1985, 1989).
Not all of the many problems that besct understandings of the Persian empire
can be fully cxplorcd in this brief discussion. I shall therefore focus on a few
central aspects: the formation and cohesion ofthc cmpire; imperial governance;
77JC A c/}(fcJIlwid PCl'Jitlll
C1II pirc
(c. SSO-c. 330 BeE)
and the continuity and change in the balance between imperial power and local
particularisl11. Understanding all these issues, however, is inextricably linked to
the problematical evidence of our sources.
-
THE SOURCES
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Classical writers
The written sources for studying the empire present particular difficulties, not so
much because they arc sparse but because they exist in several different languages
and genres. Before excavation and the subsequent decipherment of ancient Near
Eastern scripts in the last century, the Achaemenid empire was primarily known
through classical Greek writers, especially Herodotus. His writings celebrate the
victories of the mainland Greeks over the Persians between 490 and 478 BeE,
so his valuable inf<H'Il1ation is limited to the early Achaemenid period. Although
unrivaled in his coverage, his greatest interest and the {<lCUS f(H' his most detailed
discllssion was the empire's northwestern tl'ontier (Drews 1973: 45-96; cf~
Briant 1990). Later classical writers, such as Ctesias and Xenophon (early {<llll'th
century), had similar geopolitical limitations. An exception is the curious semiphilosophical work of Xenophon Thc EducatioN Id' C)'1'II.I'. But its moralizing
tone and novelistic style, and its aim
to present the {()lll1der of the Persian
empire as the ideal ruler whose legacy was corrupted by later descendants mean
that historical realities have been subordinated to this larger purpose, and it must
be used with great caution (Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1994a). Important later Greek
works that preserve material fi'om more contemporary witnesses arc Plutarch's
L~f'c 1!f'Al'tn.'I:t:I:W.I' (Il) and Strabo's GClLfJmphy,
During his invasion or the Persian empire, Alexander the Great was accompanied by writers charged with celebrating his exploits. None or thcir works has
survived, but they were extensively used by Roman historians, including the
writings ofAl'l'ian and Quintus Curtius, the "biography" of Plutarch, and a substantial section of Diodorus Siculus' world history devoted to Alexander's
achievements. Because Alexander moved through almost all Achaemenid ten'itory, the histories provide valuable glimpses of conditions in the eastern half of
the realm that were of little interest to earlier Greek writers. The bias of the
Alexander historians is patent, yet the value of their testimony must not be
underestimated.
The wealth and power of Achaemenid rulers {ilscinated their Greek contemporaries and they often recount stories of court intrigues and the moral decadencc that comes fi'om indulging in lInlimited luxury. In such anecdotes, the
Persian king appears as an essentially weak figure, prey to the machinations of
powerful women and sinister eunuchs. This is an inversion of Greek social and
political norms, and the image of the cowardly effeminate Persian monarch has
exercised a strong influence through the centuries, making the Persian empire
into a powerful eastern "other" in European Orientalisll1, contrasted with
97
98
AlIIe/ie Kllhrt
The AchacllIwid PerJiaN empire (c. 550-c. 330 BeE)
99
"western" bravery and masculinity (Said 1978; Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1983,
1987a, 1987b; E. Hall 1989, 1993). In studying the Persian empire, it is important to remember that the popular and widespread impression of its political
system is thus fundamentally flawed (Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1983).
Old Tcstrt1'ftertt hoolu
The Old Testament has bequeathed two divergent pictures of the Persian rulers.
In Ezra and Nehemiah they appear as restorers of the Jerusalem temple and
active supporters of the Yahweh cult." The image is positive because Persian
kings ushered in the period of the "Second Temple," ordering the return of
people who had been deported (I'om Judah to Babylonia in 587/6 BCE, when
Nebuchadnezzar II had conquered this small Palestinian state. The Persians
allowed the returning exiles to restore the temple and city ofJerusalem, and were
thought later to have supported the rebuilding with imperial funds. The book
of Esther, almost certainly written in the Hellenistic period (second century
BeE, Bickerman 1967), diverges 6'om this rosy image. Here, Persian comt lite
is described similarly to its treatment in Greek writings (Momigliano 1977).
Royal inscriptions
The Persians of the Achaemenid period spoke an early (>1'111 0(' Persian "Old
Persian" a member of the lndo- European language (:lInily. Texts in Old Persian
were written using a wedge-shaped script, quite distinct (i'ol1l the much older
Mesopotamian cunei(>1'In system. Its deciphennent began in the early nineteenth century, when squeezes were made of the longest Old Persian inscription
known the text (with accompanying relief) of Darius I, carved high on the rock
face dominating the main road leading (i'om the Mesopotamian plain to
Ecbatana (modern Hamadan) at Ikhistun (Fig. 4.2).
Darius' inscription gives a detailed account of the circumstances smrounding
and f(lllowing his accession to the throne. The contents circulated through the
empire, as an Aramaic version on papyrus (i'om Egypt and an Akkadian inscription (i'om Babylon prove. But the Behistlln text is exceptional; material written
in Old Persian is largely limited to monumental inscriptions, intended to reflect
the unchanging majesty of Persian imperial power. Thc royal texts thcret(lI'c
provide less insight into the Achacmenid empirc than originally hoped. Political
events, historical changes, and administrative structurcs are not (apart fi'olll
Behistlln) recorded in them (Kent 1953; Lecoq 1997). The Old Persian script
was probably an artificial royal creation (cf. Herrenschmidt 1985); intended to
make a visual impression and providing a script unique to the Persians that
stamped the empire as Persian, it was not used outside the /clI'lnal public sphere.
All inscriptions appear on buildings and rock f:lces in Iran, or on smaller portable objects probably emanating {I'om the court (e.g., stone vascs, metal vessels,
seals):l Old Persian inscriptions are virtually always accompanied by versions in
4.2 '/i'iliTWIfII
imcl'ijltioll Illld relicf
(!f' J)aritlJ /, Crtn'cd in
tlJt: clur 11 t llchiJtllll,
dominlTtill[f thc mllin
rlllld IClldiWI./hJlII
Iillbylollill III
Rc/lIltmlll.
other languages normally Elamite and Babylonian Akkadian, and occasionally
Egyptian hieroglyphs.
Administratipc doc1mtcnts
Documents in other languages - Babylonian, Egyptian, Aramaic, and Elamite illuminate socioeconomic aspccts of the empire. The Aramaic texts are especially
important. Aramaic was widely used in the Near East bdc)I'e the Persian conquest
and perhaps fClr this reason was adopted by the new conquerors as the most
100
,
I
:1
I
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I
i
f
"
!I
The Achaemenid Persian empire (e. 550-e. 330 BeE)
Ametie Kuhrt
widely used administrative language. There is evidence for its employment in
Persepolis, Babylonia, Egypt, the Levant, and Asia Minor (Greenfield 1985). Its
appearance in the former eastern provinces of the Achaemenid empire during the
Hellenistic period (Schlumberger et al. 1958), and among the Parthians, who
used an Aramaic script to write contemporary Middle Iranian languages, demonstrates that the Achaemenid bureaucracy used Aramaic throughout the imperial territories (Naveh 1982).
Among the most important texts, central to gaining an insight into the workings of the empire, are two groups ofElamite texts from Persepolis. One set of
just over 100 texts, dating between 492 and 458 BC E, contains records of silver
payments made to workers instead of their regular rations (Cameron 1948).
These were termed the "Treasury Texts," after their discovery in a building on
the palace terraces identified as the treasury. A much larger group consists of
tablets dating from 509-494 BC E that were stored in the northwest fortifications at Persepolis. 5 They record authorizations for all kinds of food rations to
workers (women, men, and children), to cultic functionaries (for sacrifices), and
to high-ranking Persian nobles - including even Darius' queen Artystone. This
material is extraordinarily rich in its potential for understanding taxation, storage
networks, labor systems, agricultural production, landholding, demography,
diet, settlement, travel routes, and provisioning (Hinz 1971; Koch 1977, 1986,
1990, 1993; Hallock 1985; Lewis 1990; Aperghis 1996, 1998, 1999; Briant
1996: ch. 11; Brosius 1996: ch. 5). So far, just under 2200 texts of this corpus
have been published (Hallock 1969, 1978); transcriptions of approximately
another 2000 exist, and a very large number of texts and fragments (possibly
another 25,000, housed in the Oriental Institute in Chicago) have yet to be
studied and published.
Another important archive of material (in Akkadian) comes from Nippur in
Babylonia and dates to the second half of the fifth century BC E. It reflects the
transactions of a Babylonian business firm, the Murashu family. They engaged in
leasing and managing military land grants made to soldiers and landed estates
belonging to members of the royal family and high court personnel, and carrying out associated commercial transactions. This material accords insights into
some of the most basic and crucial aspects of imperial functioning, which was
replicated, in its essentials, elsewhere in the empire (Cardascia 1952; Stolper
1985; van Driel 1989). Almost contemporary with the Murashu documents are
the Aramaic texts from Egypt (Grelot 1972; POl·ten and Yardeni 1986-93; also
POl·ten 1997). They come from three distinct contexts. One is an enormous and
disparate collection of papyri and ostraca (now scattered across the museums of
the world) generated by a small community ofJewish soldiers and their families
who served as part of the Achaemenid frontier garrison on Elephantine (at
Aswan). Some individual family histories emerge with great clarity, as well as the
religious life of the Jewish soldiers and their relations with Persian authorities
(Porten 1968). Another, much smaller group comes from Hermopolis; they are
letters written by soldiers to their families (Bresciani and Kamil 1966).
Fragments of an archive from the Persian bureaucracy have been found at
Saqqara, near Memphis. Some 200 are in Aramaic (SegaI1983); many more are
in demotic Egyptian and unpublished, so it is not clear whetl1er tl1ey date to the
Achaemenid period. The texts are, unfortunately, very damaged, but do provide
some glimpses of administration in Egypt. Most important is a pouch containing a collection of sealed letters written on leatl1er; unfortunately, tl1ey were
acquired on tl1e antiquities market and their exact find spot is unknown. The
documents (now in the Bodleian Library, Oxford) contain correspondence
between the Persian satrap of Egypt, Arsames, and his estate-manager(s) and
provide detailed insights into the structure of great landed estates (Driver 1965).
These are merely the largest and most important concentrations of documents.
Smaller collections6 and more scattered finds help to amplify this material.
Archaeological finds
Archaeologists have explored the far-flung regions of the empire in only a partial
f.'1shion. The chief sites that have been excavated and studied for their
Achaemenid remains are the great royal centers in Iran: Pasargadae (Stronach
1978), Persepolis (Schmidt 1953-70; Tilia 1972-8), Susa (cf. Boucharlat 1990),
and the associated rock-cut tombs (at Naqsh-i Rustam and Persepolis; Schmidt
1970). Recently, more attention has been paid to the Achaemenid levels oflongoccupied sites such as Sardis in Lydia (Greenwalt 1995; Dusinberre 1997),
Daskyleion in Hellespontine Phrygia (Bakir 1995), and Achaemenid settlements
in the Levant (Moorey 1975, 1980; Stern 1982; see also the journal
Transeuphratc1'le)/ central and eastern Turkey (Summers 1993; Voigt 1997:
430; Blaylock 1998: 118) and Central Asia (Francfort 1988; Briant 1984).
Extensive modern towns cover several sites known to have been important in the
period (e.g., Arbela [modern Erbil], in northern Iraq, Damascus, and Ecbatana
[modern Hamadan]), making excavation difficult.
Monuments with Iranian motifs have been documented in western Turkey,
reflecting the presence of Persians or local dignitaries influenced by Persian court
practices (Jacobs 1987; Mellink 1988; Nolle 1992; Calmeyer 1992). Analogous
evidence has been found on Phoenician sites, particularly some magnificent relief
sculpted sarcophagi made for the kings of Sidon (Bivar 1975; Stucky 1984).
Most important is the recent find of a nmerary stele at Saqqara in Egypt
(Mathiesen et al. 1995; see Fig. 4.6). This material illustrates the enormously
rich cultural interaction that took place within the empire - especially striking is
the strong influence of what is usually called "Greek art," which begins in the
time of the Persian empire (Root 1991).
Implications
As with many of the empires discussed in this volume, there is a mass of material
dating to the Persian empire, but it is uneven and often difficult to use. For
101
102
Amelie Kuhrt
reconstructing political history, scholars largely depend on the problematic
Greek historians. Administrative material is available in substantial quantities
from Fars, Babylonia, and Egypt, but it is largely restricted to the fifth century;
the fourth century is particularly poorly documented (though see van der Spek
1998). The eastern imperial regions are also scantily known; archaeological
material is the primary source here and its interpretation is much disputed
(Briant 1984).
THE FORMATION AND COHESION OF THE
ACHAEMENID EMPIRE
I
I
, I
I
The Achaemenid empire was created through a series of conquests beginning
with Cyrus 11 "the Great" of Parsa who, in 550 BC E, defeated the ruler of the
Medes, a political entity about which numerous debates rage, not least about the
degree of its influence on Persian sociopolitical structure and imperial institutions (e.g., Dandamaev 1997; Summers 1997; Sancisi-Weerdenberg 1988,
1994b). With this defeat, the territory to the north over which the Medes
claimed hegemony - the western Iranian plateau, Armenia, Anatolia up to the
Halys river (which formed the frontier with Lydia) - came under Persian domination and their capital Ecbatana and its treasury fell into Persian hands (Grayson
1975: no. 7, ii.I-4). How any of this territory had been controlled by the Medes
and was then organized by Cyrus is unknown. But one result was that some time
in the 540s, Croesus, the king of Lydia, came into conflict with his new Persian
neighbor. Cyrus' subsequent victory over him meant that the entire territory
from the old Halys frontier to the Aegean coast was added to his conquests
(Kuhrt 1995: 658-9; Briant 1996: 44-8). In 539 BCE, Cyrus won a major military victory against the Babylonian king and the large Neo- Babylonian empire
(including Mesopotamia, Syria, Palestine, and the northern ends of the Arabian
caravan routes) was incorporated (Kuhrt 1995: 659-60; Briant 1996: 50-5). It
is not certain, but seems likely, that the last seven to eight years of Cyrus' life
were spent conquering eastern Iran - certainly by 522 BC E the region was part
of Persia's imperial territory. According to some traditions, Cyrus was killed
while campaigning in Central Asia.
On Cyrus' death, the empire stretched from the Egyptian frontier and the
Aegean coast to Uzbekistan (Fig. 4.1). In 526/5 his son and successor,
Cambyses, added Egypt to this area (L1oyd 1988; Kuhrt 1995: 661-4; Briant
1996: 61-72). Persian control in Egypt extended to Aswan in the south and
included the oases of the western desert. It was secured through agreements
reached with Cyrene, Barca, and Libya to the west of Egypt (Herodotus 3.13)
and the wealthy Nubian kingdom to the south (MOl'kot 1991a and this volume).
Evidence from Babylonia and Egypt shows that both Cyrus and Cambyses made
use of a range of Mesopotamian and Egyptian conventions and rituals to cast
themselves in the role of legitimate rulers in the newly conquered territories
(Kuhrt 1983, 1987; L10yd 1988). Persian conquerors also coopted members of
The Achaemenid Persian empire (e. 550-e. 330 BeE)
defeated elites to represent their interests and help integrate the foreign invaders into the local fabric (see below). There is no contemporary evidence from
Lydia, but Herodotus' account suggests a similar pattern of be havi or there. The
great conquests of Cyrus also found physical expression in his new royal center
of Pasargadae in his homeland, Parsa. Its palaces, set in a spacious park, reflect
the adaptation of the iconographic repertoires and use of architectural and building techniques of the conquered peoples, primarily Assyro-Babylonian and
Lydian (Nylander 1970; Root 1979).
The very rapid acquisition of empire created internal problems in Persia,
which led to a revolt by Cambyses' younger brother Bardiya, during the
former's absence in Egypt. The serious nature of the internal Persian conflict is
strikingly illustrated by the fact that, despite being a legitimate son of Cyrus,
founder of the empire, Bardiya was assassinated after a few months by a small
group of Persian nobles, onc of whom - Darius I - then acceded to the throne,
claiming relationship with Cyrus' f.1mily. The turmoil unleashed by these events
is known from the massive and, in some cases, repeated revolts against him, particularly on the Iranian plateau, in Babylonia, Armenia, Elam, and Parsa itself
(Dandamaev 1976; Kuhrt 1995: 664-7; Briant 1996: 109-35). These were
efficiently and ruthlessly put down and Darius was able to consolidate control
in Central Asia, to add the Indus valley to his realm, and to begin exploiting
the maritime routes between north India and the Persian Gulf (Herodotus
4.44). Fairly early in his reign, Darius founded a new dynastic center at
Persepolis (Parsa) and recast the old city of Susa as a distinctively Persian city.
He further strengthened his northwestern frontier, by adding Thrace and
several Aegean islands to his direct control, and creating close links with
Macedon in northern Greece (Briant 1996: 154-6). His son Xerxes' attempt to
consolidate this hold by adding more of Greece in 480/479 BCE was not successful, although the setback was slight and proved to be temporary (Kuhrt
1995: 670-2; Briant 1996: 545-59). From this point on, and despite changes
and developments that arc scantily known, the empire can be considered a
stable matl\l'e entity.
Royal rhetoric and imagery
At the center of the imperial system was the Persian king. The great god
Ahuramazda had set him over the varied lands and peoples of the earth and given
Persia supremacy over them; without his divine support no king ruled in Persia.
The king was Ahuramazda's creatl\l'e, part of his bountiful creation that ensured
happiness for all humanity. All, therefore, owed reverence, obedience and
"tribute" (Old Persian baji-, cf. Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1989) to the Persian king.
Such loyalty strengthened Ahuramazda's plan for maintaining perfect order.
King and god were complementary in the universal scheme and worked for t11e
same ends. The inscription on the f.1cade ofDarius 1's tomb at Naqsh-i Rustam
(Fig. 4.3; Kent 1953: DNa) illustrates this symbiosis:
103
Awelie KlIhl't
104
The Aclmcmcuid PCI'Jirtll empire (e. 550-e. 330 BeE)
A great god is Ahuramazda, who created this earth (bI/1IIi-), who created yonder
sky, who created man, who crcated happiness t()l' man, who made Darius king,
onc king over many, onc lord of many. I am Darius thc great king, king of kings,
king of countries containing all kinds of men, king on this great earth far and
wide, son of Hystaspes, an Achaemenid, a Persian, son of a Persian, an Aryan,
having Aryan lineagc. Says Darius the king: By the t~lVor of Ahuramazda these
arc the countries which I seized outsidc Persia; I ruled over them; they bore mc
"tribute"; what was said to them by me, that they did; my law (dl1tl1-) - that
held them firm; Media, Elam, Parthia, Aria, Bactria, Sogdiana, Chorasmia,
Drangiana, Arachosia, Sattagydia, Gandara, India, Scythians who drink haoma
(an intoxicating ritual drink), Scythians with pointed caps, Babylonia, Assyria,
Arabia, Egypt, Armenia, Cappadocia, Sardis, Ionia, Scythians who are across the
sea, Thrace, jlctl1JoJ-wearing IOllians (type of hat), Libyans, Kushites, men of
Maka, Carians. Says Dal'ius the king: Ahuramazda when he saw this earth in
commotion, thereafler bestowed it upon me, made me king; I am king. By the
favOl' of Ahuramazda r put it down in its placc; what I said to them, that they
did, as was my desire. If now you should think: "How many arc the countries
which King Darius held?" look at the sculptures (of those) who bear the throne,
then shall YOll know, then shall it become known to you: the spear of a Persian
man has gone {()l·th {ill'; then shall it become known to you: a Persian man has
delivered battle fi1l' indeed f"om Persia. Says Darius the king: This which has
been done, all that by the will of Ahuramazda I did. Ahuramazda bore me aid,
until I did the work. Me may Ahuramazda protect fi'om harm, and my royal
hOllse, and this land: this I pray of Ahuramazda, this may Ahuramazda give to
me! 0 man, that which is the command ofAhuramazda, let this not seem repugnant to you; do not leave the right path; do not rise in rebellion!
4.3 ROc/I-cllt tolltb (!f'
DI11'it/J I at NI1IJJh-i
RI/Jtlllll,
IIC11I'
PCI'JCjlo/iJ.
The message of the text is mirrored in the reliefs carved on royal tomb fiKades
from the time of Darius I onwards (Root 1979). The king stands on a stepped
podium with a bow resting on the tip of his f()ot; opposite him is a fire altar. He
raises his hand in a gesture of salutation to a divine figure who hovers above in
a winged disc. The god liKes the king and raises one hand in an identical gesture
of greeting; with his other hand he holds out a ring, an old symbol of' kingly
power. The figure in the disc is almost certainly Ahuramazda.
Other important motifs of Persian kingship emerge fi'om Darius I's tomb
inscription and relief: The podium and the fire altar are set on a kind of'throne;
its struts are suppOl'ted by representatives or the diffcrent subject peoples, all
carefully dirtcrentiated by their clothing and labeled. The viewer is exhOl'ted to
look at them in order to be awed by the Persian achievement. Wars have been
fought by Persians at the distant boundaries or the earth, and, with
Ahuramazda's help, the depicted peoples were delivered into the Persian king's
hand. They retain their individual character, but are now united in service to the
king, whose mastery they uphold and whose law they obey. It is a recurrent
theme of the royal inscriptions to dwell on the variegated nature of the king's
subjects. The Persian king dominates the divine creation in all its colOl'ful variety,
combining their various skills and resources to serve his and Persia's ends. The
105
106
4.4 l)po groups I!f'
subject pcojlles
(Blamitcs abope;
Armeniam below)
bl'illgi1~f/ lfUts to tbe
fling: mst stttiI'CtJ.w:,
Apttdmta tit
Perscpo/is.
Amelie 1(1Ih1't
motif is echoed at the dynastic center of Pcrsepolis. The sides of the platform and
great staircases leading up to the columned ajladrtrla (palace) arc decorated with
reliefs showing deputations from Persia's subject lands waiting to present the
king with precious gifts acknowledging his power and their subservience (Fig.
4.4).
The Persian identity of the king and his realm is another feature of the royal
inscriptions, stressed repeatedly. The king is a Persian, descended (I'om Persians,
and has conquered lands outside Persia. The "Persian man" has /()ught 1:,1' (i'om
home to create the present perfect state. The continued well-being of Persia
"a good country, possessed of good horses, possessed of good men" (Kent 1953:
D Pd) is onc of the king's prime concerns. Lf Persia and its people arc kept sale,
by the continued adherence of its subjects to the Persian imperial order, then
happiness will reign supreme (Kent 1953: DPe). The Persians arc clearly distinguished from subject peoples on the IT/ltu/mm staircases, \00. They arc the courtiers, officials, soldiers; they hold back the gifl-bearing ambassadors until the
moment comes to usher them into the king's presence. Some bear items off()()d,
perhaps t<)r the royal table. In every respect, their relationship to royal authority
is markedly different (I'om that of the conquered.
The inscription on Darius' tomb notes that one reason Ahuramazda gave him
the kingship was because the earth "was in commotion (ytl1ldati-)" and Darius
The Achaemellid Persiml
(c. 550-c. 330 BeE)
put things to rights. The theme of the king as a detense against disorder recurs
in several of Darius' inscriptions, most notably the great Behistun inscription
(Fig. 4.2; sec also Fig. 4.5). There, the motif of rebellion causing unrest is linked
to the growth of the "lie/falsehood" (drat/;[Ta): as things start to go wrong, the
lie takes hold in the land (Kent L953: DB I, 32-5): "When Cambyses had gone
off to Egypt, after that the people became evil. After that the lie waxed great in
the country, both in Persia and in Media and in the other provinces."
As the rebellions start, Darius invariably describes the leaders as arising and
"lying" to the people. The concept of t:,lsehood is thus linked to revolt against
the divine and royal order. To misrepresent oneself is to mislead people so that
they stray fi-cHn the path of righteousness, which is obedience to the Persian king
and Ahuramazda. It is likely that the Old Persian word encapsulating the concept
of correct behavior, and hence acceptance of the imperial order, is "truth"
(arta). Onc way of understanding Herodotus' statement that Persian boys were
taught three things only "to ride, to shoot with the bow, and to tell the truth"
( 1.136) is that part of the education of young Persians consisted of learning
the duty of total devotion to king and country (cf. Briant 1982b: 449). In a text
of Xerxes (Kent 1953: XPh, 28-56), the restoration of imperial order may be
equated with worship of Ahuramazda and al'ta in the sense of "order/truth."
The king was thus portrayed as an absolute monarch; all were subject to his
power and his law. But he did not" exercise power in an arbitrary manner. As guardian ofAhl1l'amazda's creation, ruling over "this earth" with his aid, he himself
was bound to uphold the ethical fi'amework and his actions were determined by
the demands of appropriate high principles. He presented hil1lselfas an embodimenl of positive virtues that fitted him to rule. Two identical royal inscriptions
(Kent 1953: DNb; Gharib L968: XNb), onc of Darius and onc of Xerxes, arc
the best expression of these royal ideals. The f:,ct that both kings had the same
text inscribed Jlc1'lmtim shows that the semil11ents expressed central tenets of
Persian kingship:
A great god i~ Ahuramazda who creatcd this cxccllcnt work which one see~; who
created happiness ()r man; who bestowed wisdom and energy upon
Darius/Xerxes the king. Says Darius/Xerxes the king: by the (iwor of
Ahuramazda I am of sllch a kind that I am a fi'icnd to what is right, I am no
fi'iend to what is wrong. It is not my wish that to the weak is done wrong because
of the mighty, it is not my wish that the weak is hurt because of the mighty, that
the mighty is hurt because of the weak. What is right, that is my wish. I am no
Ii'iend of the man who is a ()lIower of the lie. I am not hot tempered. When I
feci anger rising, I keep that under control by my thinking power. I control
firmly my impulses. The man who co-operates, him do I reward according to
his co-operation. He who does harm, him I punish according to the damage. It
is not my wish that a man docs harm, it is certainly not my wish that a man if
he causes damage be not punishcd. 'What a man says against a man, that does
not convince mc, until I have heard testimony (?) fl'om both parties. "Vhat a man
does or pert()rms according to his powers, satisfies mc, therewith I am satisfied
107
108
Ame/ic [(lIhrt
T1;c Aclmclflwid PCI'Jian cmpirc (c. 550-c. 330 BeE)
and it gives me great pleasure and I am very satisfied and I give much to E1ithful men. I am trained with both hands and keto As a horseman I am a good
horseman. As a bowman I am a good bowman, both at(lOt and on horseback.
As a spearman I am a good spearman, both af(lOt and on horseback. And the
skills which Ahuramazda has bestowed upon me and I have had the strength to
use thcm, by the [WOI' of Ahuramazda, what has been done by mc, I have done
with thcse skills which Ahuralllazda has bestowed upon me.
Hcre the king's qualities as a just ruler are the central motif: Ahuramazda has
equipped the ruler with the insight and ability to distinguish right from wrong,
making him a guarantor of justice and maintainer of social order. Because he
does not react unthinkingly and is able to control his temper, the king metes out
reward and punishment absolutely f~lirly, and only after due consideration of a
case. He judges services rendered according to the potential of the individual,
and is ready to reward loyalty. At the same time, not only the moral, but also the
physical abilities of the king arc stressed; he is a supremely able rider, who can
wield the bow and spear with consummate skill.
The preservation of the same text fix two different kings implies that this
package of royal virtues encapsulated what it meant to be a Persian king, and was
an important part of the broadcast ideology of kingship. The cnd of the text
exhorts subjects to spread abroad the superiority of the Persian king. Part of the
text, in Aramaic translation, is preserved on papyrus at Elephantine in Egypt (late
f,Hh century; cf. Sims-Williams 19R I). Very similar qualities are ascribed to
Cyrus the Younger by Xenophon (Anabasis 1.9), who significantly precedes
his encomium by saying that Cyrus was the most kingly of men and the most
fitted to exercise power. The conclusion must be that this image of kingship circulated widely in the empire.
1)Y'fIf'tJtic cotttirmity
Royal descent was of' prime importance in the king's legitimacy. Frol11 Darius I
on, the Persian kings traced their genealogy, and stressed that they were
descended through their bther, ideally in a direct line, "'om Achaemenes. The
futlll'e king was, thus, nOl'l11ally selected "'om a tight-knit f~\lllily group. The
reigning king was acknowledged to have total power over choosing his successor, as shown in an inscription of Xerxes (Kent 1953: Xpf):
or
4.5 Royal He}'o
Jtahbi1l.!!lio1l,
Jymbo/izi1l.!! thl: lu·II.!!
aJ IIp/){}/dcl' %rdcr
pcrmJ the jim:cJ I!f'
chlloJ; "'f.rt door 11'
"Harem, " PITJCjlO/iJ.
Says Xerxcs the king: othcr sons
Darius there wcre, (but) thus unto
Ahuramazda was the dcsirc
Darius my (ilther made mc the greatcst after
himself. "Vhen my (ilther Darius wcnt away (i'om the thronc (i.e. died), by thc
will of Ahuralllaztia I became king on my (i1thcr's throne.
The king was thus not subject to laws of primogeniture. Political considerations
might lead him to select a younger son. In the case of Darius I and Xerxes,
Darius' choice may well have been dictated by the 1:1Ct that the mother of his
eldest son (Artobazanes) was herself' the daughter of the Persian noble Gobryas.
109
110
AmClie Kuhrt
Had Darius promoted him, his maternal family could have gained considerable
influence, and might ultimately have undermined the Achaemenid hold on the
throne. By choosing Xerxes, grandson of Cyrus, from whose family no male offspring survived, Darius circumvented such a danger. This anxiety to keep power
within the inner Achaemenid royal group explains several later instances of
apparently arbitrary murders of royal wives and tlle practice of royal endogamy
(Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1983).
Several Persian kings had more tllan one wife. Darius I had six, Artaxerxes 11
tl1l'ee, and Darius III two; polygamy was probably tlle norm for all. Greek
writers' references to princes as bastards (nothoi, Herodotus 3.2) imply tlle existence of different grades among the king's spouses, altllOugh how tlley were
ranked remains unclear. Ctesias names three Babylonian women who, he says,
bore Artaxerxes I's bastard offspring (Jacoby 1923: 688, FlS). As tlle crucial
factor in establishing legitimacy of claim to tlle tlU'one was paternal descent, it is
hard to understand what tlle criteria were for dubbing some children "bastards"
and otllers "legiti;nate." The impression is that tlle first-ranking royal wives were
Persian; but t\lat cannot be completely confirmed (see also Brosius 1996). Two
things seem certain: first, tllat tlle position of royal wives was dependent on tlle
status oftlleir sons (Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1983); second, tllat tllere was a group
of royal sons among whom the king expected normally to select his successor.
Only if tllere were no male offspring in this preferred circle, did it become possible for other sons to become eligible.
The young princes were educated, along with the children of the nobility,
from an early age (five years) to adulthood by the "wisest men" (Strabo lS.3.18).
They were the magi, associated with divine worship and guardians of Persian lore
- stories of gods, heroes, and past noble deeds. They instilled this Persian oral
tradition into their young charges, along with training in military skills, hunting,
and survival techniques. The duties of, and to, a king formed part of the teaching (Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1993). The royal princes formed fi'iendships in this
environment, which provided the crown prince with his later close intimates.
When the king died, the sacred fire (associated with him in a way not well
understood) was extinguished throughout the land (Diodorus Siculus
17.94.4-S). A period of public mourning followed. The Persians shaved their
hair and put on mourning garb; the manes of horses were clipped. How long the
mourning lasted is not certain. The heir designate was responsible for the funeral
of his f.'uher. This could be a major operation, because the body had to be transported to Persia for burial in the royal tombs cut in the rocks at Naqsh-i Rustam
and Persepolis. A mule-drawn hearse conveyed the royal corpse back to the
Persian homeland, which gave the ruler-to-be tlle opportunity to display his filial
piety and stress his legitimacy as tlle official successor. When Alexander arranged
for Darius Ill's body to be sent to Persia for burial, he declared himself publicly
to be the official heir to the Achaemenid throne.
The main source for tlle accession ceremonial ofthe new king is Plutarch's Life
ofArtaxerxes, 3:
The Achaemenid Persian empire (e. 550-e. 330 BeE)
Soon after the death ofDarius II, the king (se. Artaxerxes II) went to Pasargadae
to take part in a ceremony ofroyal initiation, performed by the priests in Persia.
It takes place in the sanctuary of a warrior goddess, rather like Athena: the
person who is to be initiated has to go here, take off his own dress, put on that
which Cyrus wore before he became king, eat a cake of figs, chew terebinth and
drink a bowl of sour milk to the last drop. It is possible that there were other
rituals as well, but they are unknown to olltsiders.
Unfortunately, Plutarch gives no more details of tlle coronation ceremonial,
beyond tllis rite de passage paving the way for the king's son to be transformed
into a king. Nevertlleless, the passage contains some very significant points. First,
the king goes to Pasargadae, tlle city ofCyrus, heroic founder oftlle empire. Part
oftlle ceremony involves tlle king-to-be linking himself even more explicitly witll
Cyrus. He takes off his old identity, symbolized by his personal garments, and
puts on Cyrus' dress "before he became king." Thus, he becomes in some sense
Cyrus tlle man, whose rise to power and great conquests are still to be accomplished. Perhaps his consumption of fig cake, terebintll, and sour milk encapsulated in ritual form the training undergone by young Persians, including tlle
future king, which fitted them to exercise power.
The ritual also had a military aura by its location in the sanctuary of a warrior
goddess, probably tlle Persian goddess Anahita, a martial patron of warriors
(Malandra 1983: 117-19). At some point following the initiation, the king was
presumably robed and crowned in the special royal coat (lzandys) and head covering (tiara, Izidaris). He may have also received on this occasion the shield,
spear, and bow depicted on coins, seals, and tomb reliefs. It is possible that the
king's governors formally surrendered their office to the king on this occasion an acknowledgment that they owed their position to him, and an opportunity
for him to express his trust by reinstating them or, conversely, dismissing them
(Diodorus Siculus 11.71.1; et: Briant 1991). Another act of the new reign may
have been the remission of outstanding debts of taxes (Herodotus 6.S9) - alongside the stressed continuity, the king's accession also marked a new beginning
for his subjects.
King and nobility
How did the king maintain his position of preeminence? How did he secure tlle
support of the Persian aristocracy? Darius' seizure of the throne created a
problem. According to Herodotus, anyone of the group of regicides could have
become king. Darius' claim was no stronger than that of his peers. Further,
Darius, in his own account of his accession at Behistun, names the people who
helped him in tlle struggle, and commends their families for all time to future
Persian kings. So they were certainly prominent individuals. In addition, one of
them, Gobryas, is depicted (and named) standing behind Darius on the facade
of the king's tomb at Naqsh-i Rustam. Another Persian noble, Aspathines, also
appears with his name on Darius I's tomb. Everything suggests that there was a
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Amelie Kuhrt
powerful established group of hereditary Persian nobles, whose support the king
needed to harness and whose political ambitions he had to curb. They had, after
all, with his personal assistance, assassinated a legitimate king - if they were
antagonized they might do so again, with Darius their victim.
Herodotus (3.84) records that, after the murder of Bardiya, the conspirators
agreed among themselves certain privileges that the one who ultimately became
king was bound to grant. They were to be allowed free access to the king,
without going through the formal court ceremonial (unless the king was with a
woman), and the king agreed to take his wives exclusively from their families. It
is possible that they were also granted tax exemptions on their estates
(Herodotus 3.97). In effect, then, the Persian king was compelled to accede to
pressure from his nobles as a price for their support and loyalty. But what happened in practice?
One point already mentioned is that the Persian kings managed to keep the
nobility at a healthy distance from royal power. Darius excluded the grandson of
Gobryas from the kingship, promoting instead Xerxes, whose maternal family
was extinct. A century later, Darius II, to gain support in his bid for the throne,
married two of his children to members of the family of the Persian noble
Hydarnes. When his oldest son, Artaxerxes II, acceded to the throne, his mother,
Parysatis, worked to remove his Hydarnid wife and persuaded him to marry one
of his daughters instead. The motive behind this was probably to ensure that the
throne stayed firmly within the inner Achaemenid family. So the king did not
openly backtrack on his agreement to intermarry only with the families of the six
noble helpers - he subverted it, by marrying members of his own family, and
giving those offspring preference, where possible, in selection for the throne.
The free access granted to the nobles was also a privilege rapidly curtailed.
According to Herodotus (3.118-19), one of the conspirators, Intaphernes,
insisted on seeing Dat'ius although he was told that the king had withdrawn with
one of his wives. Suspecting that Darius was not honoring the agreement,
Intaphernes mutilated the guards. When they reported to Darills, he sllspected
a plot to topple him and had Intaphernes together with his family imprisoned
and sentenced to death; virtually the entire clan was wiped out. Darius' rapid
action served as a warning to the remaining five nobles not to presume on their
privileges; it effectively robbed them of any real advantage.
The result ofDarius' handling of the nobility was to demote them from a peer
group to servants, dependent, like others, for their status and position on the
king. Their names were famolls, their past deeds celebrated, and their families
remained highly honored among the Persians. To be descended from the f.1mily
of one of Darius' helpers continued to carry great prestige. But, in relation to
the king, they had no special rights, no greater claim on his person than anyone
else. They were all the king's bandalza, an Old Persian word that means, literally,
"bondsman" or "servant." This, significantly, is the word Darius repeatedly uses
to describe them in the Behistun inscription. It expresses their dependence and
the personal bond of loyalty that tied them to the king.
The Achaemenid Persian empire (c. 550-c. 330 BeE)
While all were the king's subjects, what mattered within Persian society was
an individual's relative position in the social scale. There was considerable
ranking according to birth and privilege within the Persian elite. Only the elite
underwent the Persian education system, part of which consisted in replicating
the social status quo and Persian aristocratic ideals. According to Herodotlls
(1.134), ranking was signaled by the way in which people greeted each other:
equals kissed each other on the mouth; if one was slightly inferior to the other
they kissed on the cheek; in the case of great social difference the inferior prostrated himself before his superior. What precisely determined position is difficult
to make out. Family descent clearly played an important role, and provided
access to high office. Members of the Persian nobility held key positions in the
imperial government and army, with members of the Achaemenid royal f.1mily
predominating.
But noble birth was only one factor. Crucial was royal favor. Those whom tile
Icing publicly honored - whom he kept close to him, turned to for advice,
entrusted with special missions - were the most eminent (cf. Xenophon,
Anabasis 1.9). Their status is expressed by the Aramaic term br byt' (Akkadian
mar biti) which means literally "son of the (royal) house" and renders the Old
Iranian term *llith(a)pufa = "prince." Although the apparent meaning is that
they were royal offSpring, it is clear from its usage that this title was reserved for
highly honored members of the Persian aristocracy and does not necessarily indicate a blood relationship to the king. Nonetheless, the high position of such
"princes" made them eligible husbands for the king's daughters and other female
relatives, so that they could become, literally, "royal sons" by marrying into the
royal family.
Subtle distinctions in rank were marked in various ways. There were distinguished Persians "who had special chairs" (Herodotus 3.144); the soldiers close
to the king carried spears decorated with golden apples (Herodotus 7.41); the
Persian governor of Armenia, TiribaZlls, is described as "a personal friend of the
king, and when he was present no onc else had the right to assist the king in
mounting his horse" (Xenophon, Anabasis 4.4). Physical proximity to the king
was a highly sought favor - hence to become onc of the king's table companions
(slmtrapezos, sU'ndeipnos, sllmpotos) was a great honor. The king normally ate in
a room separated by a curtain from his fellow banqueters, and invited individual
guests to drink with him afterwards. The opportunity this offered for personal
advancement and for onc's standing Jlis-n.-Jlis lesser folk was highly valued and
eagerly sought.
The king's favor was expressed through the bestowal of gifts. Rewards for loyal
service, such as conspicuous acts of bravery in war or outstanding personal
service, were noted in royal lists (Herodotus 8.90; Esther 6.1-2). In addition to
giving a royal daughter in marriage (an exceptionally high honor), royal gifts
could include appointment to high office, the grant of a landed estate (or rather,
its revenues), and (most commonly) items for use and wear, which the honoree
displayed daily on his person. The latter included a horse with a gold bit, gold
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AmClie Kuhrt
necklaces, bracelets, a Persian robe, a gold dagger (akinakes), a gold bowl (sometimes inscribed with the king's name, cf. Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1989). Several of
the stunning items in the "Oxus Treasure" (originating in Tadjikistan, now in
the British Museum) show in detail the elaborate workmanship and precious
materials that went into these objects (Dalton 1964; Pitschikijan 1992). The
reliefs at Persepolis, the brightly colored, glazed brick reliefs from Susa, and provincial sculptures show honored individuals displaying these public marks of
royal esteem. The persons wearing such items were publicly recognized as
belonging to tile highest ranks of tile court.
Given tile politically symbolic role the royal gifts fulfilled, it is probable tllat
the presentation ceremony was public (although the evidence is slight; SancisiWeerdenburg 1989). Public distribution of gifts by the king guaranteed their
source; public acceptance served to stress the loyalty of tile recipient and his
dependence on tile king for all social advancement. The system of royal rewards
tl1l1S worked to strengthen tile king's preeminence in the political system and
place the recipients under continuing obligation to tile donor. Conversely, rebellion, betrayal of trust, or corrupt practice led to the public withdrawal of royal
favor, signaled by the offender being stripped of his court ornaments (Grelot
1972: no. 102). In very serious cases, tllis was followed by public and horrific
executions or slow death by torture.
.I
GOVERNING THE EMPIRE
The territory of the Persian empire was divided into provinces, usually called
satrapies (from Old Persian khshafapaJlan "protecting the kingdom"); the
governors were satraps. This terminology is not always precise: the word can be
used of less powerful governors and Greek writers apply it on occasion to any
officers surrounding the king. But the general pattern of satrapies is fairly clear,
although their precise boundaries are uncertain (Petit 1990; for Central Asia, see
Briant 1984). The diverse areas of the empire were united in a single political
structure, with the satrapal pattern creating an administrative uniformity.
Exceptions were areas where the physical environment made direct rule by a
satrap inappropriate (e.g., the pastoralists of the Zagros mountain chain, Arab
tribes, or the Scythians), leading to a measure of regulated independence that
worked to the mutual benefit of king and "subject" (Briant 1982a; see also
Bohmer and Thompson 1991; Lerner 1991).
Satrapics
Each satrapy covered an extensive territory; each satrapal governor was, to judge
by the names, virtually always a Persian (or at least Iranian) noble. The satrap conducted aff.'lirs fi·om the provincial capital, often the old capitals of the states that
had been conquered. In Egypt, for example, the satrapal center was at Memphis,
in Lydia at Sardis, in Media at Ecbatana, in Babylonia at Babylon (see Fig. 4.1).
The Achaemenid Persian empire (c. 550-c. 330 BeE)
Some new governmental centers were also created following subdivision of very
large provinces: Damascus was (probably) the administrative center of the new
province "Beyond tile River" (i.e., tile region west of tile Euphrates); Daskyleion
became tile satrapal seat of Hellespontine Phrygia.
The satrapal capital was a microcosm of tile royal centers. Provincial taxes were
collected and stored here (some were sent on to tile center) to provide resources
for tile satrap and his staff. Some taxes were in kind and could be used directly
to feed and maintain local garrisons. The soldiers at Elephantine, for example,
were entitled, togetller Witll their f.'lmilies, to draw rations from tile provincial
storehouse. The workmen in tile Persepolis region were generally supplied with
rations in kind from royal storehouses. Taxes paid in precious metals, usually
silver, were kept in reserve for exceptional expenditure (cf. Descat 1989).8 The
Alexander historians give some idea of the enormous surpluses garnered in
Persian government centers. Harpalus, for example, who was put in charge of
the treasury of BabyIon in 331, after five years of high living was still able to take
5000 talents of silver away with him (Diodorus Siculus 17.108.4-6). The treasuries were well protected in tile citadel of tile satrapal center; otller fortified
centers served as additional treasuries, under tile control of treasurers (gazophylakes, a Greek word linked to Old Persian *ganzabara "treasurer"; cf. Aperghis
1999). The satrap himself could probably only use tllis stored wealtll Witll royal
authorization (cf. Briant 1982b: 29 n.3) .
The satrap's residence was palatial. The provincial capitals had palaces, often
taken over from the earlier kings. Palaces were also maintained for use by the
kings when traveling through the empire (Briant 1996: 196-207). The Persianstyle building in the citadel of Babylon (probably built by Artaxerxes 11; Vallat
1989) provides physical evidence of how part of one of these official buildings
looked. Xenophon (Rel/enica 4.1.16) paints a vivid picture of the residence at
Daskyleion, belonging to the satrap of Hellespontine Phrygia; the palace was set
among well-provisioned villages and there was a park with wild animals - objects
of exotic display and the quarry of aristocratic hunting parties.
Provincial palaces contained archives to store orders received by the satrap
(Ezra 5.17-6.2). Royal decrees were identifiable by the king's seal attached to
them (Herodotus 3.128; Xenophon, ReI/mica 1.4.1; Esther 3.13). Seal impressions with iconographic links to Achaemenid court art have been found in quantity at Daskyleion (AkurgaI1956; Kaptan 1996a), Babylonian Nippur (Bregstein
1993), on the Wadi Daliyeh papyri from Samaria (Leith 1997) and, in smaller
numbers, at Artasat in Armenia (Santrot 1996: nos. 2l0-11a-b). The regional
bureaucracy operated fi·om the satrapal center. Petitions to the satrap were sent
here and copies of satrapal resolutions, endorsing local decisions that affected
city land and income, were stored for future reference (Briant 1986: 434-7). In
the excavations of Old Kandahar (satrapal center of Arachosia) in Afghanistan,
archaeologists found fragments of an Elamite tablet, indicating that the bureaucratic practices attested at Persepolis were replicated in the eastern part of the
empire (S. W. Helms 1982; McNicoll and Ball 1996). A palace is attested in
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i
"il
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AmClie Kuhrt
Samarkand (Arrian, Anabasis 3.30.6) across the Oxus in Uzbekistan (part of the
sat:rapy of Bactria-Sogdiana); it is described as a royal residence, but could have
been used on occasion by the satrap. Because of the nature of the surviving
sources the evidence is most complete for the government of the western empire,
but there is every reason to suppose that the eastern regions were governed in
broadly similar fashion (Briant 1984).
Roads
The Persepolis tablets support this conclusion. They record the movement of
groups or individuals traveling to Persia. India, Arachosia, Carmania, Bactria
were all linked into the extensive Achaemenid road system made famous by
Herodotus (5.52-4; 8.98). He provides valuable information on the road
linking Sardis to Susa, documenting way stations along the route at one-day
intervals, where a courier on urgent state business could get food and new
mounts. At strategic points, such as river crossings and mountain passes, soldiers
guarded the road, monitoring travelers. Satraps were responsible for maintaining the supplies and guard posts, since communication was crucial for efficient
government (cf. Jursa 1995). The Persepolis texts show that the network of
roads criss-crossed the immense territory of the Persian empire, so that the
system of guards, supply points, and associated governmental control operated
in all provinces, from cast to west (Grafl994).
Use of the way stations along the highways was limited to individuals bearing
a scaled authorization (Elamite halmi) from the king or recognized official
(Whitehead 1974; Aperghis 1996). There arc hundreds of reports from way stations that document the passage of travelers and their permits, but only onc
example of such a "passport" has survived. It was issued (in Aramaic) by
Arsames, satrap of Egypt, to his estate manager and companions for a journey
from northern Babylonia (Driver 1965: no. VI) Regional superintendents along
the route arc ordered to supply the satrap's party with precisely stipulated quantities of food for themselves and their horses, and debit the amounts expended
to Arsames' "account."
Landholding and labor
Arsames refers in this document to his estates, some of which were located in
Egypt. The collection ofletters making up the Arsames correspondence (Driver
1965 [1957]) gives a valuable insight into the landholding there of members of
the Persian nobility. The Murashu archives (Stolper 1985) show that many
Persians, including the Persian royal house (and Arsames), held substantial
estates in Babylonia as well. The Persepolis texts, too, refer to the ownership of
estates in Persia by royal women, among others. Several Greek writers mention
Persian landowners and other recipients of revenue from land in western Asia
Minor. The king himself owned estates the length and breadth of his kingdom.
The Achaemenid Persian empire (e. 550-e. 330 BeE)
It has been thought in the past that royal grants ofland undermined royal power
and diminished the monarch's disposable wealth. But reexamination of the evidence suggests that when the kings "gave" land, it did not include full possession, but was limited to the revenues produced (Briant 1985).
The "ownership" of estates by the king, his family, the high nobility, and
favored subjects spread the Persian presence throughout the empire, and helped
to strengthen imperial control. Xenophon (Anabasis 7.8) provides a wonderful
vignette of a Persian estate on the northwestern imperial ft'ontier: it was strongly
fortified, with a tower serving as a lookout, heavily manned by well-equipped
soldiers; beyond the fortifications were fields with herds tended by slaves.
Another Persian landholder with troops was close enough to respond to torch
signals when his neighbor was attacked and rush to his aid. Moreover, a substantial force of cavalry and heavy- and light-armed soldiers was also within signaling distance and approached swiftly when danger threatened. Further, unlike
royal estates and those belonging to the highest echelons of the aristocracy,
whose owners were not permanent residents on their land, this estate belonged
to a middle-ranking Persian who had settled in the area with his family. Even in
the case of absentee landlords, the Egyptian material and the Babylonian
Murashu archives show that the basic structure of landed estates was similar to
the onc described by Xenophon. On Arsames' estate in Egypt, for example, there
was an estate supervisor who held a grant of land (on which he owed tax) with
servants, a Syrian sculptor with his own household staff, a groom (?) also with
his own staff, a garrison commander and the soldiers under him, and further servants and laborers (Aramaicgrd-').
The Babylonian material provides some information about the organization
of modest land parcels granted to individuals in return for military service; some,
but not all, were attached to large estates (Stolper 1985, 1994). The military
grants were of three different types, according to the type of service and equipment expected: horse-land, bow-land, chariot-land - the basic fighting units of
the Achaemenid army (Sekunda and Chew 1992). The grantees and their obligation were registered in a royal census, kept by army scribes at the main mustering points in the satrapy (Ebeling 1952; Stolper 1985: 29-30). As the empire
stabilized and territorial expansion ceased, the necessity for constant empirewide call-ups receded. The descendants of the grantees were, therefore, expected
to pay a silver tax when their personal service was not required. Many met this
need by leasing their land to the Babylonian entrepreneurial family of Murashu,
who sublet it to tenants. The tenants paid the Murashu their dues in agricultural products, which the firm transformed into silver by marketing it; some of the
silver was then paid back to the original grantees' f.1milies so that they could pay
their state taxes. But the basic obligation to supply a soldier never lapsed. The
census ensured that grantees could not escape service - they may not necessarily have discharged their military duties in person, but the census officers made
sure that a soldier matching the obligation of each land grant appeared at the
call-up.
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AmClie Kuhrt
The system explains the ability ofDarius III in 333 and 331 BC E to field large
armies, comprised of all the peoples of the empire, against Alexander (also
Artaxerxes I1's army at Cunaxa in 401 B CE). It is wrong to think of the Persian
fighting machine as depending totally on Greek mercenary forces. Garrisons stationed throughout the empire were made up of many different ethnic groups
(Tuplin 1987a, 1987b), as well as military colonists, ready at a moment's notice
to take up arms in defense of the state. Elamite, Cilician, Syrian, Jewish, Median,
Arab, and Babylonian soldiers are attested in Egypt; Greek material reveals the
presence of Persian, Assyrian, and Hyrcanian troops in western Asia Minor;
Scythian soldiers were stationed near Carchemish. How exactly the members of
tile different population groups arrived in tile places where tlley appear as soldiers or military settlers is not always clear. The Jewish soldiers at Elephantine
had already served tile Saite kings and were taken into Persian service subsequently. Some of tile many ethnic groups, attested by tile Murashu material as
living in Babylonia, could have been descendants of people settled in the NeoBabylonian period. But tile Persians, too, used mass deportation at times to
weaken centers of resistance; tllis may explain the presence of some people far
from tlleir traditional homelands, including in Parsa itself (Uchitel 1991).
It is likely that the "colonists" were not only obliged to fight for the king:
general government needs for labor (e.g., transport, construction work) were
probably also met tllfough the system, at least in part. But that was not the only
way in which tile kings had access to labor. People called kurtash (in the Elamite
of the Persepolis texts) figure prominently as workers in the Persepolis archives.
Similar groups also appear in Aramaic and Babylonian documents (Aramaicgrd';
Akkadiangardu). Who tlley were is debated. Opinions differ as to whether the
term defines slaves, free workers, some kind of dependent element in the population, or whether it is simply a way in which the administration defined the labor
force, recruited from a range of sources, at their disposal (Dandamaev 1976;
Zaccagnini 1983: 262-4; Stolper 1985: 56-9; Uchitel1991; Briant 1996).
IMPERIAL POWER VERSUS LOCAL
PARTICULARlSM: CONTINUITY AND CHANGE
,!
The top posts in the Achaemenid government were in the hands of a tiny group,
drawn exclusively from the highest levels of tile Persian aristocracy. Was this an
impermeable stratum of power holders defined by their ethnicity? Probably not
(Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1990). There is evidence of at least onc non-Persian rising
to the coveted position of sat rap, as a result of his loyal support during a succession crisis (Stolper 1989). Furtller, Herodotus (6.41) preserves a revealing anecdote about Metiochus, the son of the Athenian general Miltiades, victor at
MaratllOn, who was captured by Phoenician sailors and brought to the king:
Darius, however ... far from doing him any harm, loaded him with favors. He
gave him a house and estate, and also a Persian wife, who bore him children who
were counted Persians.
The Achaemenid Persian empire (e. 550-e. 330 BeE)
Tllis shows that tile king could bestow the rank of "Persian" on people not of
"pure" Persian descent. The interaction, at a regional level, between Persians and
local e1ites should not be underestimated. Who the wives of satraps were is not
generally known, nor the wives of lesser-ranking Persian commanders and officials. Yet there certainly were marriages between local nobles and Persian
women, like that of the Paphlagonian prince Otys, and tile daughter of tile
Persian noble Spithridates (Xenophon, Hellenica 4.1.6-7). The recently discovered funerary stele from Saqqara in Egypt attests that the dead man was tile offspring of a Persian and an Egyptian woman (Matlliesen et al. 1995; Fig. 4.6).
Such alliances gave local e1ites a potential foothold in the Persian system of
honors. Most interesting is tile fact tllat the king himself took women from
among the subject peoples into his household as "concubines." The only
instance known so far is Artaxerxes I, but there is no reason to think he was
unusual: three Babylonian women bore him children, two sons and a daughter;
the two sons struggled for the tllrone and the victor became Darius 11, who was
married to the daughter, Parysatis. As it was possible for bastards to accede, it
thus lay within the grasp of the local nobility to gain access to the highest office
in the empire through their daughters.
At the level below governor of a satrapy, the Persian system can be seen to
depend very much on cooperation with local power holders. Subdivisions within
each satrapy could be governed by local dignitaries (e.g., Casabonne 1995 for
the Cilician dynasts). Further, many satrapies included a multiplicity of different
political entities usually run along traditional lines by their own authorities. In
"Beyond the River," for example, were the following districts: Jerusalem, with
Yehud, retained its sacred laws, its priests, and was administered by Jews (Avigad
1976: 30-6); neigh boring Samaria was governed by the local family of Sanballat
(Cross 1963); the Phoenician cities continued to be ruled by their traditional
dynasts (Betlyon 1980); Ammon, cast of the Jordan, formed another provincial
subdivision, probably under a local governor (Herr 1992); the Aramaic ostraca
currently being published suggest the existence, at least by the fourth century,
of the district ofIdumaea (Lemaire 1994). This mosaic of different sociopolitical units all came under the authority of the satrap, probably located in
Damascus.
The evidence for the existence of very disparate political structlll'es inside the
Persian provinces can leave the impression that the Persians operated a policy of
laissez-faire in which local potentates ran matters to suit themselves with little
reference to the Persian authorities, and central control grew steadily weaker.
The reality is rather different, with the Persians using the local institutions to
work in their interests, and keeping a very tight watch on their internal machinations. Dependence by local potentates on the Persian authorities was always
clearly acknowledged (sce, e.g., Xenophon, Hellenica 3.1.10-15). Individuals
who had held power under former regimes and moved to support the Persian
conquerors were recruited into the new king's entourage, with their authority
definitively diminished. The Egyptian Udjahorresnet, for example (L1oyd 1982),
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Amelie Kuhrt
had been a naval commander under the Saite rulers; following Cambyses' conquest, he was stripped of his military post, granted the rank of royal "friend,"
and assigned a prominent position in the Neith temple at Sais. In other words,
he retained an honored social position within Egyptian society, but forfeited any
effective political power (Briant 1988).
Another problem has been how to understand the apparent continuity of
regional cultures - artistic, linguistic, and religious. Local languages continue to
be employed; local people carry on in positions of authority; local patterns of
production show no discernible Persian impact; local cults continue undisturbed. But here, too, closer examination reveals that the Persians harnessed the
diverse local forms to exercise power flexibly and to create channels of interaction with their subjects. Thus, with respect to language: although the
Achaemenid kings used local languages for their decrees, they also employed
Aramaic as a lingua fra-flea, and spread its use throughout the imperial ten'itories. Moreover, the form of Aramaic developed in the Achaemenid period reflects
an underlying Persian bureaucratic usage. So, at the regional level people did not
simply continue to use their own languages as though nothing had changed.
Aramaic was employed alongside them regularly and set an official seal on royal
and satrapal directives (Metzger eta!. 1979; Briant 1986).
In the realm of religion, too, the Persian kings did not simply leave everything
unchanged, through their (misnamed) policy of "religious tolerance." In Egypt
and Babylonia they were careful to appear as active upholders of local cults in
order to ensure control of the wealthy sanctuaries and the adherence of their
staff. Yet things never continued precisely as earlier. For example, in Egypt, the
office of "God's wife of AnulI1," an institution that had played a central role in
consolidating claims to rulership of Egypt for over 300 years (Caminos 1964),
came to an end under the Achaemenid monarchs. Cyrus, after his victory in
Babylonia, installed his son as local sub-king in the comse of the Babylonian New
Year Festival, a ceremony that reaffirmed annually the political contract between
king and subjects (Kuhrt 1987). In the context of these traditional celebrations,
Cyrus took charge after the formal investitme of his son and led the public procession dressed in Persian, not Babylonian, garments: i.e., he exploited the occasion to drive home Babylonia's new subordination to Persian rule (Kuhrt 1997:
300-2). The shrines of people who had rebelled could be, and were, destroyed
(the Apollo sanctuary at Didyma, Herodotus 6.19; the Athena temple in Athens,
Herodotus 8.53). Artaxerxes 11 is said to have introduced a statue cult of Ana hit a
in the imperial centers (Berosssus, in Jacoby 1923-: 680, Fll). The aim was
probably to reinforce the cohesion of the Persian communities living far from
the imperial heartland, a way of strengthening their sense of identity as members
of the governing elite (see Brumfiel, this volume). One effect was to distinguish
the Persians of the diaspora through their cult by introducing Iranian shrines into
the provincial capitals (Briant 1986).
Persian ideology, court art, and practices also had an impact on conquered
peoples. As already noted (pp. 98-9), Darius' message, enshrined at Behistun,
The Aehaemenid Persian empire (e. 550-e. 330 BeE)
was known throughout the realm, as were the ideals of kingship, which may be
echoed in a poem celebrating one of the local dynasts in Lycia (Herrenschmidt
1985). Local seal types adopted Persian motifs (Collon 1987: 90-3; Bregstein
1993); local coins show Persian scenes (Betlyon 1980: pis. 1--4; Meshorer and
Qedar 1991); precious metal drinking sets reflect the widespread adoption of
Persian styles of banqueting by local elites (Moorey 1985).9 The small palace in
the citadel at Babylon was typically Persian in layout and decoration (Haerinck
1973), and the seat of a local dynast in the mountains of Cilicia had carved reliefs
imitating scenes from Persepolis (Davesnes et al. 1987). Egyptian private sculptme shows dignitaries in standard Egyptian pose, but wearing typical Persian
comt jewelry (Bothmer 1960: figs. 151-2). One motif of the Persian iconographic repertoire is attested in use at several widely separated places and times
and in diverse contexts: the "royal audience scene," showing the king seated on
his distinctive throne, featmes several times in relief at Persepolis. The
Daskyleion bullae show that the same scene was carved on royal seals (Kaptan
1996a); it also figures in the iconography of some of the Sidon sarcophagi and
on the stelae of Lycian dynasts (see M. Miller 1997: 122). Both in Babylonia
(Bregstein 1993: 612, no. 214) and Egypt (Mathiesen et al. 1995), scenes have
now been found closely modeled on the royal figme of the "audience relief" (see
Fig. 4.6).10 In the Egyptian case, it is clear that the image served to present a
man, of mixed Persian-Egyptian descent on a typically Egyptian funerary stele,
as a Persian dignitary with recognizable royal overtones (Briant 1996).
Local modes of agricultmal production retained, of necessity, their basic
forms. But the imperial grip on productive resomces was tight: the king, royal
family, Persian nobles, and courtiers held extensive tracts of land the length
and breadth of the realm. Villagers within satrapies were assigned duties, additional to the regular burden of tax and services, that affected the amount they
were obliged to produce from their fields. They had to supply the satrapal
court with food (Nehemiah 5.14-15; Herodotus 1.192), as well as the soldiers
manning local garrison posts (Segal 1983: no. 24; cf. Hoglund 1992: 213).
Perhaps most significant was the Persian king's control of access to water.
Royal officials managed the crucial canal system in Babylonia, which was crown
property (Stolper 1985). The kings are known to have constructed an extensive underground irrigation system (qannt) in northern Iran (Polybius 10.28);
archaeological evidence shows that the same system was deployed by them in
the Khargah oasis (Briant 1992). Herodotus (3.Il7) describes Darius blocking off a river, on which the slll'rounding people depended for water, and only
allowing distribmion channels to be opened in response to petitioning and
payment.
Parsa, the imperial heartland, experienced a striking landscape transformation
in the Achaemenid period. The two magnificent royal cities, Pasargadae and
Persepolis, were founded. In the 400 to 500 years preceding the development
of the Persian state, Parsa had been a sparsely settled region, with virtually no
urban centers; subsistence was based on herding animals, rather than f:1rming.
121
122
AmClie Kuhrt
The Achaemenid Persian empire (e. 550-e. 330 BeE)
High land, blessed with a healthy climate and full of the fruits appropriate to
the season. There were glens heavily wooded and shady cultivated trees of
various kinds in parks, and also naturally converging glades hill of trees of every
sort and streams of water, so that travelers lingered with delight in places pleasantly inviting repose. Also there was an abundance of cattle of eve!'}' kind ...
those who inhabited the country were the most warlike of tlle Persians, every
man being a bowman and a slinger, and in density of population, too, tllis
country £lr surpassed the other satrapies .
.i
4.6 Ftmerary stele
from the Persiall
period, fouud at
Saqqara.
Archaeological surveys show that this pattern ofHfe changed radically in the sixth
to fourth centuries BC E, when settlements increased enormously in number
(Sumner 1986). This is echoed lyrically in the late fourth century by the Greek
historian Hieronymus of Cardia (repeated by Diodorus 19.21.2-4), who
described Parsa as a veritable Garden of Eden:
123
PART 11
EMPIRES IN A WIDER WORLD
Terence N. D'Altroy
Empires are by nature unwieldy beasts, as difficult to capture descriptively as they
are to manage. In contrast to the pristine states, which are typically described as
though they were tightly integrated societies in which all dimensions of power
had roughly comparable reaches, empires are marked by heterogeneity and shifting frontiers. Lattimore's (1962) neat conception of concentric radii of control
(economic, civil, and military) notwithstanding, the outstanding feature ofpreindustrial empires was the continually metamorphosing nature of relations
between the central powers and the societies drawn under the imperial aegis.
Scholars often have difficulty in agreeing on what constitutes an empire precisely
because they prefer to emphasize political sovereignty, economic control, or military domination as the essence of imperialism. Thus, for some analysts, the
Roman polity of the first century C E constitutes the archetypal - and thus only
legitimate form of - empire, while others prefer to emphasize forms of control
that vary from loose domination to formal bureaucracy (see, e.g., Eisenstadt
1963; Luttwak 1976; Hassig 1985; Doylc 1986; Sinopoli 1994a).
The chapters in this section - as well as most throughout this volume - illustrate Mal1l1's (1986) point that empires arc better understood as intersecting
networks of power than as well-ordered polities. They are characterized by a
host of interests: some constituted as formal institutions and some as ephemeral coalitions that pass as conditions change. The contingent nature of these
relations is neatly illustrated by the dealings between the political and ideological institutions found in the Satavahana, Aztec, and Spanish American empires
125
I:
126
Terence N. DJAltroy
presented in this section. In the Satavahana and Spanish cases, the political
organizations were embedded within macro-regions in which grand religious
traditions held sway. Sinopoli observes that the royal sponsorship of Buddhist
institutions marks an ideological flexibility of a kind common to many early
empires. It also represents a cheap way for a political entity to buy legitimacy in
a region where polities come and go, but religious traditions run deep. In an
analogous fashion, the Spanish crown sought the Vatican's imprimatur for their
American ventures. Deagan points out that the rights to conquer the New
World were exchanged for an obligation to evangelize its residents - once they
were recognized as being human beings with souls. In each case, one can see
the jockeying for benefit between different institutional sources of power whose
domains were not concordant.
In contrast, the scope of the political and ideological institutions within the
Aztec polity was essentially congruent. As Smith and Brumfiel show, secular and
ideological authority appear to have been vested in the same core set of elites
and they thus tended to reinforce one another rather than negotiate power.
That does not imply that the Aztec polity was a neatly unified territorial empire,
however. To the contrary, through his use of a world systems framework, Smith
argues that the core Aztec state maintained a variety of relations with subject
and client polities within a larger-scale economic network. Those relations
resulted largely from strategies that were designed to meet the goals of the
Aztec heartland in the context of an enormously varied - and often hostile political terrain.
A related element of the study of empires raised by these (and other) chapters
is an analysis of the local effects of imperial expansion, both on the incorporated
peoples and among the front line members of the expansionist politics. In her
analysis of the Spanish American empire, Deagan highlights how the adoption
oflocal customs and intermarriage reflects a flexibility on the part of the individuals living at the intersection between the imperial and subject cultlll'es. She is
able to show that the layout of settlements followed the imperial agenda at the
same time that individuals pursued flexible local arrangements. A key inference
is that the imperial presence would appear quite different, depending on where
one looked for evidence. Smith makes a comparable point in his examination of
the impacts of the Aztec expansion into MOl·eloS. His analysis emphasizes that a
focus solely on the imperial heartland, on the life of elites, or even on relations
between the core and provincial areas is bound to overlook the complexities of
life among subject societies. Imperial incorporation often profoundly affected
the lives of subject peoples, but a key point that is often overlooked is that the
demands of daily life and cultural incongruities contributed mightily to the
nature of provincial relations. Many studies concern themselves with the grand
and the powerful, but the nature oflife for a vast proportion of imperial subjects
revolved around f.1mily, kin, and making a living. Those are hardly the stuff of
monumental inscriptions, but their consequences produced the bulk of the
material record in the societies that we study.
Part If Empires in a wider world
That leads into a final point - the evidentiary basis for our analysis of the polities discussed here. In many ways, we are worse off than the proverbial blind
men and tlle elephant. Instead of a firm grip on a tail, a trunk, or an ear, too
often we have a few broken ribs in a bag, some fossilized droppings in a vial, and
a corner of a circus poster under plastic. Less metaphorically, our analyses depend
on intersecting lines of evidence from different sources - historical, monumental, dynastic, numismatic, and archaeological. Deagan, Sinopoli, and Smith all
illustrate how reliance upon particular data sets or contexts of recovery heavily
affects our interpretations. As they all point out, in most cases the basis for our
knowledge remains appallingly sketchy and selective. It is to the credit of the
contributors to this volume and of other scholars that we have come as far in
understanding empires as we have. Even so, it is also clear that characterizations
are going to change again soon, not simply because of shifting theoretical perspectives, but because investigators are still doing the hard and inelegant work
of gathering data in the trenches and archives. Stay tuned.
127
The Aztec empire and the Mesoamerican world system
5
The Aztec empire and the Mesoamerican
world system
Michael E. Smith
128
The Aztec empire expanded within the context of an already existing world
system that linked independent city-states over most of Mesoamerica. The full
development of the world system preceded the empire by only a century, and
both took place within the archaeological period known as the Late Postclassic
period (1350-1520 CE). Most archaeological chronologies have not been
refined beyond this level, however, producing a conflation of world system and
imperial dynamics. The analytical separation of the two macro-regional processes
is fi.lrther hindered by the fact that they shared many of the same institutions and
processes (e.g., marketplace exchange, professional merchants, the use of currency, and various patterns of interaction among elites).
In this paper I attempt to disentangle the Aztec empire from the
Mesoamerican world system by examining change in central Mexico using a
refined chronological framework. In the Middle Postclassic period (MPC) the
Aztec peoples arrived in central Mexico and established city-state dynasties and
market systems (Table 5.1). The first half of the Late Postclassic period (LPCA) saw a series of innovations that transformed a long-standing Mesoamerican
world system into a heavily commercialized network of exchange with highland
central Mexico as a major core zone. In the second half of the Late Postclassic
period (LPC- B), the key core region contracted to the Basin of Mexico and the
Aztec empire expanded to conquer large parts of northern Mesoamerica.
I begin with a consideration of the problems of studying empires and world
systems with archaeological evidence. Next I review the chronological development of these processes within central Mexico. In the following section I focus
on the strategies of Aztec imperialism to show how the empire both drew from
and added to the larger Mesoamerican world system as it expanded. I then
address the impact that these processes had on societies in the provincial area of
MOl'elOS, using data from my excavations in that area. In this paper I use the term
"Aztecs" to designate the Nahuatl-speaking peoples of highland central Mexico,
and the term "Aztec empire" to designate the empire headed by the Mexica
polity ofTenochtitlan.
Table 5.1. Chronology for Postclassic central Mexico
Date (CE)
Period
Political-economic system
1600
1500
1400
1300
1200
1100
1000
Spanish
Late Postclassic B
Late Postclassic A
Middle Postclassic
Spanish colonial society
Aztec empire
Postclassic world system
Growth of Aztec city-states
Early Postclassic
Toltec state
THE ARCHAEOLOGICAL STUDY OF EMPIRES
AND WORLD SYSTEMS
My approach to the analysis of ancient imperialism begins with an observation
made by Michael Doyle (1986: 46) in his book, Empires:
Four intersecting sources account for the imperial relationship: the metropolitan regime, its capacities and interests; the peripheral political society, its interests and weakness; the transnational system and its needs; and the international
context and the incentives it creates.
An adequate understanding of any ancient empire requires attention to all four
f.1ctors, and one of the goals of this chapter is to present a holistic view of Aztec
imperialism from the perspective of Doyle's four factors.
A material-culture model of imperialism
Before proceeding to the Aztec case, I first explore the use ofDoyle's framework
to construct a material-culture model of imperialism. Here I will briefly outline
a series of material indicators of empires that permit the identification and analysis of ancient empires from archaeological remains alone. For many of the cases
described in this volume, such a method is not necessary. Archaeologists do not
need to ask whether the Romans, the Chinese, or the Achaemenids really had
empires, since their historical records clearly document empires and imperialism.
But in the New World, where powerfi.ll states and empires rose and fell before
the advent of native writing or foreign descriptions, the existence of empires centered at cities such as Teotihuacan, Tula, or Wari (Schreiber, this volume) are
important empirical issues. Even in the case of the Aztecs, a polity described by
Spanish writers, some scholars have claimed that it was not really an empire (see
Berdan et al. 1996: 6; for a comparative case, see Subramanyam, this volume),
and thus a purely archaeological approach to the question can help illuminate
the issue. 1
I have adapted three of Doyle's four factors to the task of documenting the
129
130
existence of an empire. Tills scheme, which is elaborated more fully in Smith and
Montiel (n.d.), is outlined in Table 5.2. Tills admittedly simplistic formulation
is designed to assess the likelihood tl1at a given ancient polity was an empire. This
is a polythetic classification scheme; not every historically known empire exhibited all oftl1e traits listed in Table 5.2, and empires differed in the relative importance or expression of tl1ese traits.
1 The imperial capital (Doyle)s ((metropolitan regime)))
Empires almost always have a large and complex urban center that serves as the
imperial capital, although a few exceptions are known, such as tl1e Carolingian
empire (see Moreland, this volume). Nearly all known capital cities exhibit public
proclamations of an imperial ideology. Although tl1ere is considerable cross-cultural variation in imperial ideology, two common themes often produced
material traces recoverable by archaeologists: militarism (see Brumfiel and
Schreiber, tillS volume) and the glorification of the king or the polity.
I
The Aztec empire and the Mesoamerican world system
Michael E. Smith
2 DominatiMl of a territory (Doyle)s «tranmational system)))
This factor can be divided into economic and political processes. All empires
exhibit processes of economic exchange of goods between capital and provinces.
Although these can take many forms, from tribute and taxes through open commercial exchange, the basic existence of some form of exchange is crucial for the
identification of empires. Fortunately, trade goods are readily identifiable in most
archaeological settings.
The political control of the provinces is at the heart of the imperial relationship (Doyle 1986), yet it can be one of the most difficult processes to document
archaeologically. Variation within this process, as suggested by the five examples
in Table 5.2, is a topic of active research by archaeologists working on ancient
empires (e.g., Redmond 1983; Schreiber 1992; Sinopoli 1994a). Political
control can be quite visible and obvious in territorial, or direct-control empires
such as the Inka (D'Altroy, this volume), whereas it can be difficult to identify
in hegemonic, or indirect-control empires such as the Aztec (see discussion
below). Liverani (this volume) makes some excellent suggestions of possible
archaeological measures of political control.
3 Projection of influmce in a larger international context
The international context is important to Doyle tor the large-scale political and
economic dynamics that affect an empire, and I follow this approach below in
my discussion of world systems. For my present purpose, however, the significance of the larger international context in the archaeological documentation of
imperialism lies in an empire's projection of influence beyond its borders.
Empires exert economic influence on other societies, and this expresses itself in
archaeological evidence tor trade across imperial frontiers. The projection of
political influence can involve military activities along imperial borders, and the
stimulation of political centralization or militarization among extra-imperial
Table 5.2. Archaeological criteria for the idmtification of empires
Features
Examples
1 The imperial capital:
Large, complex urban center
Proclamations of imperial ideology
2 Domillatioll of a territory:
Economic exchange between capital
and provinces
Political control of provinces
1 Militarism
2 Glorification of king or of state
1 Provincial goods found at capital
2 Imperial goods found in provinces
1
2
3
4
5
Military conquest
Construction of imperial infrasu'ucture
Imposition ofu'ibute or taxes
Reorganization of settlement systems
Imperial coopting of local elites
3 Projectioll of illjlllCllce ill a tm;ger illtel'1latiollal COli text:
Economic influence
1 Trade witll extra-imperial regions
Political influence
1 Militaqr engagement and activities along
enemy borders
2 Centralization or militarization of extraimperial polities
Cultural influence
1 Adoption of imperial gods or rituals by
distant peoples
2 Emulation of imperial styles and traits by
distant peoples
polities in contact with the empire. Finally, empires exert cultural influence
over areas beyond their borders that leads to the archaeologically visible
spread of imperial gods, rituals, and styles. These processes of extra-imperial
influence have been particularly well documented tor the Roman empire in
Europe (e.g., Whittaker 1994), but they are found in nearly all cases of ancient
imperialism.
Doylc's second factor - the peripheral political society - is not included in this
scheme because it is not strongly implicated in the archaeological identification
of empires. Empires typically conquered all sorts of provincial polities, and their
analysis is important for understanding any particular case of imperialism.
Because of this variation, however, the nature of provincial polities is difficult to
use as a material marker of the presence of an empire.
The majority of the ancient empires discussed in this volume exhibit most or
all of the features listed in Table 5.2. The only prehistoric empire included - Wari
- also conforms to these criteria, thus supporting Schreiber's identification of the
Wad phenomenon as an empire. The application of this scheme to the pre-Aztec
131
132
Michael E. Smith
polities of central Mexico suggests that Classic period Teotihuacan was the
capital of a small empire within central Mexico, whereas Early Postclassic Tula
did not rule an empire (in spite of many assertions to the contrary, e.g., Diehl
1983). These case studies are elaborated in Smith and Montiel (n.d.).
Ancient world systems
As pointed out by Doyle, empires do not exist in a vacuum. Events and processes
outside of an empire can have profound effects on its expansion and organization. This "international context" is an area where the world systems concept can
contribute to our understanding of imperial dynamics. Immanuel Wallerstein's
(1974) world systems theory exerted a strong influence on the anthropological
analysis of modern peoples in the 1980s (e.g., Wolf 1982). Although some
archaeologists experimented with a world systems approach at that time (e.g.,
Blanton and Feinman 1984; Kohl 1987), it was not until the 1990s that world
systems theory began to exert a significant influence on archaeologists studying
ancient state-level societies (Algaze 1993; Hall and Chase- Dunn 1993; Peregrine
and Feinman 1996).
Some scholars object to the use of the world systems concept for ancient
societies on the grounds that ancient systems differed greatly from the modern
capitalist world system analyzed by Wallerstein (see Kohl 1987). Recent archaeological applications of the approach, however, have modified Wallerstein's
model to better fit precapitalist conditions. Most archaeologists employ Jane
Schneider's (1977) revision of Wallerstein's formulation to emphasize the
importance of long-distance exchange in luxuries. A common trend in these
studies is to relax the stipulations of Wailerstein's model of the capitalist world
system to make it more applicable to ancient societies. For example, in place of
the capitalist economic domination of peripheries by a core, ancient world
systems had differentiated cores and peripheries without strong hierarchical relations; in place of a single core zone, ancient world systems had multiple core
areas (Peregrine 1996). Nevertheless, two basic principles remain central to
archaeological views of ancient world systems. First, world systems exhibited significant commercial exchange across political borders. Second, they contained a
division of lab or that far exceeded the territorial extent of anyone polity (ChaseDunn and Hall 1997).
These two principles are crucial to the archaeological analysis of ancient world
systems. For archaeologists, a better starting point than Wallerstcin is Janet AbuLughod's (1989) study, Before European Hegemony: The World System, AD
1250-1350. Abu-Lughod provides an empirical study of a precapitalist world
system that shows the value of the world systems concept without becoming
mired in debates about the usefulness of Wailerstein's approach. The importance
of the world systems concept is that it provides a fi'amework for analyzing economic exchanges at a large scale. All types of human societies engage in some
The Aztec empire alld the Mesoamericall world system
form oflong-distance exchange, but only among some state-level societies does
this exchange become crucial to the basic structure and functioning of individual polities. When a large number of independent polities engage in high
volumes of exchange, and when the processes and results of that exchange exert
strong effects on the social and political organization of those polities, we can
speak of the existence of a world system. Archaeological methods for the analysis of ancient world systems are still underdeveloped. Although it is often relatively easy to document the existence, and even the magnitude of ancient
exchange systems, it is quite difficult to demonstrate the local social impact of
tllat exchange. Recent treatments of this issue make some progress (e.g., Kepecs
et al. 1994; Sherratt 1993), but the analysis of ancient world systems with
archaeological data alone remains difficult.
ECONOMIC CHANGE IN AZTEC CENTRAL
MEXICO
Pre-Aztec bacleground
Blanton and Feinman (1984) suggest that the operation of a world system provided distinctiveness and cohesion to Mesoamerica as a cultural area back to the
Middle Formative period (1200-400 BC E) at least. The Mesoamerican world
system underwent a series of transformations with changing political and economic processes through the Classic and Early Postclassic periods. City-states
and empires rose and fell, long-distance trade routes underwent various changes,
and religious and ideological expression was trans/()f'Jlled partly as a result of
these changes. Some time between the twelfth and /omteenth centmies C E, the
Mesoamerican world system underwent a fundamental qualitative and quantitative change, and by the time Cortcs conquered the Aztecs, Mesoamerican economics and politics had been greatly trans/()f'Jlled. A consideration of the Middle
Postclassic period sets the scene f()r this tranSf()f'Jllation in central Mexico.
Early Aztec city-states (MPC)
The arrival ofNahuatl-speaking populations in central Mexico dming the twelfth
centlll'y C E, known as the Aztlan migrations, marked the beginning of Aztec
cultme (M. E. Smith 1996). The Toltec state centered at Tula had recently collapsed, leaving no large politics in central Mexico. The twelfth century also saw
a shift from a five-centlll'Y period of warm and dry climate to conditions of
greater rainfall and cooler temperatmes in this area (O'Hara et al. 1994). The
result of these events was the inception of several centmies of significant population increase accompanied by a variety of major changes in Aztec society,
including processes of political expansion, the growth of marketplace trade, and
agricultural intensification. Although the Aztec peoples were not isolated from
133
134
Michael E. Smith
developments in other parts of Mesoamerica, the lack of evidence for intensive
economic and cultural interactions during this period suggests that they were not
actively involved in the larger world system at tllis time. 2
Aztec pictorial histories tell a story of fledgling city-states whose rulers proclaimed tlleir legitimacy tlll"ough real or putative genealogical links to the Toltec
kings of tile past. City-states expanded in size and scope and much of the native
llistorical record is concerned with battles and dynastic intrigue (Davies 1980).
When a city-state managed to conquer one of its neighbors, the loser was
assessed for tribute in goods and services. The defeated ruler was left in power
and his government remained intact so long as he agreed to tile victor's terms
and paid tile tribute. As in otller city-state systems, the political situation was
llighly volatile Witll constantly shifting alliances. No single city-state managed to
conquer enough of its peers in tile MPC period to be considered an empire. At
tile same time tllat city-state armies were fighting, however, their rulers were also
cooperating Witll one another. Marriage alliances, visiting, and other forms of
social interaction were tile norm among both rival and friendly dynasties, and
tile various city-state elites soon forged a common social class or nobility that cut
across political boundaries (Hodge 1997; M. E. Smith 1986).
Anotller form of friendly interaction among tile Aztec city-states of the MPC
period was commercial exchange. Archaeological research has documented patterns of exchange in ceramics and obsidian in MPC central Mexico consistent with
tile operation of markets and merchants (Minc et al. 1994; M. E. Smith n.d.).
The Aztecs of the MPC period were heavily involved in the production and
exchange of two commodities that would later play important roles in the
Mesoamerican world system and the Aztec empire: obsidian and textiles.
Obsidian was the predominant cutting tool among the Aztecs, and all MPC
Aztec households had ready access to this product. There are several geological
sources of obsidian in central Mexico, and all were exploited at this time
(Charlton and Spence 1982). Transport costs were high in the Aztec economy
because of the absence of beasts of burden and the paucity of navigable waterways in central Mexico. As an exchange commodity, obsidian was particularly
valuable because of the large number of tools that could be made from a given
amount of raw material (Sanders and Santley 1983). Cloth served a variety of
roles in Aztec society, including clothing, tribute goods, medium of exchange,
royal gifts, and signals of social status (Berdan 1987a). Cotton thread was spun
using small spindle whorls and miniature bowls, and maguey thread was dropspun with larger whorls (Fauman-Fichman 1997; Smith and Hirth 1988).
Textile production and exchange increased greatly throughout Mesoamerica in
the Middle and Late Postclassic periods (Stark et al. 1998).
By the end of the MPC period in the fourteenth century, populations were
growing, the economy was expanding (through agricultural intensification, craft
production, and marketplace trade), the nobility was growing in numbers and
power, and city-states were conquering tlleir neighbors to extract tribute. When
this dynamic region tapped into large-scale Mesoamerican patterns of commerce
The Aztec empire and the Mesoamerican JI10rld system
and stylistic communication in the LPC period, the Mesoamerican world system
was transformed through the establishment of Aztec central Mexico as the major
core area.
The Late Postclassic Mesoamerican JVorld system (LPC-A)
Previous analyses of tile Mesoamerican world system in tile Late Postclassic
period have relied upon documentary sources rather than archaeological data
(Blanton and Feinman 1984; Blanton et al. 1992), and tllis has limited tlleir
value in two ways. First, tllese studies have dealt only Witll tlle LPC- B period
immediately before the Spanish conquest (since that is tile period described in
most documentary sources). Second, these studies have confused the institutions
of the Aztec empire (LPC-B) with the larger-scale and temporally earlier institutions of tile Mesoamerican world system (LPC-A). For example, Aztec imperial
tribute in luxury goods such as exotic feathers, gold, gems, and fancy textiles is
viewed as an example of world system exchanges. Commerce in these items long
preceded tile expansion of the Aztec empire, however, and we must go back to
the LPC-A period to examine the origin and operation of the Mesoamerican
world system.
The development of city-states in Aztec central Mexico was not a unique
occurrence. Throughout Mesoamerica, the large states of the Classic period gave
way to more numerous independent small polities in Postclassic times (e.g.,
Blanton et al. 1993; Chase and Rice 1985). In the Late Postclassic period, citystates throughout Mesoamerica became linked together through the processes
of commercial exchange and stylistic interaction. In almost every region, archaeological research has revealed a dramatic growth of long-distance exchange in
the LPC period (Blanton et al. 1993: 210-17). Ethnohistoric sources describe
marketplaces all over Mesoamerica linked by professional merchants, and archaeology reveals widespread trade in both utilitarian goods such as obsidian, domestic pottery, salt, and bronze tools, and luxury items such as gold, jade, bronze
bells, and fancy textiles (Scholes and Roys 1968; Berdan 1988; M. E. Smith
1990; Andrews 1993; Hosier 1994).
Evidence for stylistic interaction is found in a style of mural painting that
spread throughout Mesoamerica. During the MPC period, a distinctive polychrome painting style, the Mixteca- Puebla style, had developed at Cholula, an
ancient religious center east of the Basin of Mexico. This style was first applied
to painted manuscripts and polychrome ceramics, and Cholula polychromes
became the f.1nciest and most highly esteemed ceramics in Postclassic
Mesoamerica (the Spanish conqueror Bernal Diaz reported that the Aztec
emperor Motecuhzoma would only eat from imported Cholula servingware).
During the LPC period, the Aztecs adopted the Mixteca-Puebla style for tlleir
painted manuscripts and stone sculptures (Nicholson and Quii'iones Keber
1994). Beyond central Mexico, peoples all over Mesoamerica adopted certain
key elements of the Mixteca- Puebla style to create a single "International style"
135
The Aztec cmpire ami the Me.wJaJllcriCClIl world .I)'Jtem
Michaei E. Smith
136
Gulf
of
Mexico
Pacific
Ocean
MAYAAREA
,
I
N
I
D
L22l
''-_..:'''-:--:c''
0
250
.Ixlmcho
,
Tributary Provinces
Strategic Provinces
Southern extent of Maya area
500 km
S.l 'f7JC Aztec empire
and the MC.\·oalllcriwlI
wor/d .I),stclII. '/7JC
world .I),stclII ((}pcrcd
the Aztcc fllld
'lhl'llsCIllI empires 11 /Id
the MI1)'11 IIl'ell, 11.1'
lIoted b)' (he
IICCIII'l'CIICC (~f'tbc
1I11t1'll/spailltcd ill tbc
"/II(C1'IIIItiollll/ st),lc"
(b/l1cli eire/cs).
of mural painting (Robertson 1970; Smith and Heath-Smith 1980). The spatial
distribution of this style maps the sodal and economic interactions that structured the Mesoamerican world system (Fig. 5.1).
LPC trade and stylistic interaction had a core-periphery structure characteristic of andent world systems (Chase- Dunn and Hall 1997; Peregrine 1996). In
the LPC-A period a large part of the central Mexican highlands, fi'om Cholula
to the Basin of Mexico, constituted the major core zone. The Mixteca- Puebla
style had devdoped in this area and then spread to the rest of Mesoamerica as
the International style. Compared to the peripheral regions, central Mexico at
this time had larger and more dynamic polities, higher population densities, and
greater accumulations of economic surplus in the f(lI'IllS of growing cities and
increasingly sumptuous palaces fell' kings and other nobles. Exotic, high-value
goods such as jade, turquoise, and bronze tools and jewdry were imported into
central Mexico, and the Aztecs of the Basin of tvkxico exported large quantities
of decorated ceramics (Aztec II I black -on-orange and other types), obsidian, and
salt (M. E. Smith 1990).
Central Mexico in the LPC-A period was the setting fllr a dynamic society
typical of a world system core zone. Populations grew enorlllously fi'olll M PC
times, and the entire landscape was transflll'llled by intensive agriculture in the
f(ll'Ill of irrigation, terradng, and raised fidds (M. E. Smith 1996: 69-84).
vVarf~lre among dty-states escalatcd, and several polities succeeded in conquer-
ing numel'ClUS neighbors to become mini-empires; these included Azcapotzalco
and Texcoco in the Basin of lvkxico and Cuauhnahuac in Mordos. Cities grew
and dites expanded in numbers and power. Regional marketplace trade
expanded, as did long-distance commerce (sce bdow).
The Mesoamerican world system of the Late Postclassic period ditlered fi'om
a number of other ancient world systems in that commerce in luxury goods was
not part of a "prestige-goods system.» I n prestige-goods systems, e1ites control
or manipulate the production, exchange, and consumption ofluxury goods, and
this control is a major source of their power (Blanton ct al. 1996; Peregrine
1996). Luxury goods such as exotic tCathers, jewelry, cacao, and fancy textiles
certainly played important economic and social roles in Aztec society. They were
widdy exchanged through trade and tribute (Berdan 1987b), and they were
used as part of the political processes of elites (Brumfiel 1987). Nevertheless,
Aztec dites did not control the production, exchange, or consumption ofluxury
goods.
Many luxury goods were produced by attached specialists who worked (lr
noble patrons. In addition to production fllr their patl'On, however, these artisans also produced goods that they sold in the markets. Aztec nobles did not at
all monopolize trade in luxury goods. Most oft-he trade of the well-known Aztec
/,ochtcca merchants (professional merchants of the commoner class who were
organized into guilds) was entrepreneurial in nature, with only a small portion
carried out fllr royal patrons. In(lJ'Illation about merchants fi'om other areas of
Mesoamerica suggests similar patterns of entrepreneurial trade (e .g., Scholes and
Roys 1968). Although sumptuary rules did exist, most luxury goods, ft'om stone
sculptures and jade necklaces to cacao and lCatherwork, were sold in marketplaces to anyone who could pay the price. At the provincial Aztec sites I have
excavated, exotic luxury goods arc f(llllld equally at commoner and elite residences. Even Aztec peasants in provincial villages could obtain jade beads,
bronze bells, and the same kinds of' Cholula polychrome plates used to serve
dinner to the emperor tv\otecuhzoma.
I think that scholars have been misled into giving luxury goods too Illuch
importance by the exaggerated claims of'Aztec nobles (as described in the works
of the Spanish chroniclers such as Sahagllll and DlII'an), and by the spectacular
ort<.:rings excavated at the central imperial temple, the 'I'emplo Mayor (Lllpez
Luj~ln 1994; Matos Moctezuma 1988). Commerce in luxury goods IJIIl.\' important in the Aztec economy, as it was in all ancient world systems (Schneider
1977), but the prominence of'merchants, markets, and money meant that the
Aztec economy clearly was 110/ a prestige-goods system.
Expwftsiotl
(~f'the
Aztec empire (I,PC-B)
The specific historical events surrounding the establishment and expansion of the
Aztec empire arc well known fi'om the pictorial and narrative records of Aztec
native history (sce Davies 1973 ):1 The tv\exica people had been the last of the
137
Mic/mc! E. Smith
138
Aztlan immigrant groups to arnve in central fvlexico. Their city-state
Tenochtitlan became a subject of the ruler of the Tepanec polity Azcapotzalco,
onc of the Aztec mini-empires of the LPC-A period. The Mexica paid tribute in
the {()!'In of military service, and by the 1420s the Mexica armies were among
the most effective in central Mexico. Tenochtitlan developed into a busy commercial center at this time, and the Mexica dynasty established a series of advantageous marriage alliances with powerful city-states.
In 1428 the Mexica king Itzeoatl and several allied politics defeated
Azcapotzaico. Although some sources talk of the (>l'Il1ation of a "Triple
Alliance" of Tenochtitlan, Texcoco, and Tlacopan that ruled the resulting
empire, it is likely that the Mexica were in finn control from the start (sec
Gillespie 1998). The Mexica employed the traditional Aztec pattern of political
expansion whereby conquered city-states were assessed f()r tribute in a variety of
goods while local dynasties were left alone so long as they cooperated with the
empire. Within a decade most of the Basin of Mexico had been subdued and the
Mexica extended their conquests out of the Basin, starting with Cuauhnahuac
and other politics in Morelos.
5.2 ilztc:c soldicrs
JI'CIl1'illlf jlllTIIII1'
sllill
COSt/llllt:S 1I11d CII /'I'yilll!
obsidillll cdlled .fwords.
The empire expanded in two cyclcs or wavcs o['conquest (Fig. S.2). ltzcoatl's
initial conquests started the first cycle, which was cOl1!inued in a series of wideranging campaigns by his successor, Motecuhzoma I of Tenochtitlan, and by
Nezahualcoyotl ofTexcoco. These two powerful kings brought a large territory
under control, fi'om Veracruz to Oaxaca. The next Mexica king, Axayacatl,
devoted most of his energies to consolidating his predecessor's conquests
through selective battles and the organization of an imperial tribute system.
Axayacatl also attempted to extend the empire to the west at the expense of the
Tarascan empire, where he incurred the most disastrous Aztec defeat prior to the
arrival of the Spaniards.
In 1486 the Mexica king Ahuitzotl embarked upon another major cycle of
expansion and extended the empire to the Pacilic Ocean, to Oaxaca, and south
Thc Aztec empire
IInti
the lvlesollmcl'icrm world
into Maya territory. Tropical lowland areas were conquered, and city-states in
these areas paid tribute in lowland luxury goods including quetzal feathers, jade,
cacao, and jaguar pelts. The next Mexica king, Motecuhzoma II, consolidated
Ahuitzotl's gains in Oaxaca, Puebla, and Veracruz, and he made an unsuccessful
eff()rt to conquer Tlaxcalla, an independent Aztec state cast of the Basin of
Mexico. His reign was CLIt short in 1S 19 with the arrival of the armies of
Hernando Cortes.
As the empire expanded, the Mexica nobility grew more powerfld and wealthy,
and Tenochtitlan was rebuilt in the {<:>I'm of the ancient imperial capitals
Teotihuacan and Tula. The Mexica kings began a program of political consolidation within the Basin of Mexico, replacing the traditional Aztec patterns of
indirect rule with more direct control over the subject politics in the Basin of
Mexico core. In world systems terms, the central Mexican core zone took on a
more complex structure, with several levels of hierarchy. Aztec central Mexico as
a whole maintained its high degree of economic and political development relative to the outer parts of the empire, but the core zone of greatest control and
influence contracted to the Basin of Mexico. For areas like Morelos in the larger
central Mexican core but outside of the Basin, their privileged position in the
world system was less advantageous, since they now paid tribute to the Basin of
Mexico. This was not the only core zone in the Mesoamerica world system,
however; several other areas exhibited patterns of accelerated political and economic growth beyond the rest of Mesoamerica (earmack (996).
Economic activity in central Mexico reached new heights in the LPC- B
period. Population climbed to the highest levcls of the entire Prehispanic epoch,
with onc million people living in the Basin of Mexico alone. Agricultural intensification also achieved its highest development, and almost the entire landscape
of central l\r1cxico was put under cultivation. Population was at the limits oC the
environment, and [lInines were a regular occurrence in the LPC-B period. The
market system continued to expand, and the size of the central marketplace in
Tenochtitlan's twin city, Tlatelolco, completely astounded the lirst Spaniards to
sce it. Several types of prolCssional merchants traded throughout Mesoamerica,
and a variety OCI(>I'Il1S oCcurrency were used. The most popular 1(>I'I11s were cacao
beans I;')r small purchases, and cotton textiles ()r most costly items. The imperial tribute system greatly enriched Tenochtitian, with large quantities of both
raw materials and manu(:lCtured goods arriving several times a year, and merchants brought even greater quantities of goods !i'om distant areas (Berdan
1987b). Although onc sometimes reads that the Aztec empire had begun to
decline bcl()re the arrival of Cones, there is no evidence to support such a
notion.
AZTEC IMPERIAL STRATEGIES
Scholars have been slow to identity the strategies employed by the Aztec rulers
in the expansion, operation, and organization of their empire. Contemporary
descriptions of the specific motives or plans of ancient imperial rulers arc few and
139
140
Miclme! E. Smith
far between, even for heavily documented empires such as the Roman or
Chinese. For the Aztecs, a bias against hegemonic empires has hindered the
study of strategies; this is exemplified by statements that the Aztec polity was
"not really an empire)) (sce discussion in Berdan et al. 1996: 6). Onc popular
account of the Aztec empire (Conrad and Demarest 1984) has even asserted that
the Mexica had no plans or strategies at all, and merely sent out armies of religious fanatics to conquer haphazardly in search of captives fClr rituals of human
sacrifice.
The authors of a recent book, Aztec Imperial Strrtt(lJies (Berdan et al. 1996),
employed a "bottom-up)) approach to reconstructing the territory and economics of the empire, resulting in a significant modification of Robert Barlow's
(1949) classic "top-down)) approach. By reconstructing the empire from the
ground up, the Aztec Imjlerial Strategies project was able to: (1) identif)' a variety
of strategies or principles that guided imperial expansion and administration; (2)
produce a new and more accurate map of the empire; and (3) identif)' a new principle of territorial organization that characterized lllany of the provincial towns
not listed in the Codex Mendozrt (sec discussion of the fl'ontier strategy below).
The resulting principles and strategies can be organized under fCllIr labels: the
economic, political, frontier, and elite strategies.
The ecortornic strate)]),
The basic motives of Aztec imperial expansion were economic. Starting with the
M PC Aztec city-states, the goal of conquest was to secure tribute payments fl'om
subordinate politics. As the empire expanded, the volul11e and geographical
range of tribute payments expanded greatly and the Mexica put considerable
effllrt into establishing and operating a system of regular imperial tribute payl11el1\:S. But the collection of imperial tribute was only onc of three types of economic strategy employed by the Aztec rulers. A second economic strategy
(llCused on the pre-existing commercial networks of the world system, and a
third strategy involved stimulatioll and manipulation of the Basin of Mexico
market system in ways that both benefited the economy and kept rival city-state
I'lIlers in check.
Imperial tribllte
In Doyle'5 terms, the Aztec tributc system was the major institution of the transnational system. Although we have considerable inflJl'll1ation about what kinds
of goods were paid in what quantities fl'om specific provinces (Berdan and
Anawalt 1992), the organization of tribute collection in the outer provinces is
poorly understood. Because provincial city-states each had their own internal
tribute systems in effect long bctllre they were conquered, it would have been
easy (cJr city-state rulers to pass on the imperial tribute quota to their subjects by
simply raising taxes. A quantitative reconstruction of' tribute in relation to
demography in the Cuauhnahuac and Huaxtepec provinces of Morelos shows
141
The Aztec empire alld the lvIesoaJlleriCl1l1 lI'orld system
that imperial tribute was not a particularly heavy burden when spread among the
commoner households of the provinces (M. E. Smith 1994).
Aztec imperial tribute included fClOdstulIs, raw materials, utilitarian goods,
and luxuries. Some provinces were assessed fCl!' tribute in local specialties, while
in other cases 1110re generic goods were demanded fl'ol11 a province and the
Mexica obtained local specialties through trade. Prances Berdan (Berdan et al.
1996: ch. 5) has remarked upon the very low quantities of tribute in war materiel, in spite of the fact that the Mexica sometimes provided politics on imperial
fl'ontiers with arms. The key raw material fCl!' Aztec swords and spears, obsidian,
was not part of the imperial tribute system, probably because it was more efficiently obtained through preexisting commercial networks.
I n many provinces, imperial tribute acted as an economic stimulus beyond
simply requiring increased production fllr the tribute goods. Two of the main
tribute items warrior costumes and textiles - were manuf~lctured goods whose
raw materials were not widely available. Both required goods ft'om the tropical
lowlands (exotic bird fCathers (CH' the elaborate costumes, and cotton fllr textiles)
and many city-states had to engage in commerce to obtain them. Although part
of the motivation fllr requiring these goods was probably ideological (subordination to the empire was emphasized by the warrior costumes), I believe that
this was part of a deliberate strategy fllr stimulating commerce in the outer
provi nces.
5.3 Azh'C profcssi01lal
pociltcca mcrclmllls:
left: lIIac/mll/s 01/ tllc
road; right: !IUTe/mll/s
sdlill.!! IlIxlIl'Y.!!oodJ III
a
Wodd .1),stClII C01Il1I1Cl'ciailletwor/ts
The commercial net works of the 1,1'<: world system long predated the flJl'lnation
of the Aztec empire (Fig. 5.3). Towns all over Mesoamerica had active marketplaces, and profCssional traders were based in many areas that came under imperial control as the empire expanded (Scholes and !toys 19M1). The expansion of
the empire acted to stimulate trade in the provinces in several ways. First, imperial conquest led to the reduction of regional warbre, and trade I\olll'ished in the
jlllX Aztcw that fCll\owed. Second, the Aztec pochtcca merchants traveled and
traded more easily within the empire than outside (although they were accomplished soldiers in their own right and served as spies outside of the empire).
Third, the Mexiea emperor on at least onc occasion sponsored a commercial
expedition to obtain lowland luxuries. Fourth, the Mexica sometimes required
conquered city-states in key areas to hold markets (e.g., Tepeaca; Berdan et a/.
1996: 133). Fifth, some key market towns were conquered in order to protect
1I1111'11CI.
142
Michael E. Smith
them from nearby enemies (e.g., Huexotla on the Metztitlan border and
Tetellan and Alahuistlan on tlle Tarascan border; Berdan et al. 1996: 149).
The Mexica were willing to put considerable effort into tlle promotion and
protection of commerce in the outer provinces because of its direct benefits. This
trade moved enormous quantities of obsidian to all parts of Aztec central
Mexico, where it was needed for domestic tasks, craft production, and weapons.
Commercial networks were also tlle major source of luxury goods for tlle Aztec
nobility. Altllough many luxuries were included Witll imperial tribute, Berdan's
calculations show tllat tlle volume ofluxuries entering Tenochtitlan far exceeded
tlle amount listed in the tribute rolls (Berdan et al. 1996: 126). Given the importance of commerce, it should be no surprise tllat Aztec merchants operated
largely independently of the state (Berdan 1988), in the same manner as other
LPC merchants in Mesoamerica (Scholes and Roys 1968). The Mexica participation in the world system commercial networks involved two ofDoyle's factors,
tlle transnational system and the international context.
The Basin of Mexico market system
Just as the imperial rulers encouraged commerce in the outer provinces, they also
promoted marketplace trade at home. The Basin of Mexico market system
expanded greatly in tlle LPC-B period, and by 1519 the central Tlatelolco marketplace was a very large and complex institution (Cortes reported that 60,000
buyers and sellers attended this market daily). A prosperous market system was
a boon for the Mexica rulers, but it was also a potential source of power for their
competitors in other city-states.
The Mexica employed several strategies to encourage marketing without
allowing the benefits to accrue to rival polities. First, tribute collection centers
were established in secondary market towns, both to encourage growth in these
towns and to prevent additional growth in established primary market towns
with entrenched local elites. Second, a number oflocal dynasties were physically
disconnected from their market revenues. This was accomplished by various
means, including the relocation or destruction of the market (Cuauhtitlan), relocation of the dynastic scat (Chalco), or strategic placement of transport routes
(Azcapotallco, Culhuacan). Third, the Mexica encouraged specialization and the
spatial fi·agmentation of economic activities to prevent their concentration in
established centers controlled by potential rivals.
The growth of a prosperous market system in the LPC- B period not only benefited merchants and craft specialists, but also worked to the advantage of political elites, both imperial and non-imperial. Market taxes were a source of royal
revenue, but perhaps more importantly the markets brought luxury goods
needed by the elites. "Rulers took special pride in their markets if they offered a
wide array of luxury goods which they needed both to adorn themselves and
their surroundings and to participate in the high-level gift exchange that was so
important" (Hicks 1987: 94). Attached specialists who produced luxury items,
from stone sculptures to featller capes, depended upon local kings for patronage
The Aztec empire and the Mesoamerican world system
and support, and they also depended upon markets as a source for raw materials, and as a place to sell surplus items not delivered directly to their patrons.
The political strategy
The phrase political strategy is used to refer to actions taken by tlle Triple
Alliance rulers to consolidate their power and control in the imperial core area.
The Mexica had achieved more power than any previous Aztec state and tlley
liked to tell the Spanish chroniclers about their superiority and invincibility.
Nevertlleless, their control was still somewhat fragile, since rival dynasties
remained in power in many city-states in the Basin of Mexico core area, and
outside of the Basin major areas like Tlaxcalla remained unconquered.
Mary Hodge (1984; Berdan et al. 1996: ch. 2) identified the strategies used
by the Mexica in pursuit of political consolidation witllin tlle Basin of Mexico.
In tlle decades after the formation of the empire in 1428, the Mexica eliminated
local administrative positions, usurped old kingship positions and created others
anew, and created parallel special-purpose tributary and political control hierarchies. Tribute provinces in the Basin of Mexico were defined to cut across
boundaries oflocal city-states. Tribute was collected directly by imperial officials,
keeping it out of the hands oflocal rulers. As Hicks points out, this let the imperial kings deal with subject rulers as allies and colleagues, not tribute-payers, at
the same time that they were demanding heavy tribute payments from their colleagues' commoner subjects (Hicks 1992).
Mter the initial conquest and imperial organization of city-states in the core
area, the Triple Alliance rulers employed a second set of political strategies. Their
encouragement of specific kinds of growth in the Basin of Mexico market system
was onc example of this process. Others included granting income-producing
lands to noble f.1milies and pursuing actively the ancient practice of marriage alliances with less powerful dynasties. Brumfiel (this volume) shows the importance
of imperial ideology within the political strategies of the Mexica.
The frontier strategy
The t1·ontier strategy, an important component of Doyle's "international
context," describes the actions taken when the empire came up against powerful enemy states that could not be conquered. City-states along these frontiers
were not incorporated into the tributary provinces listed in the Codex Mcndoza,
but were treated as client states and granted a certain level offormal equality with
the imperial rulers (in spite of very real differences in power). A number oflocal
documents state that the client kings did not pay tribute to the Mexica ruler, but
rather gave him gifts (Berdan et al. 1996: ch. 6). Their main contributions to the
empire related to their border locations. They fought small-scale battles with the
enemy states, often fi·om locally constructed fortresses. There is little information about these facilities in the documentary record, and archaeologists have
only begun to identifY and study them (Hermlndez Rivero 1994). In a few cases,
143
144
Michael E. Smith
the Mexica built fortresses (e.g., Oznlma), which nearby clients supplied with
soldiers, weapons, and food (Hassig 1988). These border polities resembled in
many ways the client kingdoms of the eastern Roman empire (Braund 1984;
Sands 1908).
These client states, labeled "strategic provinces" by Berdan et al. (1996), represent an alternative form of provincial organization to the better-known tributary provinces of the Codex Mendoza. The recognition of greater variability in
the control of the Aztec provinces parallels recent scholarship on other ancient
empires such as the Inka (D'A1troy, this volume) and Vijayanagara (Morrison,
this volume). The identification of this variability in the Aztec empire was
delayed for many decades because of two f.1.ctors. First, Robert Barlow's influential top-down approach to the empire simply lumped the client states with their
nearest tributary province (Barlow 1949). A second reason for the long delay in
the recognition of the frontier strategy is the success of Mexica propaganda. In
spite of their failure to conquer Tlaxcalla and the Tarascans, the Mexica produced
a variety of types of propaganda proclaiming their greatness. Rulers commissioned huge carved stone monuments with imperial iconography (Berdan et al.
1996: ch. 4) and they constructed impressive state temples such as the Templo
Mayor where elaborate sacrificial ceremonies were held. This propaganda was
directed at the nobles of other city-states as part of the Mexica program of political consolidation (see Brumfiel, this volume). After 1519, the Spanish chroniclers recorded much of this propaganda verbatim from Mexica nobles.
According to the official imperial world-view, the empire had no need for
special arrangements to contain enemy states. This was because the Mexica
"were masters of the world, their empire so wide and abundant that they had
conquered all the nations and that all were their vassals" (Duran 1993: 336).
Surprisingly, many modern scholars have accepted this propaganda at face value,
hindering scholarship on the organization of the empire. Another example of
Mexica propaganda is the institution known as the "flowery war" (xochi)'ao)'otl).
The Mexica told the Spaniards that these battles with Tlaxcalla were done tc)r
practice and training, and that the empire had no desire to conquer Tlaxcalla.
When Spanish soldiers asked the Tlaxcallans about these wars, however, they
were told that the Aztec empire was indeed trying hard to conquer their state.
Tlaxcalla was surrounded and its outside trade in salt and luxuries had been cut
off, but the empire was simply not strong enough to complete the conquest (see
discussion in M. E. Smith 1996: 184ff). The Aztec empire clearly had achieved
political and economic advantages over large parts of Me so am erica by 1519, but
its degree of domination was lower than that achieved in many ancient empires,
and lower than the Mexica nobility would like to admit.
The elite strategy
The elite strategy, part ofDoyle's transnational system, describes the connections
forged among politically separate e1ites in all parts of the empire. Processes of
The Aztec empire and the Mesoamerican world system
elite interaction and class-formation had begun among the MPC Aztec citystates, and were then put to work by the imperial rulers. Specific activities of this
strategy included marriage alliances, gift-giving, common participation in key
ceremonies and events, and the use of particular styles and forms of art, iconography, and material culture. This strategy cuts across the three strategies listed
above, and indeed elite interactions and manipulations were part of all three.
Elite dynamics contributed to the growth of trade and markets, they were at the
core of the political strategy of consolidation, and they were part of interaction
with the strategic provinces. Elite interactions were also important in the tributary provinces (M. E. Smith 1986). Provincial rulers were co-opted by the
Mexica, and their participation in the empire was rewarded by support and
incentives from the capital (see Brumfiel, this volume).
The major reason for singling out the elite strategy is its pervasiveness and its
cultural content, which may not be sufficiently emphasized in analyses of economic and political strategies (see also chapters by Kuhrt, Morrison, and Woolf,
this volume). The Late Postclassic International style discussed above is an
example of an art style that linked elites from distant areas who spoke different
languages and were involved in very different local cultural and political contexts. The International style extended f.1.r beyond the confines of the Aztec
empire to link all of Mesoamerica together. Within the empire itself, however,
there were numerous cultural traits that distinguished e1ites from commoners in
local regions, and linked distant dites together to forge a common, extensive
elite class within the empire. Two particularly important artistic media that
served this role were stone sculpture and manuscript painting (Berdan et al.
1996: chs. 4, 7, 8).
THE AZTEC EMPIRE IN MORELOS
How did processes of world system exchange and imperial expansion affect
people in provincial areas? This question is difficult to address for two reasons:
(1) there is little information, ethnohistoric or archaeological, on provincial societies; and (2) the problem of rough chronologies discussed in the introduction
limits the usefulness of existing data fC)J" addressing fine-grained processes of
change. Yet this is a crucial issue in the cross-cultural analysis of imperialism (see
Deagan, this volume). My research in MOI·dos has generated archaeological data
suitable for pursuing issues of world systems and imperialism in central Mexico
outside of the Basin of Mexico. In this section I make comparisons among the
three periods described in the introduction: Middle Postclassic (MPC), the
period of city-state expansion; Late Postclassic-A (LPC-A), the period of central
Mexico's entry into the Mesoamerican world system; and Late Postclassic-B
(LPC-B), the period of Aztec imperialism (see Table 5.1).
I have identified the following patterns at Aztec-period sites in MOI·e1os. First,
commercial exchange was pervasive in Morelos during all three periods. Second,
the LPC-A period, when this area entered the Mesoamerican world system, was
145
146
The Aztec empire alld the iYiesoalllel'iwn J"odd system
Michael E. Smith
a time of economic expansion and prosperity. Third, the LPC- B period, when
Mot'dos was part of the Aztec empire, was a time of economic decline and
increasing regional and class inequalities. I examine these three issues with
respect to three archaeological data sets: excavations of rural houses at Capilco
and Cuexcomate; excavations of urban houses at Yautepec; and regional comparisons of ceramic inventories (Fig. 5.4).
147
BASIN
OF
MEXICO
~
Economic cycles in the countryside: excal'"uions at Capilco
and C14eXCO'fnate
/
I
'"
'" '"
I
Cynthia Heath-Smith and [ excavated over f()rty houses and other structures at
the rural sites of Cuexcomate and Capilco in 1986 (Fig. 5.5). Chronological
research allowed us to apply a refined chronology to these sites (Smith and
Doershuk 1991). Capilco was a village that grew {['om a few houses in the MPC
period to twenty houses in LPC- B times. Cuexcomate was ()Unded as a town
site in LPC-A with about 200 inhabitants. The settlement grew to over 800
inhabitants in LPC- B times, when a large elite compound was abandoned and a
much smaller one built in its place. Excavations concentrated on residential
structures and associated midden deposits, nearly all of which were phased to
one of the three Aztec periods (M. E. Smith 1992). The (<>llowing arguments
are discussed at greater length elsewhere (Smith and Heath-Smith 1994).
Only two of the houses excavated at Capilco date to the MPC period, but their
inhabitants were already wdl connectcd to central Mcxican cxchangc lH:tworks.
rmports included ceramics from Cuauhnahuac, the Basin of Mexico, and areas
to the west; obsidian fl'om central Mexican sources; and bronze tools from thc
Tarascan area of west Mexico (Hoslcr 1994). Thc LPC-A period saw an cxpansion of population in the region, accompanied by the construction of agricultural terraces near the sites. Poor soils and hilly terrain makc this a marginal area
()r rain(;lll agriculture, but cotton can be cultivated in terraced and irrigated
plots. Mordos is onc of the kw areas of highland central Mexico warm enough
to grow cotton. Not surprisingly, all houscs, elite and commoner, had spinning
tools, and these increased greatly in li'equency over the MIlC period (hg. S.6).
Cotton textiles, woven by women in domestic settings, werc probably the major
export ti'om this area. They wcre the predominant type of' tribute good
demanded of commoner households at all levels of the tribute hierarchy, li'om
the local noble to the city-state to the empire, and there was an active commerce
in textiles. Women's labor produced the goods that linked Morelos households
into the Mesoamerican world system, and later, the Aztec empire.
In this period, an elite group built an elaborate palace at Cucxcomate in a style
similar to Aztec palaces in other areas. Elite middens can be distinguished tl'om
commoner middens by the quantities of various imported goods and decorated
ceramics. There are no categories of goods that are {(HlIld only in elitc contexts,
however. The most valuable items recovered in the excavations bronze tools
I
I
., Toluca
Tlaxcalla
\
\ Cholula
•
\
\
\
\
Yautepec
•
\
\
\
HUAXTEPEC
PROVINCE
and exotic stone jewelry were {(llllld equally at commoner and elite houses.
This pattern points strongly to the operation ofcoml11erce not controlled by the
elite as the dominant mechanism of exchange at these sites. The LPC-A period
was a time of economic prospcrity, expansion of agriculture, and urbanization in
western Morelos. Ceramics Il'om western Mexico declined in fi'equency, while
ceramics and obsidian ti'om the Basin of Mexico increased greatly.
In the LPC- B period, after the Aztec conquest of Morelos, economic decline
set in at Capilco and Cuexcol11ate. Regional population continued to grow and
all available land was put into cultivation with terracing. The quantities of exotic
goods, including ceramics, obsidian, and bronze, declined significantly {(H' all
5.4 '/JJC lomtion (!f'
MOl'do.l' within cmtral
Mexico. ArCrts shaded
drtrll lTmy illdiwtc
m01l1ltai1lS, the dashed
linc indicatcs C1ICIII)'
te/,/,itm:y.
148
Mic/mc! E. Smith
T7Je Aztec cmpirc alld the jViesot1lllcricall world j)'stClfI
149
5.6 Ccrflm ic tools
wcd to .Ijlill cottOll.
The whorls ill the
/iJl'tlll'Olllld wcrc
wci,ghtJ/llr woodell
spindlcs, which wcre
twirled i1l thesc slIIall
bowls.
5.5 Aztu jlcnJnllt
houscs at Capi/Co,
Mol'c/os; this J'i11l1lTC
II'IIS pl1l't (!f'tlJt: Aztec
tributary jJl'oJ'incc I!f'
CUl1l1lJ11alJIII1 c.
three social sectors (villagers at Capiico, and commOlH:rs and e1ites at
Cuexcomatc). Importcd ceramics at this time were almost exclusively !i'om the
Basin of Mexico, and the quantities of local decorated ceramics also declined.
[ have measured standard of' living with a wealth index calculated as the fi'equency oflocal decorated ceramics (expressed as percent of'total ceramics) plus
two times the fi'equency of'imported ceramics (M. E. 'smith 1987). This measure
declined f(H' all three social sectors. Wealth index values suggest a reduction in
elite-commoner distinctions in the I ,),C- B period, a pat tem also rdlected in elite
housing. The large elite compound of' I,PGA was abandoned in I:wor of' a
smaller and less elaboratc elite compound in LPC- B times. Regional population
in the LPC- B period was probably at or over the capacit y of'the environment to
sustain. The poorest households in particular expanded their production of'
cotton textiles, probably to make up I(H' f:llling agricultural rdums (the houses
with the lowest wealth indices have the highest quantities of spinning tools).
The economic decline of'the LP(:- B period at Capilco and (:uexcomate was
probably due to the combined cfkcts of'two processes, onc local and onc external ('smith and Heath-'smith 1994). The local process was a regional economic
cycle common in preindustrial states with dense peasant populations. The cycle
starts with population growth, colonization of' new lands, the expansion of'trade
and manufacturing, and the growth of towns (MPC and LPC-A). As growth
continues beyond a threshold, however, the economy is tranSf(JI'Il1ed It'olll a condition of excess land and a shortage of la bot' to one with surplus labm and a
shortage of'land. Arable land is f,lIed in, productivity declines, prices rise, the
countryside becomes impoverished, and peasant households take up cottage
industries 10 supplement f:llling agricultural income (LPC- B). The situation in
Morelos resembled historically documented economic cycles of'this sort, including medieval England (Miller and Hatcher 1978) and early modern France (Le
Roy Ladurie 1972).
The negative effects of' local demographic and agricultural problems were
intensif1ed by an external process, Aztec imperialism. Aztec conquest of'this area
probably had kw direct dkcts, and imperial tribute would have had only a very
modest cfkct on households because of its low level in relation to regional population in Morelos (M. E. Smith 1994). The indirect eflects of' Aztec imperialism were significant, however. One such dkct derived fi'olll the imperial support
onoyal provincial rulers. The Cuauhnahuac dynasty had long-standing marriage
tics with the Mexica dynasty (the mother of Motecuhzoma I was the daughter
of a Cuauhnahuac king), and the Cuauhnahuac state continued to expand by
conquering other city-states even after its incorporation into the empire (M. E.
Smith 1986).
The region around Capilco and Cuexcomate became subject to Cuauhnahuac
around the start of'the LPC- B period, and the inhabitants of these sites paid
tribute to both a local city-state king and the Cuauhnahuac state in addition to
their imperial tribute. There is not suff,cient inf(ll'Illation to calculate the magnitude of'these sub-imperial tribute requirements, but they were probably much
!i
~
150
Michael E. Smith
heavier than the imperial tribute. The decline in wealth and living conditions of
the Cuexcomate elite group suggests that the benefits the Cuauhnahuac nobility may have enjoyed from their cooperation with the Aztec empire were not
shared by their rural cousins.
Economic change in the city: excavations at Yautepec
Yautepec was a political capital with several subject city-states in Aztec times. The
site has one of the few surviving Aztec royal palaces, which has been excavated by
Hortensia de Vega Nova (1996). In 1993 Heath-Smith and I excavated seven
houses and a number of other domestic deposits at Yautepec, which lies under the
modern town of the same name. One of the houses is a large elite residence, five
are small commoner dwellings, and one is intermediate in size and of uncertain
class affiliation (M. E. Smith et at. 1999; M. E. Smith et at. 1994). Timothy Hare
and I have established a fine-grained chronology and we can now date deposits
to the MPC, LPC-A, and LPC-B periods (Hare and Smith 1996). Studies of the
excavated artifacts are still in progress by Jan Marie Olson, Ruth FaumanFichman, and others, and the analysis of sites from our full-coverage survey of the
Yautepec valley (by Timothy Hare and Lisa Montiel) has only begun. The following interpretations are subject to change as our analyses proceed.
As at the rural sites, the inhabitants ofYautepec in the MPC period had ready
access to obsidian from a variety of sources and ceramics from the Basin of
Mexico and other parts of Morelos. Although they did have access to obsidian
from Tarascan sources, neither Tarascan bronze nor exotic precious stones were
present at this time.
In the LPC-A period, the city ofYautepec expanded greatly in size. In either
this period or the next, much of the alluvial land around Yautepec was put into
irrigated cultivation. The amounts and types of imported obsidian and ceramics
changed very little from MPC times. Bronze sewing needles, awls, bells, and
tweezers from the Tarascan region appear for the first time at Yautepec (Hosier
and Macfarlane 1996), as does jewelry of jade, shell, and other exotic material.
These exotics are found in both elite and commoner contexts, suggesting that
Yautepec households entered the Mesoamerican world system at this time.
Spindle whorls and spinning bowls show a dramatic increase in the LPC-A
period, and technological analyses suggest a greater focus on the production of
fine thread than in MPC times (Fauman-Fichman 1997). Again, cotton textiles
provided the major link with the world system, and the increase in spinning was
probably related to Yautepec's growing participation in world system exchanges. _
In the LPC- B period imported ceramics and obsidian declined in frequency.
The drop in obsidian was particularly dramatic (in comparison with sherd
counts). Exotic bronze and jade continued at similar levels, and Tarascan obsidian increased. The quantities of spinning tools continued to grow, and the trend
toward finer thread production continued in this phase as well. The aggregate
The Aztec empire and the Mesoamerican lVorld system
wealth levels for the site rose slightly in LPC- B times, owing to an increase in the
amount of local polychrome ceramics. AltllOugh this observation is preliminary,
it appears tl1at elite/commoner distinctions increased at this time (excluding
consideration of the royal palace), in contrast to Cuexcomate where the opposite change occurred.
Although Yautepec and tl1e rural sites exhibit cQntrasting patterns of change,
there are a number of similarities. In both cases imported goods are abundant in
all periods, and ceramics from other parts of MOl·elOS and the Basin of Mexico
are common. In both cases, high-value goods, ft·om imported polychrome bowls
to bronze to jade jewelry, are found in both elite and commoner contexts. These
patterns suggest strongly tl1e operation of markets and commercial exchange, in
agreement with ethnohistoric descriptions of marketplaces in all types of communities in Morelos, ft·om cities to villages (M. E. Smitl1 1994). Both areas
exhibit patterns of economic growth and expansion in the LPC-A period.
The role of Aztec imperialism in tl1e LPC-B period at Yautepec is difficult to
evaluate until our analyses at the household level proceed farther. Craft production occurred at a much higher level than at the rural sites (products included,
in addition to textiles, obsidian blades and jewelry, ceramic figurines and censers,
and bark paper), but we have not examined temporal trends yet. Yautepec's environmental and sociopolitical contexts were very different from the rural sites,
however, and models of Postclassic change will probably vary accordingly.
Yautepec was a powerful capital city subject only to the empire, and changes
cannot be attributed to external intermediate elites as at the rural sites. As an
urban center higher up in the political and economic hierarchies of MOl·elOS,
Yautepec had advantages over rural communities like Capilco and Cuexcomate,
and this probably helps explain the overall rise in wealth levels under the Aztec
empire. One feature worth noting is the presence of two Tarascan products bronze and obsidian - during this time when the Aztec and Tarascan empires
were at war. This suggests that Aztec imperialism did not diminish the commercial exchanges of the world system, which cut across even the most hostile border
in Mesoamerica.
Regional patterns of change
The above observations can be augmented by data on ceramic type frequencies
at other Postclassic sites in MOl·elOS. This section discusses seven sites whose
ceramics are described in my monograph Tlahuica Ceramics (M. E. Smith n.d.).
In addition to Capilco, Cuexcomate, and Yautepec, four sites have collections of
Postclassic ceramics sufficiently well dated and large enough for socioeconomic
inferences. El Puerto was a village on the edge of the abandoned ancient urban
center of Xochicalco. Data are from test pits excavated by Kennetl1 Hirth.
Coatetelco was a town with a pyramid and ballcourt excavated by Ra(J! At·ana;
data discussed here are from test pits. These sites are in western Morelos, not £:1r
151
152
The Aztec emjlire and the MesoameriwlI world system
Michael E. Smith
from Capilco and Cuexcomate. Cttauhllah1lac was a powerful city that ruled
many city-states in the western half of Morelos. Although a number of excavations have been done in Cuauhnahuac (modern Cuernavaca), the only quantified
ceramic collections are from temples at Teopanzolco (MPC) and the palace of
the king in the Palacio de Cortcs site (LPC). Finally, Tejlozteco was a hilltop
temple precinct above the town ofTepoztlan, north ofYautepec; quantified collections are from residential quarters near the temple where priests may have
lived.
Imported ceramics were quite abundant at every site, providing additional evidence for the operation of local and regional market systems in all periods
(imports are identified primarily on typological grounds; petrographic and
chemical analyses are now in progress). Imports comprise between 1 percent and
6 percent of total sherds, with period means all above 2 percent (Fig. 5.7). Since
these are total sherd counts rather than vessel estimates, 2 percent is a large quantity (where vessel counts have been estimated, imports comprise closer to 10
percent of household ceramic inventories). In the MPC period, imports from the
Basin of Mexico equal imports from other parts of Morelos, but in the two LPC
periods the Basin of Mexico was the dominant place of origin f(x imported
ceramics at all sites.
Every site had imports from the Basin and fl'om other parts of Morelos, and
many sites had imports t1'om 1110re distant areas (including Cholula, Toluca,
Guerrero, and the Gulf Coast). The single most llumerous imported category at
most sites is the salt vessel ("Texcoco fabric-marked") used to transport salt fl'om
the Basin of Mexico. Most of the other imports arc decorated bowls functionally equivalent to the locally manufactured polychrome serving ware that is very
common at these sites. Most households obtained a variety of styles of decorated
serving bowls ft'om a number of distant regions, probably f<lr reasons of status
and display. Figure 5.7 also shows the tl'equencies of ceramic spindle whorls and I
spinning bowls; these figures increase consistently across the periods at all sites,
suggesting that the patterns identified at Capiko, Cuexcomate, and Yautepec
represent more general regional trends in Morelos.
The regional ceramic data suggest a declining level of wealth or standard of
living at many of the sites after Aztec conquest. Although imported types first
increase and then decline, Il'equencies of local decorated ceramics show a steady
decline across all three time periods. In summary, the regional ceramic data
suggest that the trends observed at Cuexcomate, Capiico, and Yautepec represent more widespread processes in Morelos. Trade with a variety of regions
increased at almost every site studied in the LPC-A period, marking the penetration of' the Mesoamerican world system into all regions and sectors of
Morelos, rural as well as urban. After conquest by the Aztec empire in the LPCB period, the quantities of both imports and local decorated ceramics declined
as part of a general economic downturn. This decline was most pronounced at
villages and towns, while important political capital cities like Cuauhnahuac and
Yautepec 1:H'ed better within the regional economy of the empire.
153
4
Total imports
3
Cl)
'0
"(\)
.c
Cl)
ca......
2
0
......
'I-
0
~
0
Middle
Postclassic
Late
Postclassic A
Late
Postclassic B
5.7 Mc/m ccrtllltic
jI'cqllc1Jcics thl'lIlIllh
timc. 'l7JCJC data arc
IIIC1l1lJ.f(}/' thc SCPCII
sites discllssed ill the
text.
PROGRESS REPORT ON AZTEC IMPERIALISM
Were the changes documented above limited to MOl'elos, or do they represent
wider trends in Postclassic Mesoamerica? At this point it is impossible to say f(JI'
sure. The Mexica kings achieved a certain level of success ill creating an empire
within the context of the Mesoamerican world system. Unfl:>rtunately, modern
scholars are having less success in creating a body of scholarship on Aztec imperialism within the context of ancient empires and world systems. When scholarship on the Aztecs is compared to that on other ancient empires (sec studies in
this volume), one is struck by how little wc really know about the Aztec empire.
Several years ago Frances Berdan and I attributed the lack of progress on the
archaeology of Aztec imperialism to two f:lCtorS: (1) the indirect nature of imperial control "did not lead to major Aztec investments in material remains in the
provinces," and (2) "archaeologists have not carried out a sufficient number of
problem-oriented projects addressing this isslle to fully evaluate the dkcts of
Aztec imperialism" (Smith and Berdan 1992: 353; sce also Rojas 1994).
In looking back at the last few years of research, I sce the first factO!' as less of
an impediment than it once seemed. We now have better theories and models of
ancient empires and world systems and more refined archaeological methods fi)l'
their analysis (e.g., Sinopoli 1994a; Peregrine and Fcinman 1996; Schrciber
n.d.), and comparative endeavors such as this volume bode well flH' continued
advancement in this area. The ethnohistoric analysis of the Aztec empire has
advanced greatly in recent years, providing a better framework Illr archaeological analysis (Hassig 1988; Hodge and Smith 1994; Berdan et rtl. 1996; Carrasco
154
Michael E. Smith
1996), and art historians are now making significant contributions to studies of
the empire (Berdan et al. 1996: chs. 4,7,8).
This optimism must be tempered by the simple lack of research. There are still
few examples of archaeological fieldwork outside the Basin of Mexico directed
at the study of the Aztec empire. Most archaeological studies of the Late
Postclassic period in provincial areas do not address issues of Aztec imperialism,
and the few projects that do include such a focus are hindered by poor chronologies and limited data (e.g., Hernandez Rivero 1994). The Aztec empire was a
short-lived institution, and we need to refine archaeological chronologies in
order to study its growth and effects. My work in MOl·elOS illustrates some of the
rewards that come from investing effort in chronology building.
A further obstacle to progress is methodological: we need better instruments
to model key processes of world systems and empires. Tlus is a particularly difficult problem for archaeologists, although similar difficulties plague the documentary analysis of ancient empires. Although it is relatively straightforward to
identifY the existence of an empire from archaeological data alone (see above),
the identification and analysis of key institutions and processes can be quite
difficult. How can one distinguish between the roles of market trade, statesponsored redistribution, and elite gift-giving in providing exotic goods at provincial sites? How can variations in the degree and nature of political control be
distinguished, using material and/or documentary evidence? The situation for
precapitalist world systems is even more problematic, since their archaeological
study is still in its infancy.
The biggest obstacles to the analysis of Aztec imperialism involve sampling.
The sampling problem is common to most ancient empires and world systems:
these were large, diverse entities, and archaeological fieldwork by nature only
illuminates small local areas. We need a lot more fieldwork and artifact analyses
if scholarship is to steer a course between blithe overgeneralization from one or
two studies and despair at the size and complexity of the imperial beast.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank the Wenner-Gren Foundation tor Anthropological
Research and the four conference organizers for the opportunity to participate
in the Imperial Designs conference. My excavations in Morclos have been supported by the National Science Foundation, the National Endowment tor the
Humanities, the Wenner-Gren Foundation, the Heinz Foundation, the National
Geographic Society, Loyola University, and the University at Albany. This
chapter has been much improved, and my own thinking much advanced, as a
result of the stimulating discussions, both formal and informal, at the conference, and I want to thank all of the participants. My revisions of this paper were
greatly aided by specific comments on an earlier draft by Frances Berdan,
Elizabetll Brumfiel, Susan Kepecs, Marilyn Masson, Barbara Stark, and the
volume editors.
6
On the edge of empire: form and substance
in the Satavahana dynasty
Carla M. Sinopoli
INTRODUCTION
Historical understandings of the structure and history of tile Mauryan empire of
northern India (c. 321-180 BC E) weigh heavily on contemporary constructions
of the Indian nation. Portrayed as the first precolonial exemplar of a U1ufied subcontintental polity, a Mauryan sculpted column is tile emblem of modern India,
printed on its currency to display essential continuities (or aspirations) between
past and present (e.g., Sen 1997: 36). While many questions remain concerning
the nature, extent, and impact of the Mauryan polity, here I consider its legacy
in a more proximate context - the Satavahana dynasty of the Deccan of central
and southern India (c. first century BCE to second century CE). As with the
Mauryas (albeit with considerably more debate), scholars have viewed tile
Satavahanas as rulers of a geographically extensive and politically centralized
imperial polity (e.g., Mirashi 1981: 1; Margabandhu 1985; Shastri 1991: 45),
heirs to the political and economic frameworks developed by their Mauryan predecessors. Yet in both cases, historical and material evidence for these polities is
limited, suggesting that these empires were both less pervasive and more ephemeral than the claims made about them by both their rulers and the historians and
archaeologists who have studied them.
In this chapter, I consider that evidence and examine the complex relations
between political forms and ideological claims during the South Asian Early
Historic period (c. 300 BCE-400 CE). I begin with a brief introduction to the
Mauryan empire considering both archaeological and textual evidence for imperial organization and extent and the place of the Mauryas in South Asian
historiography. I then turn to the Satavahana successors of the Mauryas and consider Satavahana imperial structure, origins, and royal ideology. In particular, I
situate the Satavahanas in their broader pan-regional historical and ideological
processes and cultural frameworks, including tile development and spread of
ideological systems, economic networks, and categories of material culture
whose distribution extended well beyond the range of individual polities and
regions. I will argue that, to a considerable extent, Satavahana success derived
from their ability to lay claim to some of these broader developments through a
155
156
Carla M. Sinopoli
combination of ideological practices, disposition of economic resources, and
short-lived military successes.
THE MAURYAN EMPIRE
Thus speaks the Beloved of the Gods, the king Piyadassi: When I had been consecrated twelve years I commanded as follows: Everywhere in my empire, the
ytthas [subordinate officers] with the rajttka [rural administrators] and the
pradiselms [heads of the district] shall go on tour every five years, in order to
instruct people in the Dhamma as well as for other purposes. It is good to be
obedient to one's mother and f.1ther, friends and relatives, to be generous to
brahmans and sramallas [Buddhist or Jain monksJ, it is good not to kill living
beings, it is good not only to spend little but to own tile minimum of property.
The council will instruct tile officials to record the above, making it both manifest to tile public and explaining why.
(Third major rock edict of Asoka; Thapar 1997: 251)
In the late fourth century BC E Candragupta Maurya, king of the Ganges Basin
state of Magadha, founded South Asia's first empire. Rulers of one of more than
a dozen contemporary city-states, the Mauryan kings of Ma gad ha combined military conquest with agricultural intensification and control of long-distance
riverine trade routes to forge a polity that ruled the entire Indo-Gangetic Plain
and areas beyond (Thapar 1997). Their empire was relatively short-lived, dating
from c. 322 to 187 BCE, and reached its maximal extent under its most
renowned ruler, the king Asoka (c. 273-232 B CE). Territories were rapidly lost
under Asoka's successors and within thirty-five years of Asoka's death the empire
had disappeared. The main focus of this chapter, the Satavahana empire, was one
of a series of states and empires that came to the fore in South Asia following the
Mauryan collapse. Indeed, Thapar (1997: 320) has suggested that the emergence of states and empires "in Orissa, Andhra and the western Deccan [was]
... virtually impelled by the break-up of the Mauryan state."
Scholars know of the Mauryans through the lithic inscriptions of Asoka, in
Prakrit (Brahmi script), Aramaic, and Greek. These would presumably have been
the primary spoken languages in the regions where the inscriptions were located.
Prakrit, an Indo-European language, is believed to have been preferred over the
more scholarly Sanskrit because it was "the language spoken by the people at
large, and not ... the language of culture" (Thapar 1997: 7). Literacy was no
doubt quite restricted during the Early Historic period, and it is likely that the
texts inscribed on stone (and probably also on non-durable materials) were
intended to be read aloud to a non-literate public. Asokan inscriptions are among
the earliest securely dated written sources in South Asia (the much earlier Indus
Valley script of the third millennium BCE remains undecoded). The inscriptions, made over some twenty years (from Asoka's eighth through twentyseventh regnal years), span the period of Asoka's conversion to Buddhism in c.
260 BC E. As recorded in the thirteenth major rock edict (Thapar 1997: 255-6),
Form and substance in the Satavahana dynasty
his conversion was a consequence of the great remorse Asoka experienced for the
massacres that followed upon the Mauryan conquest of the Kalinga state of
eastern India. I Referred to as the major and minor rock edicts and pillar edicts,
Asokan inscriptions were engraved on stone columns in urban centers in the
Ganges basin (Fig. 6.1) and on rock outcrops across the broad territories over
which Asoka claimed sovereignty. They thus had a material dimension visible
even to non-readers that may have made them important symbols of political
authority. Asokan inscriptions were typically located in or near settlements or
along trade routes (though not always in highly visible locales).
Some three dozen unique Asokan texts have been identified at approximately
fifty sites (Fig. 6.2; Allchin 1995: 199). In many contexts, texts co-occur; for
example, most or all of the fourteen rock edicts are found together in several
locales (Chaudhary 1983: 44-5}.2 As a key source of primary data, Asokan
inscriptions have come to play a tremendously important role in interpretations
of the Mauryan polity. Although considerable caution needs to be exercised in
reading these propagandistic texts, they do provide a great deal of important
information. They seem to result from a conscious imperial policy to communicate information and instructions about Asoka's religious values and right
behavior (dhamma) as well as his understandings of South Asia's political structlll'e (including mention of border states, administrative offices, and revenue collection, among other things). They are thus by and large prescriptive texts,
written in a paternalistic voice to instruct imperial subjects on behavior and
values.
Other textual SOlll'ces on the Mauryas include the writings of Megasthenes,
Scleucid ambassador to the Malll'yan court in c. 310 BCE (Thapar 1997: 296),
and Buddhist texts (preserved in Sri Lanka and Tibet) that recount legends of
Asoka, either as narratives of his religious deeds or as accounts of sacred lineages
0. S. Strong 1983: 22-31; Thapar 1997: 8-9}. The political treatise of Kautilya,
the Arthnsastrn, a text on statecraft, has commonly been interpreted as dating
to the Mauryan period. However, Trautmann (1971) has argued that the
Al'thnsnstm was a multi-authored text that did not take its present form until
c. 250 C E, well after the Mauryan collapse (although portions of the manuscript
may well date back to Mauryan times and the author proclaimed himself a minister ofCandragupta Maurya). Mauryan king lists and stories of the accession of
Candragupta are also recorded in the Vedic Plll'anas.
Archaeologically, the locations of inscriptions provide important evidence of
imperial geography (Fussman 1988; Habib and Habib 1990), although the
extent to which they docllment areas under direct imperial control is t:1r from
clear, especially in the southern part of the peninsula. Other reasonably welldated archaeological materials include coins and sculptures. Evidence ft'om the
numerous Early Historic urban settlements and associated material remains
(e.g., Northern Black Polished Ware ceramics) is more problematic owing to
limitations of current archaeological chronologies (see below).
Early scholarship and more recent political claims concerning the Mauryas
157
158
6.1 Capitall!f'
Aso/mll lioll-hmdfd
colllm1l jhllll SI11'1wth.
Carla lvI. Sillopoli
Form and wbstallcc in the Satapaliana
llWllll,"V
have portrayed the empire as a highly centralized and homogeneous polity that
unified a vast region into a single monolithic imperial state. However, some more
recent scholarship has emphasized the discontinuous geography of the empire
and the internal variability in its administration (Fig. 6.2; e.g., Thapar 1987,
1997; Fussman 1988; though sce Chakrabarti 1997: 203-6 f()r an opposing
view). In particular, Mauryan territories in the Deccan and south India appear
to have been quite limited, restricted to areas near important mineral resources,
especially gold sources along the Tungabhadra River and in the KolaI' region of
south India. Asokan inscriptions arc rare in the western and eastern DecGlll areas
where the Satavahana polity emerged (sec below, though Satavahana and
Mauryan inscriptions co-occur at Sanchi, Amaravati, and Sannathi). Other than
Asoican inscriptions and some rare trade wares, these areas contain little direct
evidence of the Mauryan presence, and no evidence of the {<:mn that presence
may have taken. Thus, while the Mauryan empire was certainly f'ar more extensive and complexly organized than any previous South Asian state, claims f()r its
universal status and highly centralized political structure appear to have been
overstated.
The status of the Mauryans in South Asian history, historical writings, and
recent political discourse is an important isslle, although its detailed consideration is well beyond the scope of this study. Given the importance of the past in
the legitimation of later states, it is, however, relevant to consider how or if the
Satavahanas considered the Mauryas in their claims to imperiallegitil11acy, as well
as how historical understandings of the Mauryas have impacted interpretations
of'later politics such as the Satavahanas. For how long and in what contexts were
the Mal1l'yas relevant to South Asian historical memories and political constructions? Did they, like the Romans f()r the Carolingians (sec Moreland, this
volume), become a template and ideal against which later states could model
themselves?
These arc difficult questions to answer with certainty. Wc know that the existence of the Mauryans and their chronological position in north Indian political
history was recorded in Brahmanical Pmanic texts, which took wrinen (()\'In in
the fifth centmy C E (sec below) and provide evidence fix a sense of long-term
linear dynastic history. According to Thapar, the Puranas attempted "to provide
an integrated world view of'the past and present, linking evcnts to the emergence
01' a deity or sect" (1993: 152), and recorded the names of all known lineages
and dynasties up to the fifth century C E. However, while earlier ruling lineages
were acknowledged in the Puranas, post-Mauryan rulers appear to have emphasized the history or their particular lineage in inscriptions and royal pedigrees,
and not the longer Puranic sequences.
As will be discussed below, there is only very limited evidence that the
Satavahanas made reference to the Mauryas (and, in contrast to Satavahana
claims to high Brahmanical status, the Puranas make clear that the Mauryans
were of the low-status sudra varna;.1 Thapar 1993: 152). But some Early Historic
states may have. In particular, the Gupta empire (320-467 C E4) that emerged
159
160
Arabian
Sea
6.2 Am/m"
illscrijltiolls I1l1d
MIIIII'YIIII,jlCI!!lmphy.
Lillcs illdimlc jlossiblt:
illljlcrial jlro pill us.
Form and Jltbstallcc in the Satapahalla
Carla LVI.
t
N hk--i!)(lkrn
Bay
of
Bengal
in Magadha roughly five centuries after Mauryan collapse does appear to have
had some sense of being heir to past Mauryan greatness. vVe sce hints of this in
dynastic and royal names: the first Gupta ruler (320-335 CE) shared the name
Candra Gupta with the first Mauryan emperor (Trautmann, personal communications). A eulogy to his successor, Samudra Gupta I (C E 335-376), was
inscribed on an Asokan column now in Allahabad (Thapar 1966: 137) and Pahsien, a Chinese pilgrim of the early fifth century C E, wrote of visiting the
remains of Asoka's temple in the Gupta capital of Patiliputra, the f(mller
Mauryan capital. Even here, direct references to the Mauryans or Asoka did not
appear in royal texts and the Gupta kings, like the earlier Satavahanas, were avid
proponents of Vedie sacrifices and military glory. Nonetheless, historian A. L.
Basham suggested that the Guptas cOllsciously sought to restore "the splendour
of the Mauryas" (1954: 63) and Romila Thapar described the emergence of the
Gupta empire as "shades of the Mauryas . . . rc-emerging 011 the scene"
(1966: 137). Comparisons between Asoka and Samudra Gupta arc common in
contemporary historiography and, like the Mauryan period, the Gupta period is
often described as a "golden age" and has been important in nationalist history
(Goyal 1997; Chattopadhyaya 1995: 310). Even so, it not clear to what extent
these comparisons were explicitly drawn during the Gllpta period.
Thus, while legends ofAsoka persisted and were transmitted in Buddhist texts
and royal lineages were recorded in the Puranas, detailed knowledge of the historical Asoka and the empire he ruled appears to have been lost relatively rapidly.
And by the late ()lIl'th eentlll'y C E, Brahmi script had disappeared from usage
O· S. Strong 1983: 6). When the Chinese pilgrim HSlian-tsang visited India in
the early seventh centlJl'Y, he recognized the large sculpted columns he saw at
several sites as associated with the legendary ruler 0. S. Strong 1983: 4-7). But
neither he nor earlier pilgrims such as Fa-hsien (399-414 C E; J. S. Strong 1983:
6) were able to read the Asokan inscriptions on them.' After Buddhism disappeared fi'om India in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries C E, even the legends
of Asoka were ()rgotten (J. S. Strong 1983: 6-7).
Historical knowledge of the Mauryans reemerged in 1837 with the decipherment of Brahmi by James Prinsep of the Royal Asiatic Society (Trautmann 1997:
137). The translation and the recognition of the import of the Asolcan inscriptions
oeelll'red roughly simultaneously with early archaeological work on Buddhist
monuments of British India carried out under the direction of Sir Alexander
Cunningham, (Hll1der or the Archaeological Survey of India. By the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the Mauryan empire had become an important part of South Asian historicalreconstl'uctions and was prominent in political
discourse among both British colonials and those resisting them. For British historians, such as Vincent Smith, author of the encyclopedic Ox./ill'd Histo1'Y l!f'bldia
(1981 119191), the Mauryan empire was an efficient and admirable despotic
autocracy. And Asoka was a king whose name "is still fi'esh in the memory of men
after the lapse of more than two millennium 1sic I" (Smith 1981 119191: 137; an
interesting perspective in light of that name's recent rediscovery). Smith and his
161
162
Carla M. Sinopoli
contemporaries saw the Mauryan period as the apex of ancient Indian political
history and the 2000 years between Mauryan collapse and the arrival of the British
as a period of decline and decadence. Following the Mauryan collapse, the possibility of a unified India did not again exist until (and because of) the arrival of
the British colonial rulers.
In a thematic variation, nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century Indian
nationalists, such as Pramathanath Banerjea and Narayan Candra Bandyopadhyaya, also saw the Mauryas as both model and precedent (Inden 1990:
193). The empire provided evidence for an indigenous precolonial South Asian
state that had united the entire subcontinent under a single legitimate authority,
governed by law and reason rather than coercion and despotism. During both
the independence movement and his tenure as independent India's first prime
minister, Jawaharlal Nehru made frequent references to the Mauryans and particularly Asoka, whom he proclaimed in a speech given on 22 July 1947 as "one
of the most magnificent names not only in India's history but in world history"
(Nehru 1985: 71). Following Indian independence the Mauryans remain a
potent symbol of Indian nationalism; Mauryan sculptural images adorn the
nation's flag 6 and its currency.
During the Satavahana period Brahmi script was still in use, indicating that
Asokan inscriptions could have been read and comprehended. Yet, neither Asoka
nor other Mauryan rulers appear in Satavahana royal inscriptions/ Instead, as
will be explored below, Satavahana referents are to Vedic rituals and Brahmanical
pedigrees. While it is always problematic to argue from negative evidence, especially for a period as poorly understood as the Satavahanas, the paucity of references to the Mauryans may indicate either that their impact was far less pervasive
in the Deccan than many archaeologists and historians have assumed or that the
Satavahanas deliberately excluded them from political discourse.
WHO WERE THE SATAVAHANAS?
"Success! From the victorious camp of the triumphant army in Govardhana, the
illustrious Gautamaplltra Satakarni, the lord of Benakataka, issues the [following] order to amatya [minister] Vishnupalita in Govardhana: The field of 200
lIiJlartfmas [unit of measure] of Ajakalaka in the village of Western Kakhadi,
which was owned by Rishabhadata - that our field of 200 lIiJlflrtflllfls We give
to these mendicant monks of the Trirasmi [caves] and We also grant them the
following immunities ofthat field - it must not be entered, it must not be interfered with, it must not be meddled with by the district functionaries; it should
be provided with all immunities. This order has been given orally.
(Nasik cave inscription of Gautamiputra Satakarni, in Mirashi 1981: 23-8)
The nature of the elJidence
Like the Mauryas, the Satavahanas are known to scholars from both textual
and material evidence. Written sources include (1) sacred texts, (2) inscriptions
on walls of rock-cut caves and religious structures, (3) inscribed coins, and (4) for-
Form and substance in the Satavahana dynasty
eigners' (Roman and Greek) accounts. The eighteen Vedic Puranas ("Ancient
Stories") are the major sacred texts that contain references to the "Andhras" or
Satavahanas. These texts may have roots extending back to as early as 500 BC E,
though they did not take their final written form until the fifth century C E. Several
of the Puranas contain dynastic lists of Satavahana rulers; the number of kings
mentioned varies from seventeen to thirty, spanning a duration of between 275
and 460 years (Nilakanta Sastri 1975: 6; Shastri 1987: 4). As with the Mauryans,
references to the Satavahanas are also found in some Buddhist and Jain texts.
By the Satavahana period, Brahmi inscriptions were widespread throughout
the Deccan where they are found on Buddhist sacred structures and commemorative stelae. Fewer than three dozen of the hundreds of recorded inscriptions refer explicitly to Satavahana rulers (Burgess 1964 [1881], 1970 [1883];
Burgess and Indraji 1976 [1881]; Mirashi 1981). The vast majority document
donations to Buddhist monastic institutions made by a wide array of individual
artisans or merchants, merchant and artisan guilds, lay men and women, and
monks and nuns (Dehejia 1992). The Satavahana royal inscriptions too are primarily records of royal donations of land and its revenues for the support of
monks or religious institutions. While they sometimes also recorded attributes
of rulers or queens (e.g., military success, religious piety) and provide some
information on imperial structure, they are much more modest in scope and tone
than tlle prescriptive inscriptions of Asoka discussed above.
Inscribed coins comprise the most abundant written record of Satavahana
rulers. Thousands of coins of lead, copper, and potin (an alloy of copper, zinc,
lead, and tin; Goyal 1995: 89) and smaller numbers of gold and silver coins are
known from sites and hoards throughout the Deccan and south India. While
portrait coins are rare, the names of some sixteen to twenty rulers are found on
coins. Several of these rulers appear to be local c1ites and many coins are highly
restricted in their geographical distribution (Dutta 1990: 13-15; Sarma 1980:
1), suggesting that multiple minting locales existed, with little emphasis on panregional unitormity in images or systems of measure. Inscriptions on coins are
mostly in Prakrit, though in some areas Tamil or Tclugu inscriptions also occur
(Ray 1986: 44). In many cases, coins carry matronyms or titles common to
several rulers, such as Satakarni, Pulumavi, and Satavahana (Dutta 1990: 18).
Rulers' names also vary regionally and it is often not clear whether different
names reterred to a single individual or to different individuals who ruled over
distinct territories.
Other relevant written sources include the Periplus of the Erythrean Sea, a
handbook (in Greek) of the first century CE that reports on maritime trade
routes between Roman Egypt, Arabia, and India (Casson 1991), and the writings of Pliny, Claudius Ptolemy, and Strabo, among others. By and large, these
texts are most informative on issues of geography and economy, especially on
commodities traded between India and the Roman world, but provide little
useful information on the Satavahana polity. Some sources do cite formal diplomatic contacts between various Indian polities (though not the Satavahanas) and
Rome (Ray 1986: 5-9).
163
164
Form and mbJtallcc in the SMal'ahalla
Car/a M. Sillopoli
Along with coins, the other sources of archaeological evidence fIx the Early
Historic period arc both abundant and problematic. The late centuries BeE
through early centuries C E were times of rapid sociopolitical change in many
areas of the Deccan and south India. This period witnessed the emergence of
large fortified centers, and the expansion of multi-tiered settlement hierarchies
and social elites, as well as expanding agricultural and craft production, and the
development of extensive regional and long-distance trade networks within and
beyond South Asia (Seniveratne 1980; Ray 1987; Parasher 1991, 1992;
Morrison 1995 b; Parasher-Sen 1996). The roots of these changes can be traced
back to the central and south Indian Iron Age or "Megalithic" period of the early
first millennium BeE, although the massive megalithic cemeteries of that period
arc f:u' better understood than the broader social and economic contexts in which
they emerged. Sociopolitical transflxmations were likely accelerated in some
areas with the intensification of contacts with Early Historic north I ndian states
of the Ganges Basin, particularly the Mauryan empire. As discussed above, direct
evidence for the nature and extent of Mauryan contact in the Deccan is scarce,
suggesting at most that the Mauryans exerted extremely limited imperial control
in that region. The Early Historic period in peninsular India was also marked by
the expansion of Buddhism and Buddhist monastic institutions (Ray 1986), the
spread of Vedic religion and its crystallization with local religious practices into
recognizably Hindu forms, and processes of "Sanskritization" (Srinivas 1989),
entailing the expansion of language, beliefs, and behaviors (including the fl)rmalization of varna and, eventually, caste frameworks) across a broad region.
While numerous archaeological sites arc known lI'om the Early Historic period
(Fig. 6.3), both chronological assignment and clear understandings of regional
processes remain vexing challenges. The latter problem is slowly being remedied
by an increasing f()cus on regional research (e.g., Krishnasastry 1983; ParasherSen 1996; M. L. Smith 1997), though an emphasis on large sites divorced I"om
their regional context remains predominant. Chronological problems result from
the discordance between rates of material culture change and rates of political
change, as well as I"om limited stratigraphic excavations and a paucity of absolute
dates. Thus, although certain artifi1Ct categories (e.g., Northern Black Polished
Ware, Red Polished Ware, and mold-made flgurines) arc in a general sense diagnostic of the period, their temporal and geographic distributions remain poorly
understood. However, they clearly do not correspond with dynastic chronologies or political entities (despite many attempts to use the presence of particular
artif:lct categories to identify "the Mauryans" or "the Satavahanas"). Further, the
spatial distribution ofl11any arti(ilct categories (e.g., Black and Red Ware) is much
greater than the reputed spatial extent of any individual polity. This lack of correspondence between material «mns and political history is, of course, not
unique to the South Asian context (sce Smith, this volume). In the Satavahana
6.3 Major 11101I(lstic
context, it points to an essential disjunction between the dynastic history that has
sites Illld scttlcllu:1lts (!(
been the goal of most scholars of the period, and the kinds of historical evidence
the Early Historic
that archaeological research can most effectively generate.
Decmn.
iI
11."''I.lHH
Sanchi
Sopara
Kanheri
Bay
of
Bengal
Arabian
km
165
166
Form and substance in the Satavahana dynasty
Carla M. Sinopoli
Dynastic chronology
Clu-onological problems also beset text-based reconstructions of Satavahana
chronology and dynastic sequences. All such constructions rely heavily on the
Puranic Icing lists, with their attendant interpretative complications (i.e., that
they are Brahmanical elite texts written in a particular political context long after
the events they purport to report [Ray 1986: 34]). Chronological reconstructions fall into two groups. Advocates of the now largely discredited "long chronology" support the maximal span of c. 475 years derived from a literal reading
of the Puranas (Nilakanta Sastri 1975: 92-4; Mirashi 1981), and view the
Satavahana polity as emerging directiy after the Mauryan collapse. This interpretation is problematic given tile historical context of tile Puranas, the lack of
concordance among tile texts, and tile lack of supporting numismatic or inscriptional evidence for many of tile rulers named.
Advocates of tile more widely accepted "short chronology" (Ray 1986; Shastri
1987, 1991; Parasher-Sen 1993; Goyal 1995) combine Puranic records with
otiler lines of numismatic, archaeological, and textual evidence and date the
Satavahana rule from tile beginning of tile first century BCE to the end of the
second century CE. Even here, many scholars are reluctant to assign absolute
dates to specific kings and tilose who do often select quite disparate dates and name
different rulers. Nonetheless, the shorter chronology is the more reasonable given
current evidence, and the version developed by Himanshu Ray (1986: 33-50, following Dehejia 1972) will be used in this chapter. This chronology is presented in
Table 6.1; tile calendrical dates should be considered approximations.
AltilOugh various Puranas list several intervening Satavahana rulers that fill the
III year gap between the two periods of rule presented in Table 6.1, no other
sources survive to verifY their existence, and the relation between earlier and later
rulers is murky. This gap suggests that the Satavahana empire is best characterized as having been marked by two brief periods of imperial florescence with an
intervening period of political regionalization or "collapse." Like the Mauryans,
the success of individual rulers in forging a large imperial polity was not transformed into an effective administrative structure that could weather periods of
internal and external dissension or the reigns of less effective rulers.
Origins and geography
While the chronology of the Satavahanas has been subject to debate, so too have
the ethnic and geographic origins of the dynasty. The secondary literature
includes claims that tile Satavahana homeland was in the western Deccan
(modern Maharashtra) and in tile central or eastern Deccan (modern Andhra
Pradesh). More interesting for the purposes of this chapter are questions about
tile linguistic and cultural relations of the Satavahanas to the Indo-European
speakers and societies of northern India, including tile Mauryans. I first briefly
review tile former issue and turn to the latter below.
Table 6.1. A short chronology for the Satavahana
dynasty (after Ray 1986)
Ruler
Period I
1 Simuka
2 Kanha
3 Satakarni I
4 Satakarni 11
Imperial collapse (Ksaharata period)
INahapana}
Period II
5 Gautimaputra Satakarni
6 Pulumavi
7 Vasisthiputra Satakarni
8 Siva Sri Pulumavi
9 Siva Skanda Satakarni
10 Yajna Sri Satakarni
11 Vijaya Satakarni
12 Candra Sri
13 Pulumavi 11
14 Abhira Isvasena
15 Madhariputra Sakasena
16 Haritiputra Satakarni
Regnal dates
<100 BCE
100-70 BCE
70-60 BCE
50-25 BCE
ICE 54-lOO}
86-110 CE
llO-138CE
138-145 CE
145-152 CE
145-152 CE
152-181 CE
Note: Nahapana is a ruler of the Ksaharata polity who is
known from several inscriptions; rulers 9 and 10 are
either different names for the same individual, or may
be two individuals who ruled simultaneousl}' in the
eastern and western Deccan; rulers 12-16 are likely
regional rulers who may (or may not) be of the main
Satavahana lineage.
In an examination of geographic origins, the Puranas again prove a source of
confusion. In marked contrast to inscriptions and coins, the name Satavahana
does not appear in the Puranas; instead the texts refer to the "Andhras" or the
"Andhra Bhrityas." These latter terms, conversely, do not appeal' in coins or
inscriptions despite the overlap in l'lIlers' names among these diverse sources.
The Puranic use of the term Andhra has led some scholars to trace the Satavahana
homeland to modern Andhra Pradesh (Hanumantha R.10 1976: 4; Shastri 1987:
12, 1991: 50; Goyal 1995). Others have argued that Satavahana rule (if not
the Satavahanas themselves) originated in the western Deccan (modern
Maharashtra) and that the Puranas, which date well after the Satavahana period,
were written by authors who mistook ultimate Satavahana presence in the east
167
168
Carla M. Sinopoli
as evidence for their origin (Dehejia 1972: 17). In contrast, Margabandhu
(1985) has suggested that the Andhras were an eastern clan, employed by the
Mauryas, who eventually settled in the western Deccan and it was tl1ere tl1at t11eir
empire emerged. Ray (1986: 41-2) has suggested that "Andhra" was an etlmic
or tribal term (known from Mauryan inscriptions and the Mahabharata) and did
not emerge as a geographic term until well after the Satavahana period.
Some of tl1ese conflicting origin debates have occurred in the context of contemporary regional chauvinism linked to modern political and linguistic boundaries (particularly at the state level), and to current trends in archaeological
research and writing (leading to texts on the "Archaeology ofKarnataka, Andhra
Pradesh, Maharashtra," etc. - modern political boundaries that did not exist in
the ancient world; Parasher-Sen 1996: 22). Yet, while tl1e question of precisely
who tl1e Satavahanas were may be largely unanswerable according to these terms,
this does not mean tl1at an examination of state expansion in the Deccan during
tl1e Early Historic period should exclude consideration of where those states
originated and where they expanded to. Unfortunately, present data do not
allow a satisfying answer to these questions, tllOugh a founding location somewhere in the western Deccan seems most likely.
In the absence of well-developed archaeological chronologies, inscriptions and
coins constitute the primary material evidence for examining this issue and tl1ey
are both scarce and contradictory. Only four of the thirty published inscriptions
with royal referents date to the period ofSatavahana emergence. s The earliest of
these are found in the western Deccan at the sites ofNaneghat and Nasik; a slightly
later inscription is known from the Great Stupa at Sanchi, to the northeast. The
rock-cut9 monastic complexes of Naneghat are located along an important pass
through the Western Ghats linking the seacoast with the inland Deccan plateau.
At Pandu Leni, Nasik, twenty-four rock-cut Buddhist monastic establishments
were carved into the northern face of a large outcropping hill from the first
century BC E through the second century C E (Ghosh 1990: 312). Sanchi was
an important Buddhist center from the third century BC E through the seventh
century C E and contains more than fifty Buddhist monuments, including seven
stupas, numerous monasteries and temples, and an inscribed Asokan column
(Michell 1989: 179-86). Each site contains numerous inscriptions, though here
I consider only those sponsored by, or refel'l'ing to, Satavahana rulers.
The earliest such inscription is found at Nasik Cave XIX and records that the
cave was excavated by an individual named Mahamatra Saman ofNasika (perhaps
a monk?) du ring the reign of King Kanha (B urgess 1964 [ 1881 ]: 98). It can th us
be assigned to the second Satavahana ruler and tentatively dated to the early first
century BCE (c. 100-70 BCE). At Naneghat, two royal inscriptions refer to
Satakal'l1i I (c. 70-60 BCE). The first is an inscription attributed to his widow
Nayanika (Naganika). This inscription records Nayanika's family lineage and a
list of Vedic sacrifices performed by the royal f.1mily (Burgess 1970 [1883]:
60-4, see discussion below). The second inscription (or group of inscriptions)
at Naneghat is associated with a series of bas-relief portraits (now totally eroded)
Form and sttbrtance in the Satapahana dynasty
oftl1e Satavahana royal family, with name labels inscribed above them. On palaeographic grounds they are believed to be roughly contemporary witl1 tl1e inscription of Nayanika. Eight royal figures are named in these inscriptions: Simuka
Satavahana; Queen Nayanika and King Satakarni; Prince Bhayala (perhaps the
eldest son of Satakarni I); [eroded name, probably Satakarni Il]; Maharathi
Tranakayira (f.1ther of Nayanika?); Prince Haku-sri and Prince Satavahana (two
other sons of Nayanika). The name and portrait of the dynasty's second ruler,
Kanha (Krishna), are missing from this sequence. According to the Puranas,
Km1ha was the brother of Simuka and thus was not a direct lineal descendant
(unlike Satakarni I who was Simuka's son) and may have been excluded for this
reason (Mirashi 1981: 18). This suggests a very early attempt to revise dynastic
history so as to legitimate Satakarni I and his descendants.
The final royal inscription of the early Satavahana period is found on a sculpted
gateway element on Stupa 1 at Sanchi and is likely associated with Satakarni Il
(c. 50-25 B CE). Like other donative inscriptions, it names the element's donor
- Ananda - and notes that he was the son of Siri Satakarni's foreman of artisans
(Lueders 1912: no. 346; Dehejia 1992: 36), suggesting some form of state patronage of non-agricultural production.
While the earliest inscriptions (and the vast majority of published Early
Historic inscriptions overall) are found in the western Deccan, the earliest
Satavahana coins reported to date have been recovered in the eastern Deccan at
the site of Kotalingala. Kotalingala was a large fortified settlement (some 50
hectares, on a mound 6 to 10 m high) located along the Godavari River in
Karimnagar District, Andhra Pradesh. This region is characterized by a dense distribution of Early Historic sites, with a well-developed settlement hierarchy from
at least the second century BCE (Krishnasastry 1983; Parasher-Sen 1993,
1996). At Kotalingala, coins were recovered in excavations of residential areas
and from two hoards. They include punch-marked coins attributable to the third
and second centuries 13 C E and inscribed coins oflocal (pre-Satavahana?) rulers
(Reddy and Reddy 1987: 58-60). Also /C:>lll1d were small numbers of inscribed
coins ofSimuka, "Satavahana," and Satakarni I. Though the Reddys and others
(e.g., Goyal 1995) have enthusiastically used the numismatic evidence to argue
that Kotalingala was the Satavahana home base, the samples arc small and
nothing is known of where they were minted or how (or when) they al'l'ived at
Kotalingala. However, the many kings mentioned on the coins do document a
complex and highly dynamic regional political system, with multiple elites
making claim to royal status and political ascendancy prior to (and during?)
Satavahana hegemony. In addition to the coins, Kotalingala yielded archaeological remains of craft activities and long-distance trade. The site thus provides
evidence of a highly specialized and at least partly monetized economy in a
region that by and large lacked the early large Buddhist monastic complexes that
Ray (1986) has argued played a critical role in the spread of "civilization" and
development of political centralization.
Although valuable in their own right, these sources unfortunately help us little
169
170
Carla M. Sinopoli
in charting the geographical origins of the dynasty, or the path of its expansion.
The inscriptions are located in the areas of the greatest intensity of monastic construction of the first century BC E, the western Deccan. But, given both the
paucity of evidence and sampling problems, inferences of a probable western
Deccan Satavallana homeland are tentative at best.
Royal and non-royal inscriptions do provide some evidence on the geographic
structure and extent of the polity during particular periods. An inscription at
Cave II at Nasik, dating to the period ofVasisthiputra Pulumavi (c. 110-138
CE) and recording the cave's construction by his grandmother, lists the extent
of her son Gautamiputra Satakarni's (c. 86-110 CE) kingdom.1° The territory
claimed in the inscription is vast, spanning the width of the peninsula and north
to south from Gujarat to northern Karnataka. The fit between territorial claims
recorded in inscriptions and effective political control are, of course, far from
clear, and it is apparent that Gautamiputra's military successes, while impressive,
were in any case short-lived.
Several inscriptions contain references to geographic districts or aharas that
appear to have been the largest adminisu·ative divisions of Gautamiputra's
Satavahana polity, under the control of appointed officials (e.g., Govardhanahara, Mamalahara, Satavanihara, Kapurahara). Three distinctive types of settlements are named: nagara (city or palace), nigama (market town), and gama
(village). The outlines of an imperial administrative framework are thus evident.
Non-royal inscriptions also provide important information on Deccani geography of the Early Historic period. Along with listing donors' names, inscriptions
often list donors' occupations (including guild membership), places of residence,
and the nature of their donations including, in some cases, grants of land or
rights to produce of named agricultural settlements to Buddhist monks or
Brahmanical communities. Settlements most frequently mentioned as homes of
donors to western Deccan monasteries include the seaports of Sopara, Kalyan,
Bharucha, Kuda (?), and Chaul, and the inland settlements of Dhenukakata
(location unknown), Junnar, Nasik, Paithain, and Karadh (Dehejia 1972:
142-3).
No single city served as the Satavahana capital throughout the duration of the
dynasty's history. In the early second century CE, Ptolemy referred to Paithan
(Pratisthana; in Aurangabad district) as the capital of King Pulumavi; the Nasik
inscription of his predecessor Gautamiputra Satakarni referred to him as lord of
Benakataka (in the Nasik region). A pattern of shifting capitals is known from
other historical empires in South Asia and beyond, such as the Carolingians
(MOI·eland, this volume), the Achaemenids (Kuhrt, this volume), and the
Mughals (Sinopoli 1994b). This situation may, at least in part, be associated with
struct1lral weaknesses of imperial political and economic organization, thus
making the physical presence of the king, court, and military force important to
the exercise and immediacy of imperial authority and revenue collection. Along
with the monastic centers, ports, and inland settlements already noted, many
otl,er important centers of the Satavahana period are known from texts, inscrip-
Form and substance in the Satavahana dynasty
tions, or archaeological evidence. These include, among others, the inland settlements of Govardhana, Ter, Nevasa, and Vadgaon-Madhavpur in the western
Deccan; and Dhulikatta, Peddabankur, Amaravati, Kotalingala, and Sannathi in
the central and eastern Deccan.
The archaeological evidence
The first century BC E through tllird cent1lry C E was marked by a dramatic florescence in the construction of Buddhist monastic sites throughout the Deccan.
It has been estimated that nearly 800 rock-cut caves were created during this
period, as were many freestanding monasteries and stupas (Ray 1986: 35). This
construction boom, contemporary with Satavahana/Kshtrapa rule, may partly
account for why these periods have attained prominence in Early Historic
historiography (though their mention in Puranic lineages is no doubt also of
importance to their prominence in historical memory). The relations between
state and monastic institutions are, however, far from clear. As noted earlier,
although some sizeable royal donations are recorded, the vast majority of donors
to monasteries were non-elites (Dehejia 1992: 36) drawn from a broad range of
social and economic groups, of which merchants were the most common. On
the basis of inscriptional, sculptural, and architectural analysis, Dehejia (1972)
has suggested that there were two phases of intensive construction of Buddhist
cave structures, the first from c. 100-20 BeE and the second from 50-200 C E.
The intervening gap in construction roughly parallels the gap in Satavahana
dynastic chronology presented earlier, and Dehejia has suggested that political
stability created a favorable context for economic expansion and investment,
even in the absence of direct state investment (i.e., a pax SataJlahana, to draw
on Roman imperial memories).
Building on Dehejia's work, Ray (1986) has argued that the intensity of
monastic construction and the location of monastic sites owed much to general
increases in agricultural production and, more importantly, to intensification of
long-distance trade across the subcontinent and beyond, along maritime trade
routes. She further proposed that Buddhism and trade participated in a mutually reinforcing dynamic that may have been facilitated by, but was in large part
independent of, particular political institutions. Thus, the flexible belief system
that characterized the diverse sects and monastic communities of early Buddhism
allowed for fluid constructions of social status and occupation, creating possibilities for considerable social mobility. This situation contrasted, she suggests, with
the more rigid Vedic varna system, which was characterized by inherited occupational groups and ritual status. She also noted Buddhists' liberal attitudes concerning wealth acquisition, which contributed to a "spirit of entrepreneurship"
(R.'ly 1986: 204).
Many monastic sites were located along important transport routes across the
Deccan and in major mountain passes between the upland plateau and west coast
ports. The monasteries may have served as rest houses and sources of provisions
171
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Carla M. Sinopoli
for merchants, facilitating trade and, possibly, directly participating in it. Royal
sponsorship of Buddhist institutions documented in inscriptions also marks an
ideological flexibility of a kind common to many early empires. As will be considered in more detail below, the Satavahanas were Hindus, who performed
Vedic sacrifices, proclaimed Brahmanical status, and donated land to Brahman
communities. Their donations to Buddhist monasteries may have had economic
consequences of reinvesting resources in ways that encouraged continued economic intensification, and ideological consequences as a tool for proclaiming a
"universal" status.
The monastic sites are tlle best-known and most thoroughly documented
archaeological remains of tlle Early Historic period. Many have been tlle focus
of more tllan a century of art historical and architectural research (tllough virtually no work has been done on associated settlements or otller remains left by
tlle inhabitants/users of tllese sites ).ll Non-monastic sites, in contrast, have been
much less tlloroughly studied. Although numerous settlement sites are known
from tlle Early Historic, very few have been subject to large-scale horizontal
excavations; instead, excavations have typically consisted of a small number of
stratigraphic trenches. Accurate maps of site plan and surf.1Ce features are also
not available for most reported sites. In some cases these problems are inescapable, as modern occupation overlays many Early Historic sites. However, this
excavation strategy has also resulted from the predominance of chronological
concerns among many researchers and a consequent lack ofinterest in settlement
organization or internal variability. In perhaps the most dramatic example, the
only excavations at the approximately 4 square kilometer site of Paithan, the
reported capital of Pulumavi, were a few small stratigraphic trenches that were
excavated in the mid-1930s and mid-1960s (Ghosh 1990: 325) and are still not
fully published. 12
Equally problematic for archaeological understanding is the fact that few
systematic surveys have been conducted that can allow scholars to situate the
known larger sites in their regional context. As a result we know relatively little
about the agricultural economies and communities that provided the economic
base for the period's expanding economic and sociocultural networks (Morrison
1995b). It is also difficult to ascertain whether areas of particularly high site
density have merely been subject to more intensive examination than other areas,
or if the high site density in areas such as Karimnagar District of Andhra Pradesh
is an accurate reflection of past population distributions. A further limitation of
the archaeological evidence lies in the absence of systematic recovery or analysis
of artif.1cts and botanical or zoological remains. Site reports typically contain
brief summaries and illustrations of diagnostic finds, with little consideration of
artif.1ct distributions or intra- and inter-site variability (see M. L. Smith 1997 for
an important exception).
Given tlle many problems with the archaeological data, what can we conclude?
It is evident tllat the Early Historic period was a time of increasing sociopolitical and economic complexity in many areas of peninsular India. Numerous large
Form and subJtance in the Satavahana dynasty
population centers emerged in areas of arable soils, particularly along major
rivers. Areas wiili mineral resources desirable for craft production and commerce
(e.g., metals and precious and semi-precious stones) may also have been sites of
increased exploitation and associated settlement. The emerging town or urban
centers appear to have been foci of regional political, demographic, and economic systems, and were presumably centers of regional settlement systems tllat
included numerous smaller habitation and production sites. The amount ofland
under agricultural regimes expanded through forest clearance and the construction of irrigation reservoirs and facilities. Craft production also intensified and
the distribution of production debris at sites such as Kotalingala provide evidence for discrete areas of specialist production (also supported by the numerous inscriptional references to artisans and guilds). Many of the documented
large settlements were enclosed within substantial earthwork and moat fortifications, suggesting competition and conflict between regional centers and a consequent need for defense.
The poorly understood settlement distributions appear to suggest a general
pattern ofIron Age/Early Historic emergence of numerous small-scale regional
polities, probably with fairly fluid boundaries (see also M. L. Smith 1997). These
largely autonomous regional systems were incorporated into larger "imperial"
political structures during periods of greater political unity that occurred under
particularly strong leaders, perhaps including Asoka of the Mamyans or more
probably under Gautamiputra Satakarni of the Satavahanas. There are few
Mauryan inscriptions in the Deccan, and, as noted above, their territorial claims
in the peninsula appear to have focused on limited areas of rich resomces fmther
to the south. And despite the grandiose claims of the above-mentioned Nasik
inscription concerning Gautamiputra's territorial control, a similar discontinuous or mosaic pattern of territorial integration almost certainly existed during
the periods of Satavahana hegemony. However, inscriptions do indicate some
attempt to create more formal administrative and revenue collection structmes,
such as the ahara units.
The distributions of many artifact types and architectural styles suggest that
these regional politics emerged in the context of a pan-regional material culture
complex that superseded the extent of even the largest imperial politics, and
which J suggest is indicative of bmader cultural or "civilizational" trends.
Although, as noted above, little systematic analysis has been done on artif.1ct
morphology, even a superficial glance at the limited subset of materials illustrated
in site reports reveals a remarkable uniformity of some artifact forms over vast
areas. This is particularly evident among certain ceramic wares, such as Black and
Red Ware and Russet Coated Painted Ware, and in molded terracotta figmine
types (moftiles and grinding stone or quem styles are also quite widespread). In
the absence of systematic artifact recovery techniques and quantitative studies it
is impossible to say what percentage of artifact inventories from particular sites
consisted of these widespread types as opposed to more locally specific artifact
categories. In addition, no large-scale sourcing studies have been conducted to
173
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Carla M. Sinopoli
examine the production of these wares, though it is likely that the majority of
ceramics and other domestic artifacts were produced relatively near to the region
where they were consumed. This is supported by M. L. Smith's sntdy of artifact
distributions at the site of Kaundinyapur in Nagpur District. Her research demonstrated that most ceramic, chert, and ground stone materials recovered at the
site were procured within a regional exchange and/or production network of
75-80 km in radius (M. L. Smith 1997: ch. 10).
The widespread similarity of various categories oflocally produced artifacts is
complemented by a very wide distribution of small quantities of exotic goods.
These include ornaments such as lapis lazuli beads and possibly some scarce
ceramic wares such as Northern Black Polished Ware and Rouletted Ware, and
some coin types (though many of the latter appear to have intermediate distributions, larger than local regions but not pan-peninsular). Other widely distributed trade goods include Roman coins and very small numbers of Roman bronze
artifacts; Mediterranean ceramics, particularly amphorae, are found most frequently at coastal sites. In addition, architectural and sculptural styles also had
wide distributions, and Dehejia (1972: 139-40) has suggested the possibility of
itinerant artisans or architects.
In Early Historic South Asia, as in many other areas, the mere presence of
similar material culture, even in goods presumed to be markers of elite status,
may be sufficient to support interpretations of some kind of minimally shared
systems of meanings. However, it is clearly not sufficient to provide evidence for
political boundaries or political unity.13 Such unity did not exist in the region
during the Early Historic period, when scales of material culture distribution and
political boundaries were quite discordant. I will not attempt an extended discussion of the significance of the appearance of material cultural "horizon styles"
at this time in South Asian history. But taken together, both material and written
evidence provide a picture of a dynamic period, when significant portions of the
subcontinent's population were being incorporated, to a greater or lesser
extent;4 into some kind of shared cultural framework. IS Political elites such as
the Satavahana rulers do not appear to have been the creators of such f1'ameworks
but did manipulate and benefit from them, both ideologically and economically
from the increased production and flow of diverse resources from which they
could extract wealth.
Cultural identity and legitimation
The picture I have painted of the Satavahanas contorms little to images of
empires as highly centralized political tormations with major impact on the
social, political, and economic lives of the peoples they incorporate (in any case,
an invalid image in many contexts). Yet, although imperial infrastructure may
have been limited for much of the Satavahana period, textual sources indicate
that Satavahana assertions of imperial status were expansive. While many issues
concerning Satavahana regional and etl1l1ic origins remain unresolvable, I nml
Form and substance in the Satavahana dynasty
in this section to evidence concerning how Satavahana elites defined themselves,
how (and where) they presented their claims of identity, and the practices they
employed to assert those claims.
.
I begin with a quotation from a recent historical overview of the Satavahanas.
Writing of Gautamiputra Satakarni, Vasudev Mirashi (1981: 13-4) observed,
"this Brahmana Satavahana changed his ladle for a sword when tllere was confusion and chaos in tlle country after the death of Asoka, and established peace
and order in the Deccan." He continued, "Though the Satavahanas were themselves Aryas and belonged to tlle Brahmana caste, they married Naga and even
Saka women without inhibition ... In that age Hinduism had a catholic outlook
and freely admitted the Sakas, Yavanas and Pahlavas to its fold."
Although tllese quotations are problematic on multiple counts, Mirashi,
whose writings celebrate Satavahana imperial grandeur, derived his interpretations from an uncritical reading of Satavahana self-presentation in royal inscriptions. That the Satavahanas claimed Brahmanical status is evidenced in the Nasik
11 inscription of the mother of Gautamiputra Satakarni. The inscription celebrates her son's outstanding character and lists his many accomplishments. Thus,
Gautamiputra Satakarni is referred to as "sole archer ... sole hero ... sole
Brahmana" (Trautmann 1981: 364), and as he "who humbled the pride and
arrogance of the Kshatriyas" (Burgess 1964 [1881]: 109).1 6
As Trautmann (1981: 364) has noted, it is an unwarranted leap to conclude
from this inscription that the Satavahanas were of Aryan or northern origin (and,
he argues, inscriptional evidence for a Dravidian pattern of cross-cousin royal
marriages suggests the contrary, see below). A more appropriate characterization
is that the Satavahanas drew creatively from a range of contemporary values and
practices in their production of a cultural iconography of kingship. Among these
values was the fourfold varnasystem of ranked ritual status (Brahman, Kshatriya,
Vaisya, and Sudra) and principles of caste (rather than those proclaimed by the
Mauryan ruler Asoka). Social hierarchy and systems of inherited status had no
doubt marked Deccani social relations from at least the Iron Age and early first
millennium BCE (and in some areas, from the mid-second millennium BCE).
However, the transformation of inherited status kin groups into hereditary socioritual castes was only beginning to gain a toothold in the Deccan during the Early
Historic period and did not yet play a major role in structuring social organization and relationsY Such groups were, however, important in northern India
and the Ganges Basin states that predated and were in contact with the Deccan.
Satavahana l'lllers also asserted their royal status through the performance of
Vedic sacrifices, essential to royal legitimation in the Vedic tradition. These are
documented in the Naneghat inscription of Nayanika, in which she recounted
the many sacrifices sponsored by her late husband Satakarni I and the associated
tees paid to officiating Brahman priests and attendees. The inscription records
two horse sacrifices - or nspamedha - the most important of all Vedic royal
rituals,18 a rajasuya or royal consecration sacrifice, an agnyadheya or "kindling
of the sacred fire" sacrifice, and several other named sacrifices. The fees recorded
175
176
'/
,\
I,
I
Carla M. Sinopoli
as associated with each of these sacrifices were substantial, for example, 10,001
cows for a Bhagala-Dasaratra sacrifice, or 24,400 coins for another sacrifice (the
inscription is damaged, so it is not clear which sacrifice this fee was associated
with; Burgess 1970 [1883]: 61-3). The record of these sacrifices was composed
in Prakrit and carved on the walls of a Buddhist monastic rock-cut cave located
along an important inland trade route. As noted earlier, the Satavahanas,
although not Buddhist, were generous in their sponsorship of Buddhist monasteries and communities of monks. The numerous inscriptions further attest that
monasteries were an important venue for displaying royal and non-royal generosity, whether to Buddhists or to other communities (especially Brahman
communities ).
While Satavahana Brahmanical identity and royal sacrifices drew on IndoAryan Vedic sources to legitimate royal status, royal marriages relied on rather
different cultural sources and/or pragmatic needs. In an analysis of the admittedly limited kinship data that can be derived from royal inscriptions, Trautmann
(1981: 363-75) has argued that there was a consistent pattern of cross-cousin
royal marriages (this is a form of marriage explicitly barred in Indo-Aryan kinship
systems, while it is the preferred form according to Dravidian kinship rules).
Inscriptions record multiple and multigenerational marriage relations between
Satavahana nobility and two groups known as the Maharathis and Mahabhojas.
Trautmann interpreted the latter as territorial hereditary groups who, with the
Satavahanas, comprised the aristocracy of the Deccan. He further suggested that
the common use ofmatronyms and other references to mothers' lineages in royal
inscriptions 19 could have served both to refer to an important group of allies and
to emphasize the purity of royal descent on both the mother's and father's sides
(Trautmann 1981: 374).
Thus, unlike as prescribed in the sacred Hindu texts, Satavahana women did
not sever relations with their natal families upon marriage; instead relations with
both parents' kin groups bolstered critical political and social alliances among
regional elites. In contrast to the preferred pattern of royal marriages among
members of related lineages, a K1.nheri inscription records an example of a royal
marriage of a kind that is common to many early states - between non-kin and
indeed political adversaries - the Satavahana king Vasisthiputra Satakarni and a
Kshtrapa royal woman. She was likely the daughter of the Kshtrapa King
Rudradaman I, who in an inscription at the site ofJunagarh was called "he who
has obtained glory because he did not destroy Satakarni, lord of the Deccan, on
account of his near relationship by marriage, though he had twice conquered
him" (Trautmann 1981: 367).
In contrast to the multiple claims to Brahmanical and Vedic status noted
above, there is little evidence that Satavahana rulers traced their legitimacy to the
earlier Mauryan empire. However, one newly discovered sculpture from the site
ofSannathi (Karnataka) does provide evidence that Asoka had not been entirely
forgotten during the Satavahana period. This is a small unpublished sculptural
panel recently uncovered in excavations of a second-century C E Buddhist stupa
Form and substance in the Satavahana dynasty
by the Archaeological Survey of India (Shankar, personal communications
1999). The panel depicts a standing turbaned figure; at his feet is a Brahmi
inscription that reads "King Asoka." Excavators have tentatively dated this image
to tlle mid-second century CE, nearly 400 years after Asoka's deatll (c. 232
BCE). We do not know who sponsored tlle construction of this stupa (i.e.,
whetller it was a royal construction). Nonetlleless, tlle presence of this image
does indicate tllat, although the Mauryans were not referred to in Satavahana
royal inscriptions, they, or at least Asoka, were still remembered in Buddhist
sacred contexts.
THE SATAVAHANA POLITY: FORM AND
SUBSTANCE
I began researching tllis chapter Witll tlle idea tllat tllere was more form tllan
substance in the Satavahana empire: tllat is, that tlle presentation of imperial
status in inscriptions and monuments far surpassed any political, military, or economic infrastructure of empire that existed during tile period. And to a considerable extent, I still think this is a valid characterization, though the limited or
problematic nature of the archaeological and textual evidence does hinder our
ability to examine relations between polity, economy, and social/ideological processes. Nonetheless, the empire was characterized by brief periods of greater
political centralization and more effective administration that correlated with tlle
reigns of particularly capable rulers who were able to both achieve and consolidate military successes.
There is evidence for this consolidation in a number of inscriptions that document some kind of formal revenue collection system, territorial administrative
framework, and royal officials (such as the foreman of the artisans mentioned
above). For example, two inscriptions of Gautamiputra Satakarni from Nasik
Cave XI (Nasik inscriptions 13 and 14; Burgess 1964 [1881]: 104-6) record the
donation of agricultural fields to a community of ascetics. They further declare
that these monks were to be granted immunities fi:om all taxes and from all interference from royal officers, and were otherwise "endowed with immunities of all
kinds" (Burgess 1964 [1881]: 106). In addition, the first of these inscriptions
concludes that "a charter has been drawn up, which has been approved of by
the minister Sivagupta who received verbal orders, and which is preserved by the
great lords" (Burgess 1964 [1881]: 105). The second inscription expands on the
previous donation. It acknowledges Syamaka, the minister of the Govardhana
ahara, and records a donation given by Gautamiputra Satakarni in concert with
his mother; a charter of this inscription is recorded as having been drawn up and
approved by a woman named Lota, whose status Burgess (1964 [1881]: 106)
has translated as "chief lady-in-waiting" to the Queen Mother. These inscriptions suggest the existence of some kind of bureaucratic structure during the
early second century C E, although its stability and effectiveness cannot be
ascertained.
177
178
Carla M. Sinopoli
There is considerable evidence that in the intense competition among the
numerous rival states that comprised South Asia during the Early Historic
period, the Satavahanas can be counted among the major political and military
players and were occasionally transcendent, able to conquer and incorporate rival
polities. The Satavahanas were also successful in both benefiting from and participating in the economic expansion that characterized the period, including
both agricultural intensification and increased production of non-agricultural
commodities (including but not restricted to luxury goods), and their trade both
within and beyond the subcontinent.
Yet it is perhaps through their ideological form that the Satavahanas were most
successful. Their impact during the Early Historic period can perhaps best be
seen in the revival of the dynasty in the western Deccan after a century of
Kshtrapa hegemony, and in their second- (and third?)-century CE prominence
in the eastern and southern Deccan. The last five Satavahana rulers listed in Table
6.1, and dating to after 181 CE (i.e., Candra Sri, Pulumavi 11, Abhira Isvasena,
Madharputra Sakasena, Haritiputra Satakarni), all appear to have been regional
kings who controlled small territories in the southern and eastern Deccan. While
their precise relations with earlier Satavahana rulers are unknown, their claims of
connection to them attest to the importance of those earlier rulers and their
legacy in later Deccani constructions of kingship and imperial identities. It may
be then that the Satavahanas persisted longer in historical memories within the
Deccan than did the Mauryas, who have such resonance for contemporary scholars and a broader public.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
An earlier draft of this chapter was presented at the 122nd International
Symposium of the Wenner Gren Foundation, "Imperial Designs: Comparative
Dynamics of Early Empires." My deepest gratitude to the conference participants, and to Sydel Silverman, Laurie Obbink, and Mark Mahoney, and my
fellow conference organizers, Sue Alcock, Terry D'Altroy, and Kathy Morrison.
My thanks also to the conference participants and to Rob Brubaker, Lars
Fogelin, Joyce Marcus, and Norman Yoffee for helpful comments on an earlier
version of this manuscript.
7
Dynamics of imperial adjustment in Spanish
America: ideology and social integration
Kathleen Deagan
Spain's imperial expansion into the sixteenth-century Americas was simultaneously an invasion, a colonization effort, a social experiment, a religious crusade,
and a highly structured economic enterprise. Unlike most earlier examples of
imperial expansion, it was both sudden and unexpected, involving two hemispheres of the world that had no prior idea of the other's existence. It was furthermore an encounter of a largely literate society with a largely non-literate
society (at least in the West Indies), in which the latter was in many places altered
or destroyed with stunning rapidity, thereby severely compromising the evidentiary base for later understanding of contact. Nevertheless, the sixteenth-century
Spanish empire in the Americas was the largest ever known in the hemisphere
(Fig. 7.1), incorporating an extraordinarily diverse array of societies, polities, and
geographic landscapes, and enduring as an entity for more than three centuries.
Our historical understanding of that phenomenon has traditionally been based
on studies of Spain's formal imperial institutions - political, social, economic,
and religious. These institutions were documented in great bureaucratic detail,
and undergird an enormous historical literature (a few examples of general synthetic works include Merriman 1918-34; Haring 1947; Vicen Vives 1961; J. H.
Parry 1964, 1966; Gibson 1966; Zavala 1967; Chaunu 1969; McAllister 1984;
Kamen 1991). The general tendency of these efforts, owing largely to the nature
of the written accounts, has been to cast the dynamics of empire in terms of
"God, gold, and glory" - that is, the goals and perceptions of the imperial
centers and the colonial elites.
Regardless of the economic, political, and religious motives that inspired
Spaniards to colonize and control the Americas, their ability, as that of any
empire, to impose their policies was inextricably connected with the imperial
center's ability to establish workable relations with two groups of people: the
indigenous people who were colonized, and the non-elite Spanish people who
lived in the Americas as colonists. The social integration and willing involvement
of both groups was essential to the maintenance of empire, and necessarily
involved negotiation between the ideological constructs that organized the social
imperial effort, and the requirements and demands of people in local settings.
These issues clearly overlap the political, economic, ideological, and societal
179
180
Dynamics of imperial adjustlllCllt ill 5;pcmish Amerien
Kathleell Dengall
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spheres. While acknowledging and repeating the observation of other contributors to this volume, that it is impossible and probably inappropriate to isolate
those realms analytically, I will nevertheless attempt to address the dynamics of
social integration of non-elite people at a community scale against the broader
social ideology of empire. I argue that the success of this integration was based
in large measure on the ability to sustain the ideological precepts of empire Catholicism and Espallidad - while accommodating local conditions and circumstance in the arena of social practice .
MATERIALITY AND LOCAL EXPERIENCE OF THE
NON-ELITE
The dynamics of this integration are often best reflected in the materiality of life
as lived by the residents ofpost-Columbian America, including the non-elite and
often non-literate Indian and Spanish majority. Because of the nature of written
texts, it is only through material expression that action and agency are implied
for all actors in the past, that is, not only those who produced written or iconographic accounts. Clearly an understanding (however imperfect) of the full range
oflocal, "on the ground" agency is essential to the larger understanding of internal imperial dynamics and the evolution of empires.
This local experience is not trivial. Popular responses to local conditions at La
Isabela, Spain's first American colony, fCl!' example, led within one decade to dle
recasting of Spain's approach to America fl'om a mercantile to an imperial
venture (Deagan and Cruxent, in press; see also Stevens-Arroyo 1993). Once an
empire was initiated, local and non-elite actors continued to provoke responsive
changes in the expressed structure of empire in Spanish America through, feJl'
example, racial intermarriage, large-scale slavery, and opportunistic ecollomic
ventures. These circumstances were at least equally as influential as core imperial
institution in the genesis of the multicultural Spanish-American society that is
today the legacy of empire.
Although, as noted, mllch has been written about the institutions and organization of the Spanish-American empire, relatively little work has explored the
circumstances in Amcrica that provoked responsive adjustments in the imperial
structure itself'. 'Ne sllspect that this lacuna exists in large measure because dle
expression of local experience in America fell' the majority of Spaniards and
Indians who participated (albeit not always willingly) in the imperial system is
encoded primarily in the materiality of that experience that is, in the archaeological record.
CONTEXTS 01:-' RESEARCH
o
500
1000 km
181
The study of the dialectic involved in the accommodation of ideal in the t~1Ce
of local circumstances has been undertaken to a considerable extent through
7.1 '/he SpaniJh
Americll/l n/lpi,." c.
/700 Cr:. DIlJhed
lillcJ indicate the
C.vtfll t of'l'icCI'(1f1l1
bOlllldal'icJ.
182
Kathleen Deagan
historical archaeology. Historical archaeology attempts to integrate the material
evidence of the past provided by archaeology with the textual evidence of the
past provided by history, trying (albeit not always successfully) to avoid privileging one line of evidence over the other. Historical archaeology was not formalized as a discipline until 1967, and was uncommon in Spanish America before
the 1980s (see Deagan 1998). Because of this, much of the historical archaeology concerned with the dynamics of the Spanish empire has been conducted in
the context of the 1992 quincentennial observation of Europe's arrival in the
Americas. That event focused popular and scholarly attention on the consequences of Spanish imperial expansion, and provided a point of convergence for
postcolonial nationalist ideology in Latin America, postmodernist thought in the
social sciences, and the maturation of historical archaeology and social history as
disciplines.
Quincentenary-related archaeology forced a confrontation of scale between
the empire-wide structural phenomena in which many historians have been traditionally interested, and the community or household-based phenomena with
which many field archaeologists have been necessarily concerned.' One of the
consequences of tlus confrontation of scale has been tl1e documentation by
archaeologists of tl1e ways in which the formal imperial policies for social integration of conquered peoples were adjusted at a local community scale, while
being sustained, at least ideologically, at an institutional scale. Catholicism, racebased social hierarchy, centralized political administration, the Spanish language,
and mercantile economy were all to be found throughout the empire, but the
degree to which tl1eir ideal forms were manifested locally was subject to tremendous variation.
CONTEXT OF EMPIRE
The sixteenth-century Spanish empire in the Americas can only be understood
against the background of more than 2000 years of invasion, colonization, and
multiculturalism in the Iberian peninsula itself. Following Greek and Phoenician
invasions and settlements between the eighth and sixth centuries BC E, Iberia
was colonized by the Carthaginians (fifth to third centuries BCE), who were in
turn expelled by the Romans in 206 BC E. Roman imperial rule endured until
the fifth century C E. It is credited by many historians (e.g., Vicens Vives 1969:
63-81) not only with establishing many of Spain's agricultural, transportation,
and urbanization patterns, but also explicitly with influencing the patterns of
sixteenth-century Spanish imperial expansion in the Americas (see, for example,
Crouch 1991). The Visigoth occupation of Spain followed the f.1ll of Rome
between the fifth and tl1e seventh centuries C E, and was itself ended by the invasion and conquest of most of the Iberian peninsula between 711 and 715 C E
by Muslim Arab and Berber forces of the U mayyad and Abbasid dynasties.
Under the eight centuries of Muslim rule, Eastern and Greek science, technology, and philosophy were reintroduced to Spain and Europe with lasting
Dynamics of imperial adjustment in Spanish America
influence on Spanish language, cuisine, agriculture, art, architecture, commerce,
technology, and social practice (for a recent summary of such influences, see
Vernet 1992). A richly diverse society developed, blending elements of Roman,
Iberian, and Arab cultures, and in wluch Muslims, Christians, and Jews coexisted
and intermarried (see Mann et al. 1992).
THE RECONQUISTA
Almost immediately after 711 CE, Christian rulers began efforts to recapture
Spain from its Muslim rulers, and the reconquista, cast as a holy war, persisted
for eight centuries. Much of the military conquest was undertaken by captains
who were awarded the title of adelantado, and who carried out their campaigns
witl1 little or no financial support from the crown. They were rewarded for
success, however, by being assigned hereditary governorships of conquered territories, along with rights to the labor of the Muslim peasants who occupied
them. By tl1e fourteentl1 century CE, Al-Andalus, the name given by tl1e
Muslims to their holdings in Iberia, was reduced to the principality of Granada,
and this, too, finally fell to the Catholic kings, Ferdinand and Isabela, in 1492.
The fall of Granada not only united Spain under Christian rule, but also ushered
in a new era of religious fervor, intolerance, and intense proselytizing promoted
by Queen Isabela. It was in this context that Columbus returned from his first
voyage of exploration with news of the New World, and the invasion of America
by Spain began.
OVERSEAS EXPANSION AND THE FIRST
IMPERIAL EFFORT
The initial Spanish imperial effort had a very different shape and texture than the
system that ultimately prevailed in the Americas. As Sanjay Subrahmanyam discusses (this volume), the fifteenth century was a period of unprecedented maritime exploration and overseas economic expansion by Iberian powers, fueled by
the dual impulses of mercantilism and religious fervor. Portugal led the way in
this, and provided the inspiration tor Spain's initial expansion into the Americas.
The Columbian project was a crown-private partnership, self-consciously
modeled on the Portuguese factoria system discussed by Subrahmanyam.
The revelation that uncounted numbers of souls in need of Christian conversion were waiting in the New World intensified the religious motive for this
enterprise. From the point of view of the Spanish crown, the goals of evangelization and conversion were equally as compelling as the economic motives of
the venture. Once in America, however, neither the religious nor the economic
vision remained compelling to either the American Indians or the Spanish colonists. The institutional model simply did not meet local needs and expectations. Resistance, rebellion, and individual enterprise quickly recast the original
imperial project from one of a private-monarchical mercantile partnership, to
183
184
Dynamics of imperial adjustment in Spanish America
Kathleen Deagan
the territorially based and centrally controlled pattern of political domination
that came to characterize the Spanish empire from the sixteenth century onward
(for more detailed discussions of the initial factoria enterprise and its failure see
Perez de Tudela Bueso 1954, 1955; Stevens-Arroyo 1993; Deagan and Cruxent
in press).
Recasting of empire
The shift that occurred after 1500 (and after Christopher Columbus) in Spanish
imperial strategy was, in a sense, a return to an earlier medieval pattern, and a
rejection of the imperial modernity that persisted in the Portuguese colonies.
The second mode of Spanish expansion into the Americas followed a pattern that
had been translated from the Iberian reconquista to the Spanish conquest and
colonization of the Canary Islands between about 1477 and 1497 (Aznar Vallejo
1983; Tejera Gaspar 1992; Stevens-Arroyo 1993). Crown-appointed adelantados led largely self-supported expeditions of conquest, during which, in the
tradition of the reconquista, successful conquistadors were rewarded with allocations of land and the servitude of the native Guanche people who occupied it.
Ideally, that land would contain natural resources with a high and profitable
yield, preferably of gold or silver, and a sizeable stable population that could be
subjected to peonage. Rather than making the Canarian adelantados hereditary,
however, as they had been during the reconquista, Isabela retained the right to
revoke such privileges at any time (McAllister 1984: 64). This established a new
kind of tension between the central imperial authority in Spain and the Spanish
colonial authority with vested interests in the colonies.
After sustained resistance and dramatic loss of population, the Guanche inhabitants of the Canaries were assigned to the victorious conquistadors who claimed
the land on which they lived, and were obligated to contribute labor as a token
of their submission to Spain. They were, nevertheless, theoretically given the
privileges of Castilian subjects as long as they adopted Christianity and accepted
the sovereignty of Spain. The status and privileges of their chiefs were formally
recognized, and intermarriage between Spanish men and Guanche women was
not uncommon (Aznar Vallejo 1983). However, those Guanches who continued resistance were considered appropriate candidates for enslavement and
despoliation (Tejera Gaspar and Aznar Vallejo 1992).
This essentially feudal pattern of land and labor capture was ultimately
imposed on the Americas. Perhaps more than any other aspect of empire, this
pattern established the context in which indigenous American people were
incorporated into the Spanish empire. The reconquista-based pattern, however,
was profoundly altered by the devastating epidemics of introduced disease that
ravaged indigenous American populations in all areas of primary Spanish
contact. 2 This has led at least one prominent anthropologist of Mesoamerica to
assert that "the driving forces [of empire] were the demands of a dominant
foreign ethnic group on an indigenous labor-force that suffered continuous
decline. All other variables were derivatives of these two forces" (Sanders 1992:
189).
The ideological basis for empire
Indeed, the effects of demographic disaster provoked by disease and labor
demands are overwhelming to most recent Americanist students of the Spanish
empire, and have dominated the direction of most recent archaeological and ethnohistorical research. The forces of religious ideology in the shaping of empire,
however, were equally compelling and even more pervasive. Observers and historians in both the sixteenth and twentieth centuries agree that the conversion
of conquered peoples to Catholicism was a paramount goal equal to that of economic exploitation at the highest levels of the imperial organization, that is, the
crown and the church. The justification for imperial expansion was explicitly
religious, codified in 1493 by the Bulls of Donation issued by Pope Alexander
VI (a Spaniard). These assigned Spain "a just title" to American lands, in that
they were obligated to evangelize the inhabitants and make them Christians.
This was officially the sole authority and justification for the Spanish empire in
America, an issue that became the focus of intense preoccupation and extended
debate in late-fifteenth- and early-sixteenth-century Spain (for synthetic and differing discussions of these see Hanke 1949; Brading 1991: 79-101).
The Spanish people, church, and state were inextricably interconnected
through the Patronato Real, by which the pope granted the kings of Spain papal
authority in the administration of church and ecclesiastical aff.1irs in Iberia. At
the request of Isabela and Ferdinand, the PMronato Real was extended to the
Spanish Americas in papal decrees between 1493 and 1508. These recast the
institution as an agreement between the crown and the pope through which
ecclesiastical control of the Americas would remain in the hands of the crown as
long as the monarchs fulfilled their obligation to convert the American natives
and properly administer church precepts. In 1524, this responsibility was delegated to the Council of the Indies, which also governed secular aHairs in the
colonies (I-Iaring 1947: 103, 180). In this way, the religiously motivated and
justified purposes of empire were politically institutionalized.
Rules of social conduct for both Indians and Spaniards were largely set forth
and enforced by the church (backed by the state). Social activities were scheduled and organized by the annual round of religious feasts and observations, and
the policies that structured Spanish-Indian relations were largely governed by
the church (Hanke 1949; Gonzales 1969; McAllister 1984: 133-83).
Catholicism has, in fact, persisted to the present century as the dominant unifYing social and religious institution throughout postcolonial Spanish America.
The experience of the recMlquista also shaped a social ideology that was translated to the American empire, that of "Spanish ne ss," or, perhaps less awkwardly,
Espanidad, which incorporates notions of class (high) and religion (Catholic).
Values evolved over those seven centuries of holy war idealized the hidalgo as a
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Kathleen Deagan
man who built a livelihood on service to God and king (as opposed to labor or
trade), and acquired property and wealth as rewards for honor, valor, and military success (see Lockhart and Schwartz 1983: 61-3; McAllister 1984; Elliott
1987: 1-10). The hidalgo was furthermore of pure Spanish (i.e., Christian)
lineage, without taint of Muslim or Jewish ancestry.
The ideals of hidalguia stanls, purity of blood and pride oflineage, were translated directly to the Americas. Only "Old Christians," that is, tl10se Spaniards
unsuspected of religious contamination, whether Muslim or Jewish, were permitted by law to emigrate to the Americas (see Morner 1967: 54-5). While the
concept of purity of blood was maintained, it was transformed in the American
empire from a religious to a racial categorization, disCllssed below.
SOCIAL INTEGRATION IN THE AMERICAN
EMPIRE
Are these not men?
The encounter witl1 American Indians provoked intense discussion, debate, and
soul-searching in late-fifteenth-century Spain concerning the nature of these
people, and tl1eir potential capacity to live like Christian Spaniards (for a comprehensive treatment of these debates, sec Hanke 1949; Pagden 1982). From
the very beginning, the official position of the dominant colonial institutional
powers - the crown and the church - was in conflict with the practical position
of the Spanish colonists who lived in the Americas. The crown, vigorously
encouraged by the Catholic church, asserted that the Indians were their legal
subjects and merited both rights and protection, while the colonists asserted that
they were sub-human and best suited as a resource of labor. After it was determined in 1500 that Indians were, in fact, human beings by virtue of possessing
souls, the Spanish crown was careful to legally ensure that Indians could not be
officially enslaved. A series of edicts were issued in 1512 to protect the American
Indians (the Laws of Burgos; Hussey 1932). Much social and institutional development after that time was designed to ensure that the "free" Indians would nevertheless be a ready and reliable source of labor.
The problem of observing the church's and the crown's mandates to protect
and respect the rights of the Indians, while at the same time ensming a reliable
sOll\'ce of labor, was initially resolved by the uniquely American institution of
encomienda, established in Hispaniola in 1503 (see Lockhart and Schwartz
1983: 64-72; McAllister 1984: 157-66; Elliott 1987; Gibson 1987). Those
Indians associated with a particular allocation of land were obliged to exchange
their labor for instruction in Christianity and civilization. In order to make this
more efficient, the Indians were regularly relocated and consolidated at locations
convenient for Spanish labor exploitation and conversion. This process, known
as reducci6n, was also consistent with the Spanish emphasis that settled town life
was essential for civilization (discussed below). Reducci6n figmed centrally in the
Dynamics of imperial adjustment in Spanish America
social disintegration and breakdown of traditional cultural patterns among many
American Indian groups after contact, as well as in the spread of epidemic disease
tl1at decimated those who were among the first to encounter Europeans.
The rapid demographic decline in tl1e native populations of the earliest
Spanish-American colonies led in turn for a desperate (perceived) need by the
Spanish colonists for alternate sources of labor. Their solution spelled doom for
the hundreds of thousands of Mrican people brought unwillingly to the
Americas as slaves, and introduced anotl1er social and demographic element into
tl1e imperial arena after 1520. The enslavement of Mrican people was justified
by reference to the same religious-legal arguments that prohibited tl1e enslavement ofIndians: the Bulls of Donation issued by Alexander VI in 1493. Those
Donations implied no obligation to evangelize and convert Mricans, since Spain
held no territorial presence there. Furthermore, Mrica was tainted by tl1e hint of
Islamic influence, which was sufficient justification for slavery. Curiously, once
Mrican slaves reached the American colonies they were subjected to the ministrations of the church, including evangelization and conversion. However conversion did not bring liberation (sec H. S. Klein 1989 [1967]: 88-9).
In many ways issues of class and religion overrode considerations of race in
structuring social interactions with conquered peoples. The labor requirements
imposed on American Indians by encomienda and reducci6n, for example,
applied principally to non-elite individuals. From the beginning of imperial
expansion both in the Canary Islands and in the Americas, official policy stressed
respect for and recognition of the political importance of the caciques (paramount leaders). Elite accommodation was a cornerstone ofinitial Spanish policy
toward the American Indians, based on the recognition, at least in principle, of
a legitimate "Republic ofIndians," and the political authority of its leaders (sce
Hanke 1949: 27; McAllister 1984: 180; Gibson 1987: 377; Bushnell 1990).
These policies were also formalized in 1512 by the Laws ofBurgos, and came to
characterize Spanish-American interaction in those areas of the Americas with
strongly differentiated chiefs and stratified societies.
In its own way, the accommodation of elites served to help mitigate the
tension between crown policies to protect Indians as ft'ee subjects, and colonists'
desires to exploit Indian labor. By seCllring the alliance of caciquesit was expected
that conversion, labor requirements, and tribute would then be imposed
through them to their vassals (Hanke 1949; Gibson 1987: 377). This came to
be an especially important mechanism in frontier areas where there were few
Spaniards and fewer towns.
In the earliest years of contact the accommodation of elite American Indians
also included intermarriage between Spanish conquistadors or soldiers and
Indian caciquasand noblewomen (Morner 1967: 37; Floyd 1973: 59-61; Lyon
1976: 148; Deagan 1985: 304-5). Such marriages were intended to legitimize
Spanish claims to land and labor, although in cases such as Spanish Florida they
were entered into mistakenly through a misunderstanding ofmat:rilineal descent
l'lIles.
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Kathleen Deagan
Integration on the imperial frontier
The Catholic church served in principle as a force to mitigate the abuse of
Indians as laborers, illustrated by church-inspired protective legislation such as
that reflected in the writings ofBartolome de las Casas (Casas 1974). The church
also served - particularly in the frontier regions - as a primary agent of reduccion, hispanicization, and labor organization of the native inhabitants.
Both the institution of the mission and the concept of peaceful evangelization
were features found exclusively in Spain's overseas holdings, evolving in response
to local conditions of empire. The idealized goal of empire - the creation of a
Catholic state - had been achieved in Spain itself exclusively by force, through
warfare, forced conversions, expulsion, and the Inquisition. It was only in the
isolated territories of overseas empire that the greatly outnumbered Spaniards
developed the principle, and quite often the process, of peaceful proselytizing
and conversion.
The mission as it developed in Spanish America was not a solely religious
venture, but was also a response to the need to secure and control a vast and isolated territory inhabited by large but dispersed Indian populations (see Bolton
1917 for the original statement of this position). Missions evolved along the
frontiers of the Spanish empire as centers of Christianity, but also of Spanish
political presence, labor organization, economic production, and defense.
Even in conversion and the transfer of religious belief, considerable local
accommodation can be seen. Catholicism in America of 1500 C E was faced with
a situation that recalled the original spread of doctrine more than a thousand
years earlier - the accommodation of Catholic doctrine and practice to deeply
held but pagan beliefs and practice. The Spanish missionaries were, fClr the most
part, flexible in recognizing that the acceptance of Catholicism was a highly variable and selective process for most American Indians, both materially and spiritually. Most historical and archaeological research on the American missions
documents the many ways in which elements of Catholic ritual were selected,
rejected, and transformed by various groups from the Maya (Clcndinnen 1987),
to the peoples of the United States southwest (Weber 1992: 105-21) and southeast (B. G. McEwan 1993). Burials of Christian Indians in the Spanish missions
of La Florida, for example, indicate that the Catholic missionaries actively negotiated the adjustment of church ritual at the missions. David Thomas documents
the inclusion of native grave goods, including symbolic shell gorgets and bear
claws , with Christian Indian burials inside the mission church. "Thus to achieve
an important outward symbol of conversion, - and to stamp out offensive pagan
burial mounds and charnel houses - Il·iars apparently 'allowed' the Guale to continue their tradition of grave goods, even though the practice directly violated
church practice" (D. H. Thomas 1988: 120-1). Accommodation of nonChristian beliefs to Catholic ritual can still be seen today throughout Spanish
America: in the correlation of the Virgin of Guadalupe (Patroness of America)
with the Aztec maize goddess Tonantzin, the incorporation of native music,
Dynamics of imperial adjustment in Spanish America
dance and images into celebrations of the Mass and other rituals, and the synchretic Catholic-Mrican religious expressions of the Caribbean.
Archaeological work not only at Spanish missions, but also at many other frontier or rural sites of Spanish imperial presence (such as defensive outposts, plantations, ranches, and tribute-paying Indian towns), shows other kinds of
modifications to the Spanish goal of creating communities of "civilized people
of reason" living in the Spanish manner. For example, in both mission and nonmission Indian towns under Spanish dominion, archaeologists have been unable
to document significant alteration in such pre-Columbian material patterns as
spatial organization, diet, and material technology; or in pre-Columbian expressions of social differentiation. 3 In some colonial-era sites without associated
written documents in Peru, for example, the archaeological assemblages do not
provide sufficient evidence even to determine whether their occupants were
Spaniards or Indians (see, for example, G. C. Smith 1991; Van Buren 1991).
The imperial goals of establishing civilized Christian life dictated by the church
and the crown were apparently adjusted most strikingly (and perhaps even largely
ignored) in rural and frontier areas of the empire. There was little social integration of colonized people in these areas into the empire beyond the symbolic
acknowledgment of imperial and Catholic dominion. In fact there is some indication that the Spaniards who lived in these communities made [.1r greater adjustments to the American mode of life than vice versa. One historian of the Spanish
frontier in New Mexico characterizes "Spanish colonists" as "anyone living in a
manner more Spanish than Indian" (Kessell 1997: 50). This was not the case in
town centers, where Spanish fCl1"IllS were at least outwardly imposed.
The importance of town
The establishment of settled towns and urban centers was central to the Spanish
imperial strategy Illr asserting social, political, and economic control in the
Americas, and towns were the idealized setting for "civilized" life. As Crouch,
Garr, and Mundigo note (1982: xx), "Like the colonial cities of the Roman
empire, those of the Spanish empire were conceived and executed as propaganda
vehides, symbolizing and incarnating civilization." In 1503 Isabela mandated to
the Governor ofHispaniola that "We ordain and order that our Governor of the
said Indies undertakes with much diligence to see that poblaciones [towns] be
established in which the Indians can live together, as do the persons who live in
these our Kingdoms [Spain]" (McAllister 1984: 109).
The establishment of Spanish towns in the Americas was a closely regulated
undertaking, in both the physical and the administrative organization of these
settlements. The regulations governing the physical and organizational aspects
of towns were codified in 1573, although they were at least partially implemented as early as the establishment of San to Domingo in 1498, and were fully
developed as a code by the early sixteenth century (McAllister 1984: 134-9).
The 1573 ordinances are a remarkable statement about Spanish intentions and
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Kathleen Deagan
ideals concerning "civilized" town life. They address not only spatial patterning,
but also environmental concerns, health, civic authority and organization, relations with Indians, religious matters, status, economy, commerce, and urban aesthetics (these are largely translated and reproduced in Crouch et al. 1982).
The ordinances provide an empirical statement of formal Spanish intent,
against which to assess and interpret the material actuality at early Spanish towns.
They are thus particularly useful in assessing the degree of adherence to Spanish
ideal precepts, versus accommodation of new forms in response to changed conditions. In nearly all New World municipalities after 1500, whether urban centers
or isolated towns, an overwhelming adherence to the general spatial patterns
established in the ordinances can be demonstrated (for well-documented examples see Foster 1960; Chueco Goitia and Torres Balbas 1981; Crouch et al.
1982; Deagan 1982). It was within Spanish colonial towns, where Spaniards,
Indians, and Mricans coexisted, that the social integration of Spain and America
occurred most visibly.
Intermarriage and the creation of the new ((other))
Intermarriage and consensual relationships among Spaniards (mostly men) and
Indians and Mricans (mostly women) formed a crucial dynamic in creating and
stabilizing the social milieus of the Spanish-American empire. It redefined the
notion of race in ways with which we are still struggling today, and shaped a new
social order for the Spanish empire organized by the ancient idea of purity of
blood (limpieza de sangre). In the Americas this came to mean purity of white,
Spanish blood, as contrasted with the purity of Christian blood that obsessed fifteenth- and sixteenth-century Spaniards (see above). While canonical law considered different religions to be an obstacle to marriage, it apparently did not
consider race an obstacle as long as both parties were Catholic (Konetzke 1946;
Morner 1967: 36).
Although relatively little modern scholarly attention has been given to intermarriage as an active force in the Spanish imperial dynamic (important exceptions include Morner 1967; Nash 1980; Esteva-Fabregat 1995), marriage
between Spaniards and Indians was sanctioned by both the church and the
crown in the early Spanish colonies. Queen Isabela, for example, instructed the
governor of Santo Domingo in 1503 to see to it that "some Christians marry
some Indian women and some Christian women marry some Indian men, so that
both parties can communicate and teach each other, and the Indians become
men and women of reason" (Morner 1967: 26).
A large number of Spanish men lived in concubinage with Indian and African
women. The church tried vigorously to make them marry, but with limited
success. This contributed not only to the increase of the mestizo population, but
also to the social association of mixed blood with illegitimacy (Morner 1967:
40-2).
These unions led to a bewildering array of genetic (and social) admixture
among European, Indian, and African populations, to which Spanish imperial
ideology responded in characteristic fashion by recasting the fifteenth-century
concept of limpieza de sangre from "old Christian blood" to "white Spanish
blood." Although all town dwellers were (at least nominally) Christians, the
purity of bloodlines came to be measured by the degree of adherence to Iberian
heritage. This ultimately resulted in the formal institutionalization of race
mixture into more than twenty-five categories that were explicitly illustrated in
colonial Mexico by nearly 1000 paintings (Garcia Salz 1989). AltllOugh tl1ese
categories reflected a commitment to social hierarchy and racial prejudice, they
nevertl1eless provided a legitimizing means of integrating virtually any combination of racial attributes into a recognized institutional structure. They were furthermore used very flexibly in social practice. In eighteentl1-century Mexico, for
example, individuals often identified themselves at different times as belonging
to different racial categories depending on the relative advantages of a category
in a specific situation (see Boyer 1997). Regardless of imperial legal categories
and distinctions, people in the Americas apparently regarded their racial identity
"not so much as an indicator of group membership or even as a badge of self definition within a static and rigid system, but rather as a component of [his] personal identity that could be manipulated and often changed" (Chance 1978:
130-1).
The fluidity of racial/cultural identity in the Spanish-American empire has
been revealed most tangibly in the archaeological records of the early Spanish
imperial towns. Excavations of households of the sixteenth through eighteenth
centuries in the Caribbean, Florida, Mexico, and the Rio de la Plata region consistently reveal that domestic, female-associated aspects of those households regardless of their documentary based ethnic or racial identification - are represented predominantly by American elements, or mixed European-AmericanAti·ican elements. These include cooking technology (manos, metates, griddles,
pots), ceramic technology, and foodstuffs,4 and household management such as
the use of American Indian-style smudge pits in Spanish homes, for example
(Deagan 1983: 108).
In contrast to this, both traditionally "male" categories and socially visible categories of the material world (e.g., architecture, religious items, clothing)
remained Spanish or European in form fi·om the fifteenth through the eighteenth centuries. This is especially evident in the areas of spatial patterning, architecture, and the built environment. These segments of everyday life in the
Spanish colonies reveal a high degree of spatial and hierarchical organization in
the intellectual templates and material world of the Spanish men who organized
them, clearly reflecting both their Roman and Moorish antecedents in Spain (see
C. Flores 1973; Crouch 1991).
This pattern of carefully maintaining the ideal of Spanish identification Espanidad - in socially visible areas, while adapting to the local circumstances of
the colonial setting in private and domestic life, developed very rapidly as a
mechanism tor social integration in the towns of the Spanish empire. It suggests
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Dynamics of imperial adjustment in Spanish America
Kathleen Deagan
adherence to a highly structured set of preexisting precepts - embodied in this
case by the precepts of Catholicism and the ideal of Spanish identification - but
implemented simultaneously with a high degree of flexibility and accommodation to local, indigenous conditions.
A central dynamic in creating and sustaining this tension was the cultural
exchange brokered by indigenous women within Spanish-established towns.
Nearly all historical and anthropological considerations of these inter-gender
interactions have been cast in terms of choices and decision-making by European
men in the colonial arena. This has ignored, as June Nash has put it, "the creative role of Indian women and their mestizo offspring in producing a mestizo
culture that brought together traits from the preconquest society and from
Europe" (1980: 145). Non-European women were, in fact, a potent force for
social integration in Spanish-American towns. Whether as wives, concubines, or
servants, non-European women were the brokers for European, Indian, and
African exchanges within Spanish-American households and communities.
From an archaeological perspective, it is evident that these gender- and racebased patterns of multi cultural social integration in the Spanish empire not only
are both widespread and consistent throughout the Spanish-American world,
but also stand in sharp contrast to the patterns of adaptation documented on
colonial sites of the Anglo-American empire. Both Robert Schuyler (1976) and
James Deetz (1977,1993) pointed out that the cherished notion of the multiethnic and multiracial "melting pot" as the process by which North American
society developed is not substantiated in the archaeological record of AngloAmerican colonial sites. These sites overwhelmingly reveal a thorough and
systematic exclusion of non-European traits in the colonists' households in both
female and male activities (see also South 1977). Even such careful analyses of
American Indian influence on Anglo culture as James Axtell's (1981) fail to identify incorporations of non- European elements into mainstream Anglo-American
domestic life. Such incorporations are instead restricted to the remote fi·ontier,
and relegated to the lowest echelons and outcasts of Anglo colonial society. To
anticipate the inevitable essentialist argument that intermating in the Spanish
colonies was caused by a shortage of Spanish women I hasten to add that
European gender ratios in the respective first half:centuries of American imperial expansion were roughly equal for the Spanish and English colonies.
GiI Stein (1994, 1998) has recently demonstrated a similar gender- based
pattern of integration in the archaeological record of a very different imperial
setting, that ofHa~inebi, a Mesopotamian Uruk colonial enclave (or trade entrepot) in Anatolia (c. 3800-3100 BCE). Items associated with male activities
occur in material forms of the colonizing Mesopotamians, while female activity
items, as in the Spanish empire, are associated with local Anatolian styles. Stein
suggests that cross-cultural marriages could have served to form alliances in the
local polities, helping to secure peaceful rclations, access to land, and trading
rights. These kinds of non-aggressive colonial relationships were particularly
important in the Uruk network, as they may also have been in Spanish expan-
sion, and quite possibly in the experiences of Egyptian colonization in Nubia (see
Morkot, this volume), where the intrusive colonial groups were unable to
numerically dominate the socially complex colonized communities they encountered.
Clearly this is not the forum to explore the implications and explanations for
such cultural differences in imperial social integration and intermarriage, but
analysis of archaeological data from a gendered perspective undoubtedly offers
an important direction of inquiry into the comparative dynamics of empire.
SUMMARY
A few summary statements can be made from this admittedly selective and superficial assessment of Spanish imperial ideology and the practice of social integration in the empire. After an early failed attempt to extend a Portuguese-based
mercantile factoria model into the Americas, Spanish imperial expansion followed a pattern established during the centuries-long religious war to reconquer
Muslim Spain for the Christians. It extended the overarching moral and legal justification of "a just war" and imperial conquest to the Americas by virtue of the
conversion of the American Indians to Christianity. Following this, the ideals of
Catholicism, Espanidad, and settled life in towns were central to the social integration of conquered peoples into the life of the empire.
While these concepts were sustained as ideals until the end of the empire (and
in many areas beyond), they were adjusted in practice almost immediately. In the
view of the church and the crown, for example, the souls and potential
Christianity of the American Indians protected them from enslavement and
exploitation. The perceived realities and requirements of life in the Americas on
the part of the early colonizers mitigated this ideal, however, and labor capture
institutions of encomienda and reduccion developed as alternatives to slavery and
accessories to conversion. Conversely, the same ideology led to the sanctioned,
large-scale enslavement of Africans, who were not protected by the obligation of
the Catholic kings to evangelize their lands, and who were furthermore tainted
by an asserted association with Islam.
The mitigation of imperial ideology was especially evident on the frontier and
in rural areas, where, if archaeological evidence is to be considered, the implementation of Esparlidad and civilized (e.g., Spanish) life was a marked failure.
The mission evolved as an institution not only of religious instruction, but also
of defense, labor capture, and acculturation. Both ethnohistoric and archaeological evidence have indicated that even in matters of religion, major adjustments and transformations were made in practice.
In the Spanish towns of the empire the discontinuity between ideal and practice was marked in different and less dramatic but nevertheless profound ways.
The ideal of Espanidad appears to have been carefully maintained in socially
visible aspects of life, in activities and areas of material culture associated with
men, and in a new hierarchy of limpieza de sangre based on racial admixture
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Kathleen Deagan
rather than religion. This was not the case within the households of SpanishAmerican towns, however, where virtually all homes, when observed archaeologically, incorporated American Indian and Mrican elements in basic domestic
activities controlled by women. The differences between the imperial center in
Spain and the imperial colonies in America in both social practice and underlying ideology are underscored most tangibly in Spanish-American households,
and particularly when gender-based analytical categories are applied. It might be
suggested that it was within those households, and in women's domestic activities, that the social transformation of identity in the imperial colonies began,
leading ultimately to the end of empire.
PART III
IMPERIAL INTEGRATION AND
IMPERIAL SUBJECTS
Carla M. Sinopoli
While the peoples and territories claimed by an imperial center typically expand
and contract throughout a polity's duration, the initial creation of an empire is
often rapid and dramatic - the result of acts of conquest and submission and the
acknowledgment of a new political hierarchy in imperial centers and defeated
regions. Through such acts, territories are claimed and the physical plan of an
empire begins to take form. However, the creation of empires as structures of
rule and as more or less integrated polities is a longer and more complex process,
often [.1r more difficult to achieve than conquest. Imperial integration entails
varying and changing emphases on coercion, rewards, structural transformations, cooption, and accommodation. The three chapters in this section address
two separate but intimately connected issues: processes and practices ofimperial
integration in New Kingdom Egypt (Morkot) and among the Andean Inka
(D'Altroy), and the nature and responses ofimperial subjects in the Vijayanagara
empire of South India (Morrison). These issues run through many of the chapters throughout this volume, particularly those in the subsequent section
addressing the nature of and audiences for imperial ideologies. Here, we focus
primarily on political, economic, and sociological dimensions. As with many
other topics addressed in this work, key themes of this section revolve around
variability and diversity, strategy and contingency, and general processes versus
individual historical trajectories.
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196
Part III Imperial integration and imperial subjects
Carla M. Sinopoli
IMPERIAL INTEGRATION
If, as Barfield (p. 29) has stressed, empires are organized to administer diversity,
then it is important to recognize that processes or strategies for imperial integration need not focus on the creation of uniformity or coherence. In fact, in many
cases, difference and competition among and between subject populations may
be both tolerated and even deliberately fostered. Thus, from the perspective of
the center, political competition and f.1ctionalism, especially among regional and
imperial elites, may contribute in the short or long term to the survival and integration of the empire as a whole - by preventing the development of unified
resistance to imperial hegemony. Second, it is also essential to acknowledge the
spatial as well as temporal dimensions of imperial integration. That is, empires,
like other polities, are not created out of whole cloth. Rather, throughout their
existence they are continuously transformed, through the intentional acts of
manifold individuals and groups and through the intended and unintended consequences of those actions. More or less stable organizational patterns may
emerge and endure for long periods; however, change and accommodation to
change are always part of the equation.
For an empire to endure, conquest and repression must give way to additional
practices and organizational structures that can incorporate at least subsets of
subject populations into a broader framework. The forms these structures take,
and how they are developed and implemented, must be responsive to the social,
environmental, and historical context of specific regions and the polity as a
whole. There is thus, in many cases, a seemingly contingent nature to decisions
affecting imperial consolidation, perhaps particularly in the early decades of an
empire's history. Writing of the Carolingians, Janet Nelson has observed that
"each royal regime lurched from one challenge to another, improvising responses
to a series of crises" (1996: xvii). This is probably not uncommon in many
empires, though see Yates' discussion of Qin administration (this volume) tor a
very different pattern. Both later imperial historians and contemporary scholars
may find grand strategies in such responses, and indeed, over time, such strategies may emerge (see Woolf, Yates, this volume), but it is important to parse out
causes and processes from their long-term consequences and representations.
The study of imperial integration may focus on a number of distinct dimensions. On the political side, we can examine how administrative hierarchies, decision-making, and record keeping (see Barfield, D'Altroy, Mot·eland, Yates, this
volume) are con figured and how centers seck to create or incorporate regional
elites and limit resistance. We can also explore how (or if) imperial boundaries
are created and defended, and how relations with peoples and polities beyond
the empire are structured. The study of economic integration can explore the
(re)structuring and regularization of movement and access to resources (human
and material). This can entail the creation of physical infrastructures (or use of
previously existing ones), demographic shifts, and the reorganization of labor
and tribute demands (see Smith and Schreiber, this volume). Sociologically, we
can explore the creation of imperial histories, ideologies, and identities that pull
participants (albeit often differentially) into a larger "imperial project," and may
also provide tools for its resistance (see Alcock, Brumfiel, Moreland, Morrison,
and Woolf, this volume). We can also examine the impact of empire on the communities, bodies, and lives of diverse imperial subjects (see Yates, this volume).
In practice, of course, the economic, political, social, and ideological are not
easily disentangled, however much different sources of archaeological and
written evidence and different intellectual approaches and priorities may lead us
to emphasize one over another.
SUBJECTS OF EMPIRE: ELITE AND OTHER
Imperial etites
Diverse elites occupy important nodal positions in all states. At the center of
empires is the core of elites that provides potential rulers. This group is often
heavily factionalized. Fierce succession struggles are widespread and can involve
elite ft·om inside and outside of the core group. The group of core elites may be
constituted and reproduced in a variety of ways. Attempts to reduce the pool of
potential rulers in order to limit succession struggles are evident, for example, in
the Aztec shift from exogamous to endogamous royal marriage and Qin
attempts at state control of male status positions (see Yates, p. 360). In other
cases, core elites may be expanded to increase horizontal connections - through
royal intermarriage with regional and external elites (see D'Altroy, Mot·kot, and
Smith, this volume). While practices that contribute to augmenting the number
of imperial elites can have the long-term negative consequences of multiplying
royal claimants and increasing succession tensions, they may respond to immediate political needs and contribute to expanded loyalties to and investments in
imperial stability.
The incorporation of regional elites, through marriage or other means, is
common and essential to imperial integration. As noted above, coercion is inherently limited as a means to integrate large and diverse politics. And even in highly
bureaucratized empires, the number of imperial officials is small in relation to
subject population, and logistical concerns of distance and communication make
direct contact with imperial centers infrequent and problematic. There is thus
often a necessary if uneasy alliance forged between imperial centers and local
rulers to assure resource flows and administrative, political, and strategic stability. In some cases, new regional elites may be created, either by replacing existing structures of rule or by imposing new ones in previously uncentralized
regions. The new elite may be members of the imperial f.1mily, warriors, or other
local actors, who shifted their loyalties to a new imperial power in order to alter
their own positions in the regional political landscape. And just as we must
197
198
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I
I
I
i
Carla M. Sinopoli
acknowledge that imperial centers are politically heterogeneous and conflictridden, it is also important to recognize that the populations of subject areas may
be similarly divided. While imperial rulers may seek to exploit these divisions, so
too may the various subgroups within incorporated populations - for very different reasons.
Attempts made to draw existing or emergent local elites into imperial structures commonly entail a combination of economic and social rewards and
implicit or explicit coercion (and sometimes all simultaneously, for example the
widespread practice of bringing the offspring of subject rulers to imperial courts
for fostering and as hostages). Imperial leaders may also attempt to limit horizontal contacts among various subject elites, by channeling connections hierarchically from regional elite and provinces to the center and restricting
inter-provincial contact. This kind of "divide and rule" political strategy can be
observed in many imperial states. Writing of Ottoman regional policy, Kafadar
(1995: 56) has observed: "within each group of provincial officials, the state
managed to divide in such a way as to set landholder against landholder, governor against governor, and governor-general against governor-general. In the
general atmosphere of competition, elites were unable to organize concerted
action against the state." A similar pattern can be documented in the Inka
empire and New Kingdom Egypt, as described by D'A1troy and Mm'kot in this
section (see also Kuhrt on the Achaemenid empire and Liverani on Assyria, this
volume).
Given the importance of conquest and militarism in empires, the creation of
a strong and effective military is key to imperial creation and perpetuation.
However, these same forces can also be a powerful threat to imperial stability as military leaders can accumulate vast wealth and loyal followings, and independent power bases from which to challenge imperial authority. Land grants and
other rewards to military elites and soldiers are therefore common in many
empires, as are counterbalancing attempts to limit the ambitions of military
leaders. Other powerful elites who can figure prominently in imperial integration include religious and sectarian leaders. Their role(s) can take a variety of
forms ranging from underwriting to resisting imperial claims to hegemony. Such
variants may be related both to tile content of sacred beliefs (and their relation
to state ideologies), and to the structural positions and degree of autonomy of
religious institutions and personnel within the broader society (see Brumfiel,
Deagan, Moreland, Morrison, and Sinopoli, this volume).
While there may be many and varied efforts to create positive relations (from
the perspective of the imperial core) between the centers of empire and diverse
regional elites and institutions, such elites may simultaneously play important
roles in subverting or resisting imperial authority. These may entail limiting or
diverting the flow of resources intended for imperial coffers, various strategies
to retain or refocus tile loyalties of subject peoples away from tile imperial core
(gifting, tax remissions, sponsoring rituals, etc.), or the creation of sites of
Part III Imperial integration and imperial subjects
resistance, such as the memory theaters of Roman Greece discussed by A1cock
(this volume).
Non-elite subjects
If I have focused tllUS far primarily on the elite subjects and shapers of empire,
it is not because tile majority non-elite are less interesting or relevant to consider.
But neither is it merely because written and monumental archaeological sources
tend to privilege elites. If we are interested in exploring tile structure and integration of imperial states, then diverse administrative, military, economic, and
sacred institutions and associated elite actors perforce assume a central role in
our analyses, as tlley do in many of the chapters in this volume. However, tllis is
not to deny tllat non-elites shape imperial institutions, practices, and identities
in significant ways (see Deagan, Morrison, and Woolf, this volume). To consider
bOtll how the broadest range of imperial subjects impact imperial systems, and
the consequences of empire on the lived lives and "materiality" (Deagan, p. 181)
oftllOse incorporated within and/or affected by them, we need to broaden our
scope considerably.
lfimperial elites are diverse, then the non-elites who comprise tile majority of
any polity are even more so. Their relations with and responses to local and imperial authorities, and their experiences of empire, necessarily vary widely geographically, temporally, and among individuals and varied social groups (see
Morrison, this volume). For some, empires provided possibilities for social and
economic enhancement, through military service or other forms of valued labor
(e.g., production of valued resources) and achievement. For others, the coming
of empire meant death, enslavement, loss of property, or forced resettlement. For
most, f.1mily, labor, time, and identities may have been dramatically reconfigured
in response to tribute and labor demands and altered rural, urban and sacred
landscapes. Yates, for example, discusses the importance of imperial record
keeping in fixing identities and regulating behavior in a way that deeply impacted
the lives of rural peoples (but did not fully override local rhythms). Brumfiel
(1991, 1996) has addressed the role of Aztec tribute demands for cloth in differentially restructuring labor organization, particularly women's labor, in
various areas of the empire (and see Deagan, pp. 190-3, on the role of women
as "cultural brokers" in Spanish America).
Those "subjected" to the power of empire can include both populations
within incorporated territories, and more or less directly under imperial
"control," and others in more marginal locations beyond or within imperial territories. In many Old World contexts, pastoralists and other landless peoples have
proven particularly problematic for rulers of states and empires to dominate
effectively. These groups can move within and between imperial spaces and often
play critical roles in communication, trade, and military service (see Barfield, this
volume, for an extended discussion of the pastoralist empires in Central Asia and
199
200
Carla M. Sinopoli
China). These and other communities "outside" of empires can often play significant roles in internal economic, political, and ideological dynamics (see
Helms 1993; Smith and Sinopoli, this volume). If not directly subjects of
empires, they may still be profoundly affected by them (and vice versa). It is
important tllerefore tllat studies of empire look beyond claimed political boundaries to larger spheres of interaction and impact.
8
Politics, resources, and blood in the Inka
empIre
Terence N. D'Altroy
!
I
The rise of tile Inka empire was one of tile most remarkable achievements in tile
history of preindustrial civilizations. In a span of about a century, a small etlmic
group fi'om Peru's southern highlands gained sovereignty over tile societies tllat
occupied the Andes from soutllern Colombia to central Chile. By 1532, when
the Spanish invasion ended tlleir run of power, tile Inkas had drawn as many as
12 million people under tlleir control, WitllOUt benefit of a written language or
efficient transportation. 1 The Inkas presented tllemselves to tile Spaniards as if
they had a divine mandate to rule and civilize tile world - a viewpoint tile
Europeans could recognize from personal experience, even if tile underlying
premises were anatllema. The Inkas called tlleir empire Tawantinsuyu, or "The
Four Parts Together," and referred to the sacred capital of Cuzco as tile "navel
of the universe." Like other vast regions brought under tile sway of early imperial powers, tile domain was culturally and geographically heterogeneous. The
Inkas' goal of reigning over the world worthy of their attentions was complicated
by the variety of political forms and scores of distinct languages found in the
Andes. By building on a base of existing formations and selectively applying standardized policies, the Inkas succeeded in drawing societies that ranged from
acephalous villages to competitor states into a unified empire (Fig. 8.1). Even
so, the Tawantinsuyu of 1532 still featured a great variety of sociopolitical and
economic forms, to which the Inkas had to adapt their policies.
This chapter examines how political and economic power were contested at
the heart of the empire and, to a lesser extent, in the provinces. It complements
MacCormack's chapter, which is more concerned with the content of the ideology that fostered divine kingship and with how the Spaniards' world-view
affected their representations of Andean beliefs. I begin with a sketch of the
empire's history to set the stage for discussion of the political institutions and
the development of economic relations. I am especially interested in examining
how the elites interacted in creating the complex economy tllat tile Spaniards
encountered and exploited. One of the most intriguing transformations concerns the privatization of resources in the heartland - nominally the passage of
custodial care into the hands of each emperor's descendants. That practice
diverged significantly from the communal land practices tllat were customary
201
TCl'ertce N. D 'Altl'oy
202
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Politics, resources, and blood ill the In/m
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THE EMERGENCE OF THE INKA POLITY
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among highland communities and seems to have provided a source of intense
competition among the empire's e1ites. Archaeological and historical studies on
those subjects complement one another neatly in some instances, while in others,
there are jarring incongruities. Why those situations existed and how to reconcile them at least partially will be an ongoing sub-text throughout this paper.
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ARGENTINA
Explanations fcn' the rise of the Inka empire remain fl'llstratingly tentative,
despite the professional and public interest shown in Tawantinsuyu over the
twentieth century. Unlike most other empires discussed in this volume, there was
no indigenous written record and the archaeology of the early Inka era has only
recently drawn sustained attention. The annals of Inka society that wc rely upon
arc epic narratives written down fl'om about 1551 to the mid-seventeenth
century, mostly by European authors whose cultural and linguistic filters colored
the nature of their accounts. All told, there arc about fifty major reports of Inka
history, many of which borrowed II'eely 6'om onc another without attribution
(sec Rostworowski de Diez Canseco 1983, 1988; Porras Barrenechea 1986;
Pease 1995). The chronicles arc supplemented by local accounts, taken down for
Spanish inspections that were often historically clll'sory and regionally t(lCused.
The I nkas themselves kept their histories as oral narratives that were memorized
by specialists called IlhijJ/t /WII'l(1)'lIq, who used knotted colored cords (Ilhiptt) to
aid their recall and provide details. In some cases, illustrated panels and marked
poles were also used to record inf()J'Jnation, but Andean societies never devised
a pictographic system like those employed in Mesoamerica (sce Brumfiel, Smith,
this volume). The record keepers passed their knowledge IhH11 t:1ther to son,
along with cords that could keep such precise registers that the Spaniards let
them be admitted into evidence in legal proceedings.
Despite the IlhijJlI's precision, the documentary sollJ'ces cannot be taken as a
literal representation of Inka history. Historians have shown how dil'(erent interest groups, often competing royal kindreds, presented radically divergent visions
of the Inkas' past (e.g., Porras Barrenechea 1986; Rostworowski de Diez
Canseco 1988; Adol'l1o 1989; Pease 1995; Zi6lkowski 1996). Some scholars
have even suggested that the I nka history that has been preserved was little more
than an elaborate justification of power relations (e.g., Zuidema 1964, 1983;
Duviols 1979; Urton 1990). A totally ahistorical position seems to overstate the
case, however, and it is more plausible that the Inka accounts contained both historical and structural elements, woven together in narratives that were tailored
8.1 Andeall rc/lioll
to suit particular interests (sce Gose 1996).
CllCOntPIIJJcd by
As they transcribed competing oral histories into written fcm11, each of the
'1 iT 11'1111 timll)'II,
Spanish and native writers (e.g., Garcilaso de la Vega 1963 r16091; Pachacuti
im:llldilll1 the
Yamqui 1968 [16131; Guaman Poma de Ayala 1980 [ 1614]) selectively empha- principlIl AlIdmll
sized differing visions and thus helped to craft the mythohistories that wc have JIIbl'cgio1/)' INflItiollcd
to work with today. The early El\l'opean authors, who sometimes grumbled that ill tbc fc.W.
204
Politics, resources, and blood in the Inka empire
Terence N. D'Altroy
they had to sort through incompatible stories, recognized that the narratives
could be reworked to fit the times (e.g., Cieza de Le6n 1967 [1553]: 173;
Betanzos 1996 [1557]: 3). For example, one of the best-informed authors, Juan
de Betanzos, probably drew from epic poems told among Cuzco's aristocracy
(Hamilton 1996: xi). He favored the viewpoint of one royal kin group, for he
had married the sister/widow of Atawallpa, the victor in the last dynastic war. In
his introductory letter to the Viceroy Mendoza, Betanzos attempted to give this
viewpoint weight by observing that he had relied on the accounts told by his
oldest and most respected witnesses. He dismissed the stories told by common
Indians as credulous and commented that other Spanish authors often misunderstood the language of their informants. One of the results is that his history
heavily emphasizes the exploits of the legendary founder of the imperial polity,
Pachakuti, who not coincidentally was also the founder of his wife's kindred.
The preimperial era
The documentary sources, taken in conjunction with the archaeological evidence described below, suggest that the Inkas were just one of many societies
that were jockeying for power in the central Andes in late prehistory. Toward the
end of the first millennium C E, the two great urban polities centered at Wari and
Tiwanaku collapsed (see Schreiber, this volume). Sometime after 1200, the Inkas
emerged as the dominant ethnic group of the south Peruvian Andes, while the
Qolla and Lupaqa were competing for supremacy in the Lake Titicaca basin. The
pace of early state formation seems to have been modest, especially when compared to the tempo of events that occurred once the expansion began in earnest.
In recent decades, scholars have usually followed the imperial-era chronology
devised in 1586 by the cleric Miguel de Ca bello Valboa (1951 [1586]: see Rowe
1944). Ca bello reckoned that the Inkas emerged as an expansionist power
c. 1438 CE and that most of the empire was brought under Cuzco's rule
between 1463 and 1493. Radiocarbon dating suggests, however, that the imperial era may have begun as early as 1400 (Bauer 1992; Adamska and Michczyski
1996; D'Altroy et al. n.d.). Whatever time frame is finally accepted, it is clear
that the Inka polity arose quickly and in a few decades had made remarkable
achievements in military and diplomatic affairs, ideological hegemony, provincial administration, hydraulic, road, and architectural construction, and social
engineering. Explaining what propelled the Inkas from their local political
sphere to dominate the Andes therefore still requires a lot of conjecture.
The explanations provided by the narratives of the early Inka era portray it as
a volatile time, when ancestral heroes personally forged social order from a cultural matrix of chaos. The royal genealogies began with the deified Manqo
Qhapaq and usually continued through twelve or thirteen paramounts (Table
8.1). The substitution ofstattles for the mummies of the first four kings has led
some authors to surmise that they were apocryphal figures, rather than historical individuals (see Rowe 1967: 68-9). Most accounts attributed the inception
Table 8.1. Conventional list of Inka emperors (modified from ROJl1e 1985a: 64)
Ruler
Moiety
Pat/aqa (royal kit/group)
1 Manqo Qhapaq
2 Zinchi Roq'a
3 L1oq'e Yupanki
4 Mayta Yupanki
5 Qhapaq YlIpanki
6 Inka Roq'a
7 Yawar Waqaq
8 Wiraqocha Inka
9 Pachakuti Inka Yllpanki
10 Thupa Inka YlIpanki
11 Wayna Qhapaq
12 Waskhar
13 Atawallpa
Hurin Cuzco
Hurin Cuzco
Hurin ClIZCO
HlIrin Cuzco
Hurin CllZCO
Hanan CllZCO
Hanan Cuzco
Hanan Cuzco
Hanan CllZCO
Hanan Cuzco
Hanan ClIZCO
Hanan Cuzco
Hanan ClIZCO
Chima panaqa ayllu
Rawra panaqa ayllu
Awayni panaqa ayllll
Uska Mayta panaqa ayllll
APll Mayta panaqa ayllu
Wika K'iraw panaqa aylhl
Awqaylli panaqa ayllu
ZukzlI panaqa ayllll
Hatun ayllll
Qhapaq ayllu
Tumipampa panaqa aylhl
Waskhar aylhl
of the empire to Pachakuti, the ninth monarch on the standard list (see below).
The Spaniards met only the last ruler who had been enthroned in Cuzco,
Waskllar (the twelfth ruler), and his brother Atawallpa (the thirteenth), who
deposed him in a bloody war that closed just as the Europeans arrived in 1532.
There is general agreement that we can place little faith in the acts ascribed to
the sovereigns on the standard list before Wiraqocha Inka (eighth ruler), and
some acts attributed to later monarchs were also clearly embellished.
In chapter 17 of this volume, Sabine McConnack explores the ideological
dimensions of Inka history; here, I am more concerned with the political features. A cmcial point for both chapters is that Inka history and the structure of
royal society were malleable. Early in the Colonial era, each sovereign on the
standard list was revered as the founder of a particular royal kin group in Cuzco,
called a panaqa. These kindreds had the privileged obligation of maintaining the
mummies or statues that were venerated as the remains of their ancestors, supported by the wealth that they had accumulated in their lifetimes. Since each
mler ostensibly left a kindred, Inka history was theoretically written into Cuzco's
royal hierarchy. At the time of the Spanish conquest, there were ten royal kin
groups, five in the upper social division of Cuzco and five in the lower (see
below). According to some sixteenth-century accounts, the dual structure was
created by Pachakuti early in the imperial era and was later modified once or
twice (e.g., Sarmiento de Gamboa 1960 [1572]: ch. 19, p. 224; Toledo 1940:
185; Polo de Ondegardo 1940 [1561]: 138; Betanzos 1996 [1557]: ch. 16, p.
71; Rowe 1985a: 46). The Spanish idea that the kings on the standard list followed each other consecutively is thus complicated by the flexibility built into
social system. Moreover, there is evidence that panaqas could be effaced bOtll
physically and historically (see below). Overall, however, the consistencies
205
206
Politics) resources) and blood in the Inka empire
Terence N. D)Altroy
among histories told in Cuzco and the provinces give many scholars confidence
that the latter part of the sequence has considerable validity.
Setting aside its fabulous elements, early Inka mythical history contains features that we might expect to find among complex non-state societies. Most
important is the centrality of the ayllu as the basic social and economic unit. An
ayllu was a corporate kin group that held resources in common and parceled out
use rights to its members. Although there was flexibility in how the ayllu could
be defined, we can understand it broadly to have been an endogamous and internally ranked kindred. Many ayllu were divided into two parts, often upper
(hanan) and lower (hurin), although tripartite divisions were also widespread.
The royal narratives often depicted the main change in preimperial Inka society
as the closing of Lower Cuzco (Hurin Cuzco) with Qhapaq Yupanki's panaqa
(royal ayllu) and the beginning of Upper Cuzco (Hanan Cuzco) with Inka
Roq'a's descendants. Even if the relationships among royal allyu divisions were
shifted about from time to time, we may surmise that duality and ranking almost
surely were present in Inka society, as they were pervasive among the highland
societies that the Inkas conquered.
The frequency of inter-ethnic marriage described in the legends suggests one
way that the Inkas may have advanced their early political interests (e.g.,
Sarmiento de Gamboa 1960 [1572]: ch. 25, p. 229). Although we may never
know if any specific marital alliance described in the narratives had a historical
basis, the theme's repetition suggests its prominence in building political relations; the unions would have both reinforced the elites' status and tied them into
a broader power base. The marital bonds were honored with gifts or exchanges
of fine textiles and valuables that affirmed the celebrants' relative status and the
leaders' generosity, while creating relations of debt (Cobo 1979 [1653]: Bk 2,
ch. 5, pp. 113-14). It should be no surprise that the Inka myths emphasized
their ancestors' generosity, because it helped legitimize their rule. It certainly
seems likely that gift-giving served as an advertisement of productive capacity
and status, and as a means of publicly forging collateral relations. Later Inka
emperors also forged ties by marrying women from other etnias, but in a relationship of marked inequality.
In the early tales, many references to Inka leadership also concerned military
ventures. Stories told to the Spaniards often recounted that highland leaders
incited their warriors through promises of glory and plunder, but allusions to
lands as benefits of war are scarce for the era (e.g., Toledo 1940: T. II, pp. 19,
24,28,31,35; Sarmiento de Gamboa 1960 [1572]: ch. 23, p. 227). Schaedel
(1978) has drawn attention to a slow shift in the motivation and practice of
warf.1re as described for the early Inka era. The simple plundering of the earliest
times was later augmented by demands for tribute, and then by outright seizure
of productive natural resources. Labor acquisition was also important, though
its form shifted from kidnapping to demanding production. If the trends in the
tales truly reflect changes in the goals of war, then the moves to annex vast territories in the imperial era grew out of a long-developing trend.
Like the written sources, our archaeological knowledge of the early Inka era
is limited, even though recent surveys and excavations have begun to expand the
baseline information (see A. Kendall et al. 1992; A. Kendall 1994, 1996). A
complete survey of the Cuzco heartland has yet to be published, and study of
tlle late preimperial era (Late Intermediate or IGllke period; 1000-1400 CE) has
been complicated by tlle extensive renovations of tlle valley'S architecture and
landscape tllat were undertaken in tlle imperial era. The available archaeological
evidence only hints at tlle power tllat would arise from tlle Cuzco basin. To date,
IGllke sites have yielded little that might be expected from a developing state
society, but some signs of regional integration were already present by the early
fourteenth century. Site positioning and construction suggest that tlle Cuzco
area was tranquil, while neighbors 30-50 km away were more concerned Witll
conflict (Rowe 1944; Dwyer 1971; Bauer 1992; Heffernan 1996; A. Kendall
et al. 1992; A. Kendall 1996). Most of the recorded sites are small - no more
than a few hectares - but some sites were large enough to indicate tllat a settlement hierarchy was emerging. In contrast, the kinds of evidence tllat we might
expect from a class-based society are scarce - such as IGllke-era monumental const:ructions, economic specialization, or marked residential or mortuary differences. More broadly, the aggregate scale of known IGllke sites is at best
suggestive of the formation of a powerful polity.
The rise of the empire
The most widely used summary of Inka history is Rowe's account, drafted over
a half-century ago. 2 According to his synthesis, the Inkas were embroiled in
clashes with several neighboring etnias during the reign of Wiraqocha Inka
(eighth ruler). The sovereign enjoyed some military and political success while
in his prime, but later in life (c. 1438 CE) he and his heir designate Ink Urqon
fled Cuzco in the face of an attack by the Chankas. A younger son named Inka
Yupanki led a supernatmally assisted defense of the town and then usmped the
throne under the honorific name Pachakuti ("Cataclysm" or "Returner of the
Earth"). Under Pachakuti's rule, Inka armies dominated Peru's southern highlands and the Lake Titicaca region, and ventured to the central Peruvian coast.
About 1463 CE, Pachakuti ceded military command to his son Thupa Inka
Yupanki, so that he could apply his energies to building a capital at Cuzco that
was worthy of being the sacred center of the world. Under the young man's leadership, the Inkas took the highlands as far as central Ecuador, captmed the
Peruvian coast, and SOl' tied east into the montaria. During the last years of his
f.1ther's life and under his own rule (1471-93 CE), Thupa Inka Yupanki secured
the remaining Bolivian altiplano, northwest Argentina, and nortllern Chile, and
put down a series of rebellions.
Wayna Qhapaq's era (1493-1526 CE) entailed suppression of new revolts,
expansion ofInka rule in the montaria and north Ecuador, miscarried efforts to
secure western Ecuador, and solidification of the southeastern frontier in Bolivia
207
208
Terence N. DJAltroy
and Argentina. Even so, much of his reign seems to have been dedicated to
improving the administration of the now grand domain. After his death in
Ecuador during a smallpox epidemic that heralded the Spanish invasion, his sons
Waskhar and Atawallpa waged a horrific dynastic war that the latter won just as
the Spaniards arrived in 1532. While Waskhar was being transported northward
ignobly dressed in women's clothes, Francisco Pizarro and a small company of
horsemen and foot soldiers captured Atawallpa in Cajamarca in a desperate
gambit. With the empire having been split by the civil war, the Spaniards found
immediate support among many native societies, who mistakenly viewed them
as potential saviors. Although resistance continued for decades, the most significant efforts to drive out the Spaniards collapsed with the failure of the sieges of
Cuzco and Lima in 1536. Thus ended a century ofInka rule.
Although this summary, or something akin to it, has stood the test of time as
a persuasive distillation of Inka imperial history, other scholars have proposed
alternative ways of interpreting the narratives. A recent review of the sources by
Parssinen (1992), for example, suggests that a number of the expansionist ventures occurred a little earlier in tile imperial era tllan Rowe's account surmised.
A structural approach elaborated by Zuidema (e.g., 1964, 1983, 1990), which
downplays tile historicity of the accounts, has also gained support over tile years
(e.g., Duviols 1979; Urton 1990). Similarly influential are Rostworowski de
Diez Canseco's analyses (1960,1983,1988), which combine a close analysis of
tile conventions and structures of Andean societies Witll an appreciation for the
ductility of history in the hands of the powerful. Regardless of their theoretical
bent, tllere is a general appreciation among Inka scholars that the dynamics of
politics acted back on history to recast it in terms tllat legitimized the existing
power structure. The following section thus sketches out the structure of Inka
rule and the factionalized politics that gave the hierarchy its final form.
THE NATURE OF INKA RULE
The political system in outline.
The Inka form of government was, in its simplest form, a monarchy in which the
throne passed from f.1ther to son. Cuzco's political organization, however, was
actually a complex system in which long-dead rulers continued to play a role in
the affairs of state through an elaborate system of ancestor worship. Inka rule,
whetller state or subject, was organized primarily by kinship and ethnic groupings. At the apex stood the emperor and his immediate f.1mily. Below them were
two classes of aristocratic Inka kin and one class of honorary Inka nobility. At
the time of tile Spanish conquest, the most powerful set of aristocrats consisted
of ten royal kin groups (panaqa). As noted above, each panaqa was created at
the death of a ruler in a custom called split inheritance, in which the throne
was inherited by tile "most able" son of the deceased ruler. His otller descendants formed a corporate group that inherited his properties, usually under the
Politics, resources, and blood in the Inka empire
leadership of one of the late king's brothers. As noted earlier, a panaqa's principal duties consisted of venerating their ancestor's mummy and caring for his
properties in perpetuity tllrough a cult founded around his person.
The millions of people drawn into the empire were organized into provinces
that consisted largely of existing ethnic groups arranged into units tllat were
administratively convenient. Typically, a province consisted of20,OOO or 30,000
households, presided over by a governor appointed by Cuzco. Ethnic Inkas
usually filled tile upper levels of provincial government, altllOugh rare non-Inkas
could find a place near the top. The Inkas relied heavily on the services of tile
provincial lords (lzttrakas) to govern their own people. An evolving hierarchy of
state officials drawn from bOtll ethnic Inkas and local lords tied the state and local
levels togetller. As Murra (1980 [1956]) has shown, the Inkas attempted to ease
acceptance of their rule by espousing an idiom of mutual obligations tllat already
existed between the local lords and their groups. Their intent was to portray an
exploitative new arrangement as a simple and benevolent extension of traditional
and familiar relationships. Over time, the Inkas also enacted new policies or
expanded old ones to transform the social landscape of tile Andes.
The Inka royalty who sl\l'vived the Spanish conquest explained that their goals
in dominating the Andes were to bring order to a chaotic world and to spread
the true religion of tile Sun. As magnanimous as those goals may sound, the
practice of imperial rule was to organize subject societies in ways that concentrated power and wealth in the hands of a few hundred families at most. That
contradiction is hardly a new story for empires. Although there is some truth to
the claim that Cuzco's rule brought stability to a volatile political landscape, frequent rebellion shows that Inb benevolence was not universally appreciated (see
Murra 1986). Similarly, state policies indicate that the Inkas were well aware that
they needed to balance the conflicting goals of using existing relations to coordinate local policies and averting allied resistance.
Like many other early empires, the Inkas had state religious and secular institutions, such as the priesthood of the Sun, the priestesses of the Moon, and the
military leadership. Even so, the roles of individuals and kin groups carried over
from one sphere to another. The emperor was simultaneously god on earth,
commander in chief, the ultimate arbiter of law and order, and on occasion even
the High Priest of the Sun. At other times, the High Priest was also the army's
field marshal. Similarly, the provincial governors had jurisdiction over administrative, judicial, economic, and military affairs. The Inkas relied heavily on symbolic relations to promote acceptance of their rule, despite the coercion used in
dominating many societies. The ruler formed ritualized bonds with each of his
principal subject lords, which were reinforced annually by an exchange of gifts.
When a l'lIler died, his successor had to renew those ties. Coupled with those
personalized bonds was the organization of the population into convenient units
for extracting productive labor and mobilizing military personnel. In many but
not all provinces, state officials ordered the taxpaying households into a decimal
hierarchy that was based on a periodic census (see C. J. Julien 1982, 1988). That
209
210
Tercllce N. D)Altroy
organization is often termed a bureaucracy in modern analyses, but it was more
a reordering of existing kin hierarchies than the creation of a civil service. A neat
division of Inka rule into categories of civic or military, religious or secular, and
public or private thus misses much of the integrated character of the leadership
and decision-making institutions.
The Inkas intensified craft, agricultural, and pastoral production in most
regions by putting taxpayers to work on resources that were claimed f(Jr the Inkas
alone (Murra 1980 l1956 J). To support their programs, they also built a series
of provincial centers and supporting installations that were joined by an
upgraded royal highway system (Fig. 8.2; Hyslop 1984, 1990; Morris and
Thompson 1985). To help ensure security, the military established garrisons and
cordons of f()rts that both protected annexed lands and prepared the field f(JI'
further expansion. A massive program of internal colonization helped move
many of those goals forward. Finally, the Inkas asserted primacy ()r their gods
and claimed the cosll1ological history of the Andean peoples as their own. In
their religious practices, they paid homage to the animate landscape by building
temples and shrines throughout their lands (Reinhard 1985).
Many of those practices had been borrowed to some degree from past Andean
statecraft. As Schreiber points out in chapter 3, earlier Andean states, such as
Wad, Tiwanaku, and Chimor, all boasted a sanctified leadership that was coupled
with standardized administrative practices. Each f(H1nded settlements in distant
regions and improved transportation and communications systems. 'They also
intensified agronomic and artisanal production at particular environmentally
favorable locations. In very important ways, then, the Inka polity was more original in organizational scale and intensity than in design.
Politics, resources, and blood in the In/m empire
...........
..
~
o
500
8.2 77JC principal
I'oads I!f'the 1111111 I'0YIII
highway s.YJ·tclll
(qhapaqnan).
1000 km
Inka site
Modern town or city
Town or city over Inka site
N
I
Inkawasi
Tambo Colorado 'l:JPr--":":~::"'-'"
La Centinela
Nazca
BOLIVIA
The dYftarnics of I ft/la politics
Despite the lnka penchant fi)r neat organil',atiol1, ClIzqucflan political conflict
contributed mightily to the nature of the imperial ()J'[nation that the Spaniards
encountered and to the histories that were told to justify its existence. Some years
ago, Mada Rostworowski de Diez Canseco (1960, 1983: 159-67, 1988: 145-6;
see also Zi6tkowski 1996) drew attention to the infighting that attended virtually every succession in the royal line. Factional competition was integral to the
passage of power, so that successful aspirants won the throne through such politicalniceties as intrigue, ft'atricide, coups, and sometillles full-scale war. Although
the scale of the last conflict between Atawallpa and Waskhar may have been
unusual, its genesis and character were not. Because these conHicts were central
to the relationship between economy and politics in the empire, I would like to
summarize briefly the succession crises of the imperial era. The discussion picks
up the historical thread at the point that many narratives identified as the start
of the imperial era the transition ft'OIll Wiraqocha Inka to his son Pachakuti. 3
In that succession, in which Pachakuti usurped the throne ft'om his t~lther,
211
ARGENTINA
0
0
..
212
Terence N. D)Altroy
another of Wiraqocha Inka's sons, named Inka Urqon, played a controversial
role. In the standard history, Wiraqocha Inka and Inka Urqon had fled Cuzco
in the face of an anticipated attack by the neigh boring Chankas, while Cuzco was
still just a regional power. The sources concur that Urqon had at the very least
been chosen as Wiraqocha Inka's successor, but they vary greatly on his deportment and formal status. Several early writers, including tlle judicious Cieza de
Le6n (1967 [1553]), accepted tlle view that Inka Urqon had been a legitimately
entllroned ruler who was deposed or killed by his younger brother Inka Yupanki
(i.e., Pachakuti; see Rostworowski de Diez Canseco 1953). Cieza's witnesses
described Inka Urqon in highly unflattering terms, from an Andean perspective.
He was a haughty, cowardly, and vice-ridden wife-stealer; he drank until he
vomited, turned chicha (beer) into urine, and never erected even a single building. When Inka Urqon's descendants testified for Sarmiento's official history,
tlley stated tllat tlle prince had been fully elevated as ruler; presumably, they left
out the unflattering bits (Sarmiento de Gamboa 1960 [1572]: ch. 25, p. 230;
see also Ca bello Valboa 1951 [1586]: ch. 14, pp. 298-9). Most of the rest of
Cuzco's aristocracy, however, denied tlleir claim oflegitimacy, perhaps to defend
the status of tlleir own kin groups. They asserted that Inka Urqon had been
named to succeed Wiraqocha Inka just because tlle old man had been so smitten
with Inka Urqon's mother. 4 Betanzos (1996 [1557]: ch. 8, pp. 27-9), defending his wife's kin, wrote that Wiraqocha Inka merely had his beloved son treated
as if he were ruler. There are otller versions of the entangled relationship among
Wiraqocha, Inka Urqon, and Pachakuti, but these examples should illustrate
how witnesses from competing kindreds could present greatly differing views on
central issues.
While ruler, Pachakuti appears to have ordered two or more of his brothers
killed, on charges that were most likely at least partially concocted. At some point
in his reign, he recognized his son Thupa Inka Yupanki to succeed him, displacing a previously selected elder son, who seems to have fallen short of expectations. Even though Thupa Inka served a military apprenticeship on the northern
campaigns, his ascendancy does not seem to have been well received by all of
Cuzco's f.1I11ilies. He reputedly had spent most of his youth sequestered in the
main temple, called the "Golden Enclosure" (Qprilzancha), and thus might have
been an unknown quantity to most Inka aristocracy. Upon Pachakuti's death,
according to Sarmiento de Gamboa (1960 [1572]: ch. 48, p. 253), Thupa Inka
immediately set guards to watch over the body, so that news of the deceased sovereign's passage to the next plane could not be leaked. The young man then
arrayed 2200 armed soldiers around the temple, inside which he had his succession confirmed. Still leaving nothing to chance, Thupa Inka and his guard then
marched to the main plaza, where he ordered all of Cuzco's citizens to pay
homage to him upon pain of death. Even though he suppressed a coup attempt
by another brother, Thupa Inka's reign may have ended prematurely, when he
was murdered by close relations (Cabello Valboa 1951 [1586]: ch., 20, p. 358;
Murlla 1986 [1605]: ch. 26).
Politics) resources) and blood in the 11'Ika empire
His successor, Wayna Qhapaq, was reported by some chroniclers to have
gained tlle tllrone through a coup and managed to stay in power only because
an uncle put down a coup attempt on his own royal, but youtllful personage
(Murua 1986 [1605]: ch. 29; Sarmiento de Gamboa 1960 [1572]: chs. 55-7,
pp. 259-60; Cobo 1979 [1653]: Bk 11, ch. 16, p. 152). Guaman Poma de Ayala
(1980 [1613]:/113 [113], p. 93) added that Wayna Qhapaq consolidated his
position by murdering a couple of his brothers. When the ruler and his heir
apparent both died in the wave of smallpox that heralded tlle Spanish arrival, it
set the stage for the final dynastic war between two otller sons, Waskhar and
Atawallpa.
Keeping in mind the narrative contradictions that have been glossed over here,
the succession crises enlighten us about both the practice and recounting of
imperial politics. A most important point here is that, despite the fiction tllat was
presented to the Spaniards - rule by an unbroken series of deified, omnipotent
monarchs - Cuzco's successions were actually sanguinary dramas played out
among the royal descent groups (see Rostworowski de Diez Canseco 1960,
1983,1988; Rowe 1985a, 1985b; Zi6lkowski 1996, for a detailed examination
of this issue). As noted above, the custom of split inheritance transferred the
deceased's estate to a kin group that was usually headed by a surviving brother.
The group's role was to use the accumulated personal resources of the ruler to
venerate his mummy, who still contributed to imperial politics by attending
public events and speaking through personal mediums. In 1532, the two most
powerful pa1'laqas were Pachakuti's descendant kin, called Hatt,m aylht, and
Thupa Inka's kin, called QfJapaq aylht.
Without detailing the intricacies of Cuzco's politics any further, I would like
to highlight three aspects of the panaqas' roles that go to the heart of politics,
power, and wealth. First, during his brief but tumultuous reign, Waskhar gained
the enmity of the panaqas by threatening to confiscate all of the resources of
royal kindreds and the Temple of the Sun, the most powerful priesthood in the
empire. He further alienated himselfth>m Cuzco's elites by murdering a number
of respected elders who arrived on an embassy from his suspected rival Atawallpa,
and by symbolically divorcing himself from Upper Cuzco. Several possible rationales have been proposed for his conduct (see Zi6lkowski 1996), but the key
point here is that his actions would have stripped the elite families of their sources
of wealth and their weight in Cuzqueilan politics.
Second, at the end of the dynastic war, Atawallpa's victorious forces massacred
not only Waskhar's kin and many adherents from Lower Cuzco, but also the
kindred ofThupa Inka Yupanki, who was grandfather to the adversaries. Thupa
Inka's mummy was dragged from its enclosure and incinerated, though some of
his survivors managed the forlorn gesture of scraping his ashes into a jar. Those
acts effaced both the most potent symbolic legacy ofThupa Inka's reign and the
living people who maintained it. Not until 1569 did his few survivors resort to
the Spanish court system to recover their lost estates (Rowe 1985b). Zi6lkowski
(1996) plausibly suggests that such devastation was visited upon Thupa Inka's
213
214
Terence N. DJAltroy
kin (Qj1apaq ayllu) because Waskhar's mother was a member of that group,
which supported his aspirations, while Atawallpa's mother was a descendant of
Hatun ayllu. A final point, which is directly related to the conflict between
Qj1apaq ayllu and Hatun ayllu, is tllat Cuzco's aristocracy embraced at least six
kin groups called panaqa that did not form part of tlle core hierarchy in 1532
(Rostworowski de Diez Canseco 1983; Gose 1996). There is some debate concerning tlle reasons for that situation, but it seems likely that royal kin groups
could lose status and power and be removed from tlle hierarchy, as may have
been envisioned for Waskhar's and Thupa Inka's kin. That is, not only were kin
groups periodically rearranged in tlle hierarchy, but some may also have been
dislodged.
How much faitll we can place in any given story remains a matter of contention today. Nonetheless, tlle overall picture illustrates tlle conflictive dynamics
among Cuzco's royal kin groups. Far from being a fixed structure, Inka sociopolitical organization was in periodic flux, and was in an especially unsettled state
just as tlle Spaniards arrived. The situation also draws attention to tlle privatized
resources tllat formed a crucial source of wealtll over which the royalty were
competing. I now turn to tlle Inka economy, to see how state and private
resources were developed, and how competition for those resources fits into the
trajectory of tlle imperial era.
AN OUTLINE OF THE INKA ECONOMY
The state economy
The Inka economy has often been taken to be the essence of order mandated
from above. According to many early observers, the Inkas divided the lands and
herds of newly annexed peoples among the state, the official church, and the
communities (e.g., Garcilaso de la Vega 1963 [1609]; Cobo 1979 [1653]: Bk
11, ch. 28, p. 211; ch. 29, p. 215; Polo de Ondegardo 1916 [1571]: 58-60;
Acosta 1962 [1590]: 300; Arriaga 1968 [1621]: 209). In principle, each institution or community was supported by its own rcsources so that none of the
products derived fi'om community resources could be appropriated. Some early
writers recognized that the divisions were not equal, but even that emendation
misses the point that prime lands near Cuzco and in the provinces wc re set asidc
as private estates for the royalty and aristocracy. More broadly, scholars such as
Rostworowski de Diez Canseco (1962) and Murra (1979) have shown that there
were perhaps nine kinds of land tenure under Inka rule in the early sixteenth
century. Pastoralism also had institutional and private dimensions, despite
blanket statements in the early sources that the Inkas owned all flocks in the
empire. Similarly, craft production, exchange, and access to many kinds of raw
materials and finished products were only partially subject to state supervision,
Inka claims to the contrary notwithstanding. When wc take into account that
tlle coastal economies were more specialized and integrated than those of their
Politics, resources, and blood in the Inka empire
mountain neighbors, it becomes apparent that even sketching out the range of
economies in Tawantinsuyu is beyond the scope of this chapter (see Murra 1980
[1956]; D'Altroy 1994).5 My purpose here is therefore to focus on the foundations of the Inka state economy and the place of elite - especially royal resources within it.
In several influential works, Murra (1975, 1980 [1956]) described how tlle
state economy was cast as an extension of the Peruvian highland economies that
were present when the Inkas carved out their empire. The Inkas built upon existing structures, using an ideology that legitimized exploitation in the guise oftraditional relations of kin-based mutuality and inequality. Typically, households
nested witllin a corporate kin group called an ayllu gained access to farmlands,
pastures, and other resources as an outgrowth of their membership in the group.
The ayllu often tried to disperse their populations across ecozones in an effort
to be as self-sufficient as possible (Murra 1972). Social elites often had rights to
farm and pastorallabor, personal service, and some craft products, in return for
their ceremonial, political, and military leadership, and for sponsoring festive
events. The elites cemented tlleir social tics in part by dispensing certain material
goods and edibles to their people, especially cloth, chicha (maize beer), and coca
(WachtelI977; Rostworowski de Diez Canseco 1988). The mutual obligations
bonded groups, reinforced unequal statuses, and made some goods available to
people who otherwise might not have been able to get them.
When the Inkas conquered a region, they claimed all resources, which were
then reallocated principally among the state, the state religion, and the subject
communities. The state seems to have enjoyed far more resources than did the
religion, although provinces may have been entirely committed to the church's
holdings (sce La Lone and La Lone 1987; C. J. ]ulien 1993). The state apportioned farming and grazing land back to the communities in exchange for rotating corvee, callcd mitJa. Some natural resourccs, especially metal ores, were
heavily controlled by the state, but the purported monopoly was not actually
achieved (Berthelot 1986). In practicc, communities kept many of their ancestral resources, but did give up prime farmlands, pasturcs, and other resources to
the state.
Both colonial and modcrn authors often observc that labor provided the main
sourcc of wealth for the Inkas, but the state was actually receiving both services
and products; state personnel made decisions accordingly (S. F. Moore 1958:
59). Gencrallists ofthc labor rcndered by taxpayers cnumerated over forty kinds
of tasks (Falc6n 1946 [1567]); Murlla 1986 [c. 1605]) that correspond fairly
well to reports takcn down in Spanish provincial inspections. In Peru's Huanuco
region, for example, witnesses reported that they had carried out thirty-onc differcnt duties for the state, ranging fi'om f.1rming and herding, to masonry, military service or guard duty, mining, portagc, and artisanry (He/mer 1955-6
[1549]; Ortiz de ZlIi'iiga 1967 [1562], 1972 [1562 ]). Each assignment was allocated according to the population of the region, as assessed by a periodic census,
taking into account the resources that could be exploited. In return for their
215
216
Tercnce N. D)Altro),
8.3 Distriliution I!f'
the e%/l ist
(mitmaqkuna)
IIr/i.mll settlclllctltJ
dcscribed in 'he te.vt.
eH()rts, the laborers were entitled to be supported with fClod and chicha while
carrying out state directives.
Some of the most important state institutions were special labor groups,
among which the mitmaq/w1ta, )'t71I1l/wlIa, and aqUa/w1Ja stand out (see Rowe
1982). The first group consisted of colonists resettled internally to meet military, political, and economic needs (Fig. 8.3; e.g., Espinoza 1970, 1973, 1975,
1987). In some cases, especially under Wayna Qhapaq, the Inkas established
great farms and craft production centers in especially favorable sites (La Lone
and La Lone 1987; Spurling 1992). An immense f~ll'll1 lay in the temperate
Cochabamba Valley (Bolivia), f()r example, where Wayna Qhapaq ordered the
western valley vacated to make way fc)r 14,000 agricultural workers, both colonists and corvee laborers (Wachtel 1982). The maize grown there was reportedly dedicated to the Inb's armies; it was first stored in 2500 storehouses at
Cotapachi and then transported to Cuzco or other locales. Other farms were also
assigned to military uses, including those at Arica, Arequipa, and Abancay, where
coca, cotton, pepper, and various fl'uits were cultivated (Espinoza Soriano 1973;
La Lone and La Lone 1987; Spurting 1992). Whether they tended erops or
made cloth or pots, the mitml1qlllwa were given use rights of lands they used to
support themselves. Empire-wide, the scale of the resettlement was extraordinary, as hundreds if not thousands of communities were moved in their entirety
to new locations. It is probable that several million people were ultimately resettled under Inka rule, some locally and SOl11e thousands of kilometers 11'0111 their
homelands (sce Rowe 1982).
The )'t71W/W1111 were individuals detached f"om their kin group and assigned
permanent duties, including !;1l'Illing and household service (clr the elites. The
individuals and !;ll11ilies assigned to work royal estates were often detached in
such a f:lshion. Especially talented ),111111/W1111 could attain high administrative
positions. The Ilqllll/W111l were young women assigned to live in segregated precincts within state installations where they wove cloth and brewed chichll, until
awarded in marriage to men honored by the state (sce Morris 1974). There is
good reason to believe that, in creating these specialized labor statuses, the Inkas
were elaborating existing institutions. The Chi mu of' Peru's north coast, in particular, appear to have boasted specialized artisans attached to society's elite and
perhaps to state institutions (Rowe 1948; Moseley and Cordy-Collins 1(90). As
they did with many /Catures of the empire, however, the Inkas carried out the
reorganization on a previously unheard-of scale.
Although the Inkas installed these features in many parts of their domain, the
economics of subject societies varied a great deal regionally. On Peru's north
coast, f(lr example, local groups specialized in particular products, sllch as ceramics, textiles, marine or 1:\I'In products, and sandals, exchanging their products fCll'
those made by others. Some coastal people even made a living as specialized
traders (Rosrworowski de Diez Canseco 1970; Netherly 1978). The coast differed also in the scale of irrigated agricultlll'al systems, as the most extensive canal
Politics) resources, and blood in the In/m
o
217
500
1000 km
N
Inka site 0
Modern town or city •
Town or city over Inka site ()
OSamaipata
BOLIVIA
'-V-Y~vi
oTilcara
Potrero de Payogasta
• Safla
La Paya
• Tucumnn
ARGENTINA
218
Politics, resources, and blood in the Ill/m empire
Terence N. D JAltl'oy
networks in the Americas connected five valleys in the Lambayeque-La Leche
region. The leaders of the Chimu state, which held sway over the north coast
before being conquered by Cuzco, favored investing its public labor in agricultural projects rather than in monumental architecture.
The people of the northern Andes had less complex economic formations than
did the Chimu, but used monetary goods in regional marketing systems. Even
in the Bolivian altiplanl), where the mixed herding-fanning economy was
roughly comparable to that of the southern Peruvian highlands, the balance
much more heavily favored the pastoral sector. Given such variations and the
accommodations that the Inkas had to make to local differences, wc have to take
the description of the Inka economy just presented as a general portrayal and not
as a universal model.
219
km
25
Royal and aristocratic estates
The expanding Inka polity put enormous resources at the disposal of its elites.
Some of those assets were converted into private reserves for living and dead
emperors, their descendant jJrtllaqas, and the other aristocracy. Every province
was supposed to set aside lands ()l' each ruler, but the most elegant royal estates
lay in the heartland, concentrated in a stretch of the Vilcanota/Urubamba drainage between Pisac and Machu Picchu often called the Sacred Valley of the Inkas
(Fig. 8.4). As was the case with many aspects of Inka reorganization, Pachakuti
'was usually credited with the instigation of royal estates. Every ruler (i'om
vViraqocha onward owned estates, however, and even earlier monarchs may have
also had private manors. Inka Roq 'a and Yawar \Vaqaq's descendants, f()r
example, occupied settlements where t-hey venerated the mummies of their royal
ancestors (Sarmiento de Gamboa 1960 [15721: ch. 19, p. 224; Cobo 1979
116531: Bk2,ch.9,p. 125andBk2,ch.l0p. 129; Rowe 1967:n.21,(1.68).
Rulers claimed their properties in many ways, including carving out new
estates from virgin territory and commandeering expanses that had already been
developed. Rowe (1990: 143) suggests that Pachakuti f(lllllded estates at locations such as Pisac and Ollantaytambo to commemorate his military victories.
He even spruced up all estate at Juchuy Cossco f()r his deposed f;lther
Wiraqocha, where he could live out his years in relative comf()rt (see A. Kendall
et ill. 1992). Rulers may have sometimes converted selected state lands into
private holdings (Murra 1980 119561: 38), such as when Waskhar claimed a
region east of Hu,lnuco as his domain (c. J. Julien 1993: 209-11). Monarchs
and aristocrats could also augment their holdings by accepting gifls fi'om subjects, although the voluntary nature of some of those donations is doubtful
(Rostworowski de Diez Canseco 1962: 134, 136; Conrad and Demarest 1984:
139). In an especially interesting twist, some estates seem to have been acquired
and lost through games of chance, played even with the Sun himself (Albornoz
1989l1584J: 175,182; Cobo 1979[16531: ch. 15, p. 149; C. J. Julien 1993:
184, 209, 233). Rulers also confiscated some estates once the dust had settled
Principalln\{a Royal Estates
..
III
A
*
•
+
o
Inka Roq'a
Wiraqocha Inka
Pachakuti Inka
Thupa Inl{a Yupanki
WaYlla QIlC1paq
WaskllC1r
other major Inka site
/I'om successional infighting (Cabcllo Valboa 1951 115861: pt 3, ch. 20, p. 360).
An important transferral or lands may have also been envisaged at the close or
the dynastic war between Atawallpa and Waskhar. As described earlier, the conflict ended with the virtual eradication of the adults of Thupa Inka Yupanki's
/JtWllq17 (QfJltjll7lJ Ay/ltl) and the members ofWaskhar's ptYIltllJa ( WftJllhlll' Ayllll).
With no adults len to protect their interests, the descendants of Qhapaq Ayllu
resorted to a lawsuit in 1569 to regain their ancestors' lost estates (Rowe 1985b;
Niles 1987: 20).
From a physical viewpoint, some estates wert' created through f(lI'Illidable
engineering works. Wayna Qhapaq's holdings in Yucay were largcly reclaimed
/i'om swamp, and Waskhar's estate at Pomabamba was developed by diverting a
river to create new land (Rostworowski de Diez Canseco 1962: 134-5;
Villanueva Urteaga 1971; Niles 1987: 13). Even though parts of the estates
attributed to early monarchs boasted major land improvements, the riverine reclamation projects may have become increasingly important because the good
existing field lands had already been spoken fi)r. At onc point, Waskhar groused
that land tenure customs meant that the dead "had all that was the best of his
kingdom," and that no decent expanses were left for him to claim (Pizarro 1986
[15711: ch. 10, p. 54). His gripe may have arisen from political rancor linked to
8.4 i)is/.ri/llltioll l!f'
'he /ll'illci/la/l'o),1l1
cstatcs ill 'hc CIIZCO
I'ClJioll, l'tTII.
220
Terence N. DJAltroy
his conflict with Atawallpa, but he may have also had legitimate grounds for complaint about access to prime lands for rural manors. What is especially significant
here is that he seems to have proposed abolishing or confiscating some estates,
with an eye to appropriating them himself.
Although our picture of the prehispanic system around Cuzco has been
clouded by native claimants' ready use of European legal precepts to gain control
over lands, it seems clear that a deceased ruler's estates were normally left to his
panaqa. In accordance with the principle called split inheritance, the throne
passed to a successor who had to develop his own kin group's resources. The
lands of the queen (qoya) were held separately; they did not devolve to her
husband's panaqa, but were left to her descendants, both male and female.
Ownership of the estates may have been especially tangled, because the Inka
royalty were linked through blood and marriage in many ways. Personal choice
may have also played a role in inheritance, as claimants in early Coloniallitigation testified that some bequests skipped generations at the wish of the benefactor. Over the generations, the number and types of claims that could be placed
on particular plots must have created fertile ground for intrigue (Rostworowski
de Diez Canseco 1962, 1963, 1966; Murra 1979; Heffernan 1995).
The royal estates were spread across the landscape to provide access to a wide
range of resources. Wayna Qhapaq's holdings in Yucay, which are the best
described among the manors, contained croplands, pastures, settlements,
forests, parks, a pond and marsh, a hunting range, and salt fields (Villanueva
Urteaga 1971; Farrington 1995). The ecological heterogeneity of the Andes and
the decades-long land improvement projects meant that parcels belonging to
rulers, aristocrats, and local communities were intercalated among one another.
The Inkas were uncommonly prone to record-keeping and naming natlll'al and
artificial features of the landscape, but the close reckoning of named plots and
individual terraces covering less than half a hectare suggests how important it
was to keep track of the smallest parcels ofland (Rostworowski de Diez Canseco
1962,1963,1966; Rowe 1990, 1997).
Since the estates formed a patchwork, it is hard to estimate how big individual properties were, but some emperors' personal holdings probably covered
thousands of hectares. The number of workers dedicated to the royal estates was
remarkable; 2400 men and their f.1milies were dedicated to maintaining Wayna
Qhapaq's holdings at Yucay (Villanueva Urteaga 1971: 94,98, 136, 139; Rowe
1982: 100; Niles 1987: 13-15). Even more impressively, Thupa Inka Yupanki
had 4000-4500 workers at his estates in each of three locations in the empire
(Rostworowski de Diez Canseco 1966: 32). Their products were used to
support the monarchs in a suitable manner in life and in death. They also provided sustenance and wealth for their descendants, and underwrote their political and ceremonial activities. Those needs were weighty, since living and dead
rulers and their kin spent a great deal of time visiting each other and performing
rituals. Cobo (1990 [1653]: Bk 1, ch. 10, pp. 40-3) commented acerbically that
those visits were needed to rationalize the panaqas' ownership of such expansive
resources and their fondness for lazy debauchery.
Politics, resources, and blood in the Jnka empire
Archaeological remains of estates
The archaeological remains along the Sacred Valley provide magnificent witness
to the resources and artisanry devoted to royal estates. The Inkas' penchant for
melding landforms and structures is one of the most distinctive features of their
approach to designing the estates. All exhibit finely crafted terracing, waterworks, and stonework, and they are usually situated on rocky promontories. That
combination of features was probably intentional, for stones, springs, and peaks
were homes to the powerful spirits called apu; the architecture of the estates
gives ample indication that their occupants were often immersed in ceremonies
(MacLean 1986; Hyslop 1990: 102-45). There is an especially neat correspondence between known royal estates and the most elegant terracing around
Cuzco (Protzen 1993: 271). Hyslop (1990: 140) has observed that the design
and orientation of waterworks found at the royal estates are also not part of a
generalized pattern.
A brief description of some of the estates will help provide a sense of their
natlll'e. Ollantaytambo, said to have been founded by Pachakuti, was a planned
residential settlement with palaces, religious and defensive structures, storehouses, roads and bridges, terraces, and waterworks (Squier 1877; Gasparini and
Margolies 1980: 68-75; Gibaja Oviedo 1984; Hollowell1987; Protzen 1993).
Its center is dominated by a trapezoidal street grid on an alluvial fan, with town
blocks formed by closed compounds (Ilancha), consisting of up to six one-room
buildings facing on to an open patio. To the west, a grand set of terraces cascades down a steep hill, where the complexes now called the Fortaleza and its
Temple of the Sun were erected. The treatment of the landscape around
Ollantaytambo epitomizes the Inkas' bent for modifying the natural terrain and
tailoring their constructions to existing landforms (Fig. 8.5). They channelized
both the Urubamba and Patakancha rivers and built eleven expansive terraces
that gracefully blended in with the slope of the piedmont; their steep walls helped
to repel the Spanish expedition sent against Manqo Inka in 1536 (An6nimo,
Sitio del Cuzco 1934 [1536]: 33; Pizarro 1986 [1571]: 146-8; Protzen 1993:
22-6).
It is intriguing to note that, although panaqasostensibly had an inviolate right
to control their estates, both Pachakuti and Thupa Inka Yupanki reportedly built
important edifices at the site. Archaeological work has identified three major
imperial-era construction phases, using seven different kinds of stone, each of
which was worked in a distinct style. Over time, early structures were dismantled, and many stones were reworked and repositioned (Hollowell 1987: 48).
Designs were still being executed when the Spanish appearance abruptly stopped
imperial construction. Thus, even at a site claimed to have been the property of
a single emperor and his panaqa, there were shifts in planning and execution
over 150 years' occupation.
Thupa Inka Yupanki's best-known estate was a rural villa created for him at
Chinchero, about 30 km northwest of Cuzco (Alcina Franch 1976; Alcina
Franch et al. 1976). Like other manors, Chinchero was a planned settlement,
containing a large central plaza and a platform mound and enhanced with both
221
222
Termce N. D'Altroy
Politics, resources, and blood in the lnho
Inl<a roads
canals
steep fields
pre-Inl<a terraces
sporadic terraces
Inl<a terraces
8..5 DiJtril1ll tioll (d'
t/Jf tfl'l'II uti 11111 dJ ill
I'll elmlm ti '.I' rOYlI1
eJtlltf lit CIIJidmCII, ill
the Umllllllllltl I'ipt:!'
Pllllcy, IIbollt 9011111
lIol'tIJII't:Jt I!f CIIZCO.
agricultural ttrracts and compounds that Iktanzos (1996 115571: ch. 3R. p.
159) said wt:rt built to houst Cuzco's nobility whtn thty camt to visit.
Chincht:ro was appartntly tntirdy an impt:rial stttkmtnt in prthistory, as tht fill
dtposits {i'om rtmOlkkd topography contain quantitits of Inka polychromt
ctramics (Rivt:ra 1976: 2R). As might bt txptcttd at a royal ITtrtat at which
rdaxni rtsidtnct and hospitality wtrt tht major activitits, tht pottt:ry contains
largt storagt jars, and vtssds usni to prtpart and strw food and drink. Ovt:rall,
thtlT is lin'k tvidtnce of ctrel110nial activities, or of craft: production, save a bit
of textik making.
Wayna Qhapaq's main estate in Yucay was centered at the residence called
Quispiguanca. It was a place of recreation that txisted only because of major feats
of Inka ecological engineering, since much of the manor consisted of tracts
claimed from swamp through channdization of the main rivtr and several tributaries (Farrington 1983, 1995). Its largdy adobe architecture is modest in comparison to the tstatts of other emperors, perhaps btcause Wayna Qhapaq's most
daborate lodgings wt:re in Tumipampa, Ecuador, f~lI' removtd tt'om Cuzco
(Niles 1992). The manor (10.4 ha) contains thrte sectors on a series of terracts
and an alluvial f~lI1: an agricultural area, a structural or rtsidtntial zone, and a
Iakeside house complex. The holdings included f(xty namtd parcds where
maize, sweet potatoes, and tht warm weatht:r crops of coca, peppers, cotton, and
ptanuts wtre cultivated (Villanueva Urteaga 1971). According to the documentary sources, the manor included deer-filled woods, and an artificial pond that
was ustd to raise fish and reeds. The presence of stvtral plants [I'om warmer and
more humid climts than Yucay suggests that tht Inkas knew how to USt the terraces' heat- and moisture-retaining capacities to devise a mini-1ttrmtana near
Cuzco f()I' the emptror's pkaslII'e (Farrington 1995).
Visitors to the tstates arc often struck by tht array of architectural and land
improvement techniques sddoll1 setn outside the heartland. The royal estates
f(Jl'Il1 a large fi'action of the sites with the ornate ashlar masonry, intricate canal
and f()ulltain compkxes, and degant terracing f()I' which the Inkas arc so justly
renowned. We often think of land improvements as though they arc designed to
intensify production. Though that was true in some cases f()I' the lnkas, the main
goals at the royal estates had as much to do with defining symbolic spaCt, status
display, and ptrhaps aesthetics as with subsistence intensification. The mlll11l11ks
01' idols of most departed ll10narchs were revered there, whik their wealthy
descendants perf(>I'Il1ed a recurrent stquel1ce or rituals that ensured that their
positions or status would be maintaintd. The design of'the sett'kl11ents, which
modified and adaptnl to natural sources of power, such as rocks, peaks, and
springs, signifies that the rulers were both rtvering and staking a claim to the
powers of tht cosmos through the immtdiate landscape (Farrington 19R3,
1995: 57; see also Protzen 1993). At the same time, they improvtd production
by incrtasing the arabk land arca, reducing erosion, providing irrigation water,
and creating bvorable microclimatts. Overall, the rural estates, more than any
other aspect of' the empire outside Cuzco (Fig. R.6), exemplif)! how an inbred
and txclusionary upper class increasingly controlled power and wealth at the
htart of the empire.
CONCLUSION
or
This chapter has txplortd some
tht dynamic rdationships betwttn the political and tconomic tkvdopments in tht Inka tmpil't. As with most isslles, the
state and dite institutions, and tht economy that sustained them, arc much
better umkrstood in their final f(>I'I11 than in their early stages. We still have only
223
, Farm or estate
IfII Storage: 100-299 structures
dtlI Storage: 300-500 structures
t........................ ...
I
./
N
(I) Storage: 1000 + structures
Q Storage mentioned historically
<_ ..... r.'·.\
,
,"'/
PERU
i
'-., Inka roads
I
BOLIVIA
--
r-L--
o
500
225
Politics, rcsourccs, and blood in the In/m cmpire
Termcc N. D'Altro)'
224
1000 km
San Pedro ae
,(m -~;;~~:a-ROdero
1Atacam~/)
CI-I/LE
(
S
Coplap6
,. .
\
. ,i
I
~ Valle Calchaquf
_Campo de Pucara
La Paya
i'ucuman
Shlnka~ 80ls6n de Andalgala
ARGENTINA
.-
.f
a marginal grip on the nature of lifC at the verge of the imperial era. Even so, it
seems plausible to surmise that the early lnb polity went through a progression
tl'om alliance and raiding, to domination, and finally to direct annexation. Our
current archaeological evidence suggests that those shifts began to occur sometime between about 1200 and 1400 C E, after which an expansionist phase
began in earnest. The creation of proto-imperial styles in architecture and prestigious material culture seems to have antedated the major expansions, so that
by the time the lnbs undertook to conquer the known world, some of the
material correlates that wc associate with imperial status were already in place.
Still, the lnkas appear to have elaborated much of their socioeconomic apparatus only as a response to managing a vast new population.
By 1532, the Inkas had made remarkable strides toward placing their stamp
on the societies throughout the Andes. The moves toward creation of an independent state economy, based on discrete resources and using dedicated personnel, had transfill'll1ed the nature of life lilr millions of people. As much as
incorporation into the I nka state trans!()f'Jlled many aspects of subject societies,
however, the stability of local economics provided the filllndations of the state
economy. Accordingly, much of what had organized communities previously still
characterized liIC at the local level under Cuzco's reign. The importance of/ocal
kin groups in providing access to resources and to organizing labor, the kinship
basis of the social hierarchy, and the rights to sumptuary goods as a consequence
of social status were still central, even if the rights were now conferred Il'om
above.
Despite local stability, some of the shifts that were underway had the potential to tranSl(lI'Ill lile in permanent, substantive ways. Onc major change was the
development of private resources. The most prominent holdings were the royal
estates near Cuzco, but manors were also set aside lilr kings and other aristocrats
outside the heartland. The justification I(lr such enrichment of individuals or kin
was often fi'amed in exalted terl11S, as the descendants of venerated ancestors had
to care fill' their ever-living fi:lrebears. The net result, however it was phrased, was
to transICr prime resources permanently into private hands and thus to inflame
competition at the highest level. The jJfl1laqa thus became affluent while assuming the obligation of keeping the deified ancestors in state. Despite the principle
that royal estates were to be worked in perpetuity by and fill' the jJ(11Wqfl of each
emperor, there arc some hints that the policy was not absolute. Ollantaytambo,
till' example, deviated tl'OI11 the prescription, and one of Thupa Inka Yupanki's
estates was reportedly abandoned shortly beti:lI'e the empire's collapse
(Sarmiento de Gamboa 1960 [ 1572 [: ch. 32, p. 237; Cobo 1979 [ 1653[: Bk 2,
ch. 15, p. 149). It is especially interesting that the ll10st powerful clites (i.e.,
kings) may have had the ability to convert institutional resomces into private
estates. In the provinces, the neat lines between state and subject, or public and
private, were also sOll1etimes blmred, as the perks granted subject clites were
often consull1ed in public activities. Regional elites were simultaneously leaders
8.6 Distriblltion I!I'
Id'thc princijllll
stlltcjiTril/s, /JI'o)Jillcilll
csllltcs, IInd slol'tT.!JC
jildlitics tln·oll.!Jhollt
SOIllC
7i~H'mltiI/JIIYIl.
226
Terence N. D)Altroy
of the local society, self-interested landed gentry, and state managers. Because of
their multiple roles, there was ample room for conflicting interests to operate
among provincial elites, a situation attested to in early documents.
In closing, I would like to emphasize that tllis chapter has focused on just a
few of tile complexities of life among tile powerful in tile Inka empire.
Comparison Witll tile otller chapters in this volume, however, should illustrate
tllat the processes described here evince bOtll general patterns seen in a variety
of cases and twists of a peculiarly Andean nature. It is my hope tllat by meshing
the two, we will come to a better understanding of empires in general and
Tawantinsuyu in particular.
9
Egypt and Nubia
Robert MOl·kot
THE EGYPTIAN EMPIRE IN NUBIA IN THE LATE
BRONZE AGE (c. 1550-1070 BeE)
Introduction: self-definition and the imperial concept in
Egypt
There can be little doubt tllat tile Egyptian pharaohs and the elite of the New
Kingdom viewed themselves as rulers of an empire. This universal rule is clearly
expressed in royal imagery and terminology (Grimal 1986). The pharaoh is
styled as the "Ruler of all that sun encircles" and from the mid-18th Dynasty the
titles "King of kings" and "Ruler of the rulers," with the variants "Lion" or "Sun
of the Rulers," emphasize pharaoh's preeminence among other monarchs. The
imagery of kingship is of the all-conquering heroic ruler subjecting all foreign
lands. The Icing in human form smites his enemies. Or, as the celestial conqueror
in the form of the sphinx, he tramples them under foot. In the reigns of
Amenhotep III and Akhenaten this imagery was extended to the king's wife who
became the conqueror of the female enemies of Egypt, appearing like her
husband in both human and sphinx forms (MOl·kot 1986). The appropriate terminology also appeared; Queen Tiye became "Mistress of all women" and
"Great of terror in the foreign lands." Empire, for the Egyptians, equals force "all lands arc under his feet." This metaphor is graphically expressed in the royal
footstools and painted paths decorated with images of bound foreign rulers,
crushed by pharaoh as he walked or sat.
This imagery and terminology indicates that the Egyptian attitude to their
empire was universally applied irrespective of the peoples or countries. Their
response to their subjects was not distinguished in racial terms; all were foreign.
Practically, however, there is evidence that the Egyptians did have different
responses to the control, integration, and administration of Aft·ican and Asian
regions. The Egyptian response to Nubia differed from the response to Asia for
a number of reasons, both historic and geographic. In tllis chapter, however, I
will limit my discussion to the relations between Egypt and Nubia.
227
228
Robert Morkot
Changing interpretations of the Egyptian empire in Nubia
In 1964, Adams summarized the then generally accepted view of Egypt's relationship with Nubia during the Late Bronze Age (New Kingdom, c. 1550-1070
BC E), and offered his own interpretation based upon preliminary results of the
UNESCO campaign in Nubia. The UNESCO campaign, associated with construction of the Aswan dam, produced a vast amount of new archaeological and
epigraphic material, not all of which has yet been published or synthesized. While
rejecting many of the older interpretations that were based on prejudicial and
problematic premises, Adams' (1964, 1977) characterization of the Egyptian
empire still perpetuated a number of views established at the beginning of the
twentieth century.
A significant change in Egyptological attitudes to the Egyptian empire in
Nubia is found in the conference papers and syntheses of the late 1970s and early
1980s (e.g., Kemp 1978; Frandsen 1979; Leclant 1980; O'Connor in Trigger
et al. 1983; Israelit-GroIl1983). These works embraced not only new material,
but also new approaches within archaeology. All were rooted in the evidence,
and not in theory building. They were, nevertheless, informed by contemporary
theoretical approaches to imperialism. Prominent features of these studies
include the emphasis on the role of ideology in imperial expansion, and a questioning of the role of trade and the assumption that empires were necessarily economic exploiters. Kemp, Frandsen, and O'Connor particularly emphasize the
integration oflocal elites into Egyptian imperial administration and argue against
the direct exploitation model.
More recently, S. T. Smith (1991) has been among the few Egyptologists to
discuss theoretical models of imperialism. Finding the arguments in Eisenstadt
(1979) to be somewhat overgeneralized, he detects more relevance for Egyptian
activities in Nubia in the model proposed by Horvath (1972) and Bartel (1980,
1985) and the specific applications of D'Altroy and Earle (1985) and Alcock
(1989). Building on this theoretical discussion, Smith (1995) went on to publish
the material from the UNESCO excavations at Askut, and offered a model for
the economics and ideology of imperialism in Nubia. A further result of the
UNESCO Nubian campaign of the 1960s was the publication of the tombs of
indigenous Nubian princes of the 18th Dynasty at Debeira (Save-Soderbergh
1967-8; Save-Soderbergh and Troy 1991) and Toshka (Simpson 1963). Kemp,
O'Connor, and Frandsen had already emphasized the role of these individuals,
but Save-Soderbergh and Troy (1991) provided an important reappraisal in the
light of tlle new material.
With the exception of these studies, the period of the Egyptian New Kingdom
occupation of Nubia has been rather neglected in recent years. This is due in
large part to an understandable change in attitudes within Nubian studies itselt~
laying much greater emphasis on indigenous phases rather than on Egyptian
"colonial" monuments.
Egypt and Nubia
My approach (Morkot 1994, outlined in Morkot 1987) examines the
Egyptian domination of Nubia in the New Kingdom through various themes:
military, political geography (MOl'kot 1991 b), administration, economics
(MOl'kot 1995a), and ideology. In considering all of these separate issues, I have
emphasized the chronological framework. That is, New Kingdom Egyptian rule
in Nubia lasted for close to 500 years. Clearly there must have been considerable
changes over that period. One specific area that I wished to address was tlle "collapse" or end of imperial rule and its aftermatll.
The older interpretation of Egyptian imperialism in Nubia saw Egypt as an
active-progressive center tllat subordinated and transformed a passive and backward periphery. Witll the end of Egyptian involvement, Nubia then "reverted."
This view has been challenged and modified by a number of recent writers, but
the idea of reversion to some form of nomadic or "tribal" society has persisted.
In contrast, I view the Kushite Kingdom that (eventually) came to dominate
Egypt as the "25th Dynasty" (c. 740-656 BCE) as a "successor state," tlle
development of which is inextricable from the imperial system of the Egyptian
New Kingdom (see below). Indeed, to view this successor as immediately filling
the power vacuum left by Egyptian withdrawal, if not actually being responsible
for that withdrawal, itself necessitates a radical revision of our interpretation of
tlle limits of Egyptian control.
Earlier archaeologists proposed that the period of Egyptian rule was marked
by a decline in population in the late New Kingdom, and argued that the end of
the period was marked by hydraulic crisis that contributed to imperial collapse.
Although this interpretation is now generally rejected, many of the conclusions
that derive from it are still accepted. The idea that the Egyptians simply left
Nubia in c. 1070 BCE and that nothing happened until the Kushite Kingdom
appeared some 300 years later is inherently unlikely. This is not an interpretation
suggested by even the most cursory glance at other postimperial and postcolonial societies. Working from the premises that: (1) there was no reason to
accept that there was a major depopulation of Nubia during the Late New
Kingdom, and (2) there was no hiatus in either archaeology 01' history, led me
to consider, among other alternatives, that there was indeed a flaw in our chronological interpretation (J ames et al. 1991). I still feel that this highly controversial alternative is worth considering.
Other scholars have also challenged conventional interpretations. Bruce
Williams (1980) offered a reinterpretation of the post-New Kingdom archaeology of Lower Nubia. And David O'Connor (1987,1991) questioned the location of some Nubian territories. This has led to a rethinking of how f.1r the
Egyptians expanded and campaigned in Nubia, and Nubian responses to
Egyptian imperial expansion. S. T. Smith (1991: 94 n.12) also rejects tlle depopulation theory.
The most significant questions that arise from this questioning of traditional
interpretations are:
229
230
1 Was the administration of Nubia entirely controlled by "colonial"
Egyptians?
2 Were there large numbers of Egyptian settlers in Nubia?
3 Was tl1e Egyptian economic exploitation ofNubia one-sided plunder?
4 Was tl1e Egyptian response to Nubia fundamentally different from her
response to Asia?
5 Did a hydraulic crisis cause the population of Nubia to decline rapidly
from the later-18tl1 Dynasty onwards resulting in an almost depopulated country by tl1e end of tl1e viceregal period?
Table 9.1. ComparatiJJe chronology: Egypt and Nubia
Central Sudan
Upper Nubia
?
?
The Egyptian New Kingdom presence in Nubia cannot be considered in JlaCUO,
but has to be seen as tl1e third phase of a complex relationship that stretched back
for some 2000-plus years.
Pending the publication of the material from the Old Kingdom Town site at
Buhen (being undertaken by David O'Connor), which will certainly require
some reevaluation of our current understandings, the relationship between Egypt
and Nubia in the Egyptian Early-Dynastic/Old Kingdom may be summarized as
follows. In tl1e late Predynastic phase, equivalent to the Nubian A-Group (c.
5000-3000 B CE; Trigger's Early Nubian, Adams' A-Horizon) there were
strong trading contacts between the two regions. These have recently been summarized by H. S. Smith (1991). The radical hypothesis ofBruce Williams (1980)
- that the pharaonic monarchy first appeared in Nubia during this period - has
been rejected by the majority of both Egyptologists and Nubian archaeologists.
There is now more material from Abydos that predates the Nubian material
Williams worked with. Indeed, the archaeological material from Abydos,
Hierakonpolis, and other sites further north is forcing a complete reevaluation of
the emergence of the pharaonic state. Nevertheless, Williams was certainly justified in revising the earlier model that saw A-Group society as non-hierarchical.
It is clear that during the period of state formation in Egypt, Nubia was undergoing a similar process. This was probably due in large part to increased economic
contacts between the two regions. By the time of the unification of Egypt there
were three principal powers in Lower Nubia - and they may have been united
into one state based at Qustul. However, we have no documentary evidence to
illuminate this, and the evidence at present is derived from the cemetery sites of
Seyala (H. S. Smith 1994) and Qustul (B. B. Williams 1986, 1992).
Egyptian military expansion into Nubia in the 1st Dynasty seems to have been
an attempt to suppress a powerful southern neighbor (H. S. Smith 1991).
However, there is no evidence of what motivated Egyptian actions. Was Nubia
somehow involved militarily in Egypt? There is a consensus among archaeologists working in Nubia that the indigenous population was driven out by the
Egyptian campaigns and that for the major part of the Egyptian Old Kingdom
the Nubians adopted a nomadic lifestyle in the surrounding semi-desert regions.
Lower Nubia
Egypt
Near East
Pre- Dynastic
EB I
EARLY
?
?
A Group
Early Dynastic
EB II
BRONZE
?
Egyptian policy in Nubia in the Old and Middle Kingdom
231
Egypt and Nubia
Robert Morkot
Pre-Kerma
?
Kerma
Old Kjngdom
EB III
1st IP
MBI
MIDDLE
C Group
?
Middle Kingdom
MBIIA
BRONZE
?
?
Province of Kush and
independent princes
Province of
Wawat
2nd IP
MBIIB
New
Kingdom
LATE
BRONZE
Iron I A
B
"Kul'I'u"
3rd IP
Iron II
25th Dynasty
Napatan
Napatan
A-B
C
Late
Pcrsian
Ptolcmaic
Hcllcnistic
Meroitic
Meroitic
Meroitic
Roman
Roman
Post- Pyramidal
Meroitic
Ballana
Ballana
Byzantine
Byzantinc
Kingdom of Alwa
l(jngclom of Makouria
Kingdom of
Nobatia
The strong cultural similarities with people who appear in Nubia in the late Old
Kingdom suggest that they may have regained control of the Lower Nubian Nile
valley in the 5th Dynasty - perhaps forced back into the valley by increasing desiccation of surrounding regions. It is also possible that while adopting a seminomadic lifestyle they had continued to come into the Nile valley seasonally to
raise crops.
232
Egypt and Nubia
Robert Morkot
The Egyptian presence in Nubia during the Old Kingdom seems to have been
sporadic rather than constant. S. T. Smith (1991: 83) characterizes this phase as
an example ofHorvath and Bartel's "Eradication Imperialism." Although there
is evidence of direct exploitation of resources, notably the diOl'ite from the quarries at Toshka to the west of Buhen, the full economic importance of Nubia to
Egypt is still unclear. It might be assumed that some gold and semi-precious
stones were acquired from the deserts and presumably from trade with Upper
Nubia, and, through Upper Nubia, with the central Sudan. The excavations at
Kerma are now producing material from the so-called pre- Kerma phases, and it
is likely that the center was already emerging as a point of contact between the
Egyptians and Nubians.
The activities of the Middle Kingdom pharaohs began with military forays in
the 11 th Dynasty. Again Nubia seems to have been divided into multiple states
with powerful rulers, some of whom may have already adopted pharaonic style
(MOl'kot 1999a). Middle Kingdom military activities were prolonged, continuing into the reigns of 12th Dynasty rulers Amenemhat I and Senusret I. One
official's rock inscription records that he had been campaigning in Nubia for
twenty years on behalf of pharaoh. As in the Old Kingdom, there seems to have
been an attempt to completely subjugate the population, although this time not
to force them out of the country. References to crop destruction, felling of trees,
and razing of villages indicate the intensity of the campaigns. The Egyptians built
a series of massive fortresses - but these were for control of the Nile traffic. Most
are situated around the 2nd Cataract, with Buhen the major depot at the northern end (see Fig. 9.1). Two other major forts controlled the Nile valley in Lower
Nubia.
The extent to which the Egyptians integrated the Nubian population in this
phase is still questionable. There is archaeological evidence for a flourishing local
culture, and conventional interpretations assume that the Egyptians were not
interested in the indigenous population. Instead, the focus of attention was the
trade with the south. This phase can be seen as an example of Horvath and
Bartel's "Equilibrium Imperialism" (S. T. Smith 1991: 83). It ended with
Egypt's withdrawal. Having initially supported the Kerma "state" as a trading
partner, perhaps militarily, Kerma's power grew to such an extent that it was able
to take over Lower Nubia (a cause or result of Egyptian withdrawal).
Military expansion into Nubia in the New Kingdom
(c. 1555-1070 BeE)
The process of New Kingdom Egyptian military expansion into Nubia has been
reasonably clear for a long time from the evidence of hieroglyphic inscriptions
and graffiti. Relatively little new material has come to light in recent years, and
that which has has tended to add detail rather than radically alter our reconstruction of events. Nevertheless, the scholarly literature still tends to underemphasize the time and effort required for the Egyptians to gain control of Nubia as
'"
233
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far as the 4th Nile Cataract. Egyptian rule in Nubia during the Late Bronze Age
(New Kingdom) lasted altogether for about 500 years, of which the phase of
expansion amounted to a thll hundred years. (Note: in the following discussion,
I follow conventional chronological terminology; dates written as + "150," tor
example, are those of Egyptian domination calculated f)'om year 1 of the reign
ofKamose, c. 1555 BCE).
It was with the three military campaigns during the co-reign of Hatshepsut
and Thutmose III (+ 63-84) that Egyptian domination as f.1r as the 3rd Cataract
was assured and some significant control was gained over the region as far as the
4th Cataract. Thutmose III did not return to Nubia for twenty-five years
(+ 109), when he sailed through the Dongola Reach as far as Gebel Barkal. He
claims to have been the first pharaoh to do this - and there is no evidence to the
contrary. This year therefore marks the establishment of the Egyptian frontier at
the 4th Cataract. Military actions following his reign are relatively few and appear
to have been directed principally against desert gold-mining regions. A period
9.1
LOIIICI'
Nubia.
234
Robert Morkot
of apparent peace followed (+ 116-212), in which diplomacy rather than war
dominated Egyptian foreign policy and Nubian "luxuries" were the mainstay of
international gift-exchange. From the reign of Horemheb (+215-246) on, a
different situation seems to have prevailed in military activities in the south.
Although much of the Nile valley appears to have remained peaceful, the regions
on the southern frontier were increasingly dominated by the "rebellions" of
Irem (O'Connor 1987).
The end of Egyptian rule in Nubia is still rather obscure. The evidence suggests that the viceregal government continued to operate normally until after the
reign of Ramesses VI (+ 397-403). At some point in the late 20th Dynasty, possibly as late as the reign of R.'1messes XI ( + 438-468), the southern province of
Kush (located between the 2nd and 3rd Cataracts) was abandoned. The frontier
was redrawn at the 2nd Cataract. Evidence from the administrative capital of
Kush - Amara West - suggests that it was systematically closed down. This in itself
implies that either events in Egypt or the emergence of an indigenous power in
southern Nubia were causing problems. The middle years of Ramesses XI saw
the viceroy active in Egypt itself. The last decade of his reign witnessed civil war
and campaigns againstthe viceroy who was still in control of Lower Nubia and
the provincial capital, Aniba.
The New IGngdom phase of imperial expansion in Nubia, closely paralleled in
western Asia, differed from previous expansions in several ways. First, there was
a clear policy of integrating the people and using them within the administration
rather then removing them or (apparently) ignoring tllem. Second, the time
factor is important. Including the period of expansion, New IGngdom Egyptian
presence in Nubia lasted for nearly 500 years, as opposed to the intermittent
presence during the Old IGngdom (400 years) and the confined occupation of
the Middle IGngdom (260 years). Third, Egyptian ideology also reflects a different attitude. From the mid-18th Dynasty on, a distinctly imperial terminology
developed. This certainly grew out of the traditional titles and images of pharaohs, but included new elements that acknowledged the superiority of the
pharaoh among other rulers: that is, "IGng oflGngs" and "Ruler of the Rulers"
(Grimal 1986; also see Lorton 1974 who gives different renderings of these
titles).
Political geography and administratiJ)e structures
The major distinction between the model I have proposed (Morkot 1987,
1991b, 1994) and the conventional Egyptological model of imperialism concerns the limits of Egyptian control in Nubia, both geographical and integrative.
Most studies have assumed that the regions ofNubia directly integrated into
the viceregal administration extended from the 1st Cataract (immediately south
of Aswan) to the 4tll Cataract. This region was divided into two provinces,
Wawat and Kush. Wawat, in Lower Nubia, extended from the 1st to the 2nd
Cataract, and Kush, from the 2nd to the 4th Cataract. In contrast, I have pre-
Egypt and Nubia
sented (Morkot 1991b) a very different model for the region south of the 2nd
Cataract. I argue that tlle viceregal domain of Kush extended only from the 2nd
to the 3rd Cataract. The region soutll, between the 3rd and 4th Cataracts, was
a frontier zone tllat came under the control of the "Overseers of Southern
Foreign Lands." It was also called Kush. The major Egyptian foundations in
Kush lie to the nortll of tlle 3rd Cataract. They are tlle fortress of Sai and tlle
temple-towns ofSoleb, Sedeinga, Sesebi, and Amara West (see Fig. 9.2). South
of the 3rd Cataract, New IGngdom temples have been identified only at Kawa
and at Gebel Barka!. Recent excavations have also identified New IGngdom
material at Kerma.
Arguments against my model (e.g., Kemp 1991) have emphasized that there
has been relatively little survey and excavation in the 3rd-4tll Cataract region.
Therefore, the t:'1ct that tllere have been few New IGngdom sites identified does
not mean that tlley were not there; tlley simply await discovery. However, this
ignores my key argument concerning tlle nature of tlle sites north of the 3rd
Cataract (see below). Kemp (I972a, I972b, 1978) seems to agree with a generally held view of New IGngdom population growth. He views settlement in
this region as essentially expansionist; the number of towns increased over time.
In consequence, he concludes that the distribution of the towns was not commensurate with the agricultural potential of the region. In marked contrast, I
have emphasized the distinctive nature and short duration of tlle sites in tllls
region.
The building of new temple-towns in the Abri-Delgo Reach of Upper Nubia
began about ISO years after Egyptian reoccupation ofNubia. This part of Upper
Nubia had been first occupied in the war against Kerma and was continuously
occupied, with a major fortress at Sai. The region was fertile, although not so
productive as areas south of the 3rd Cataract, and was within a gold-producing
region (although its extent remains unclear). Whether the new temple-towns
were built to accommodate an expanding population from Egypt remains questionable, although with the expansion of the Lower Nubian system, land may
have been needed to settle ifnot Egyptian "colonists," then Nubians or EgyptoNubians. Baving made a decision to absorb this area, the administration created
settlements that would establish an integrated local economy, something a fortress did not do.
Expansion in the Abri-Delgo Reach follows closely upon what seems to have
been a conscious reorganization of the administration ofNubia sometime during
the reign of Amenhotep 11 (+ 116-139) or Thutmose IV (+ 139-148). The
initial development of the imperial administration seems to have rapidly followed
military expansion, creating offices, etc., as circumstances dictated. The subsequent period of consolidation and, apparently, relative peace saw a reorganization directly paralleling that of the Egyptian administration. There were two
provinces headed by the viceroy, each with its own deputy (idnu). The religious
institutions and the military had their own heads.
The continued building works within the Abri-Delgo region suggest that
235
236
Egypt and Nubia
Robert Morkot
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political and ideological factors, rather than purely agricultural concerns, were
important in its development. A parallel may be noted to the situation in the
peripheries of the Late Assyrian Empire, discussed by Liverani (1979, 1990:
135-43), with the duty of the virtuous king to extend cosmic order, irrigate arid
land, and build towns. The cui tic emphases and associations with rebirth evident
in the Nubian temples might go some way to support the interpretation of the
building campaigns as political and religious acts.
In sum, I see the temple-towns of the Abri -Delgo Reach not as a continuing
urban expansion into this region ofNubia, but as a series offoundations of much
more limited duration. These towns served briefly as the principal administrative
centers of specific reigns and were later replaced. As such, they parallel the
"Houses of millions of years" in Egypt itself, their estates being reallocated to
newer foundations. Of course, with estates in the vicinity of the settlements tlley
would not have been completely abandoned - but the official class would have
moved. The sequence of the building and duration of the sites further suggest
that there was not continuous expansion. The fortress of Sai belongs to the
early-mid New Kingdom phase, followed by Soleb and Sedeinga (Amenhotep
Ill, reused by Tutankhamun), Sesebi (Akhenaten, reused by Sety I) and Amara
West (Sety I to the late 20th Dynasty).
The nature of these "urban" centers themselves must also be considered
(Trigger 1985: 348; Hassan 1993; O'Connor 1993). In Nubia, as in Egypt, they
were limited in number and functioned as elite residential, administrative, and
cult centers rather than as residential centers for agricultural workers. Some were
also production centers and had artisan populations. However, much of the
artisan production would have been for the state and the elite and not for "sale"
to the people cultivating the land. Other centers would have served as depots for
the supply of military installations. The system of temple-town economies proposed by Trigger (1965: 109), Kemp (1972a; 1972b: 661,667; 1978), and
Frandsen (1979) provides a model for the integration of the Nubian towns and
hinterland, and also f()r the acculturation of the indigenous population. It should
be emphasized that the "urban" centers in Nubia, which were limited to perhaps
half-a-dozen in Wawat and the same in Kush, and which were not all occupied
at the same time, were elite centers. The majority of the population was dispersed
across the agricultural land, probably in the scattered ribbon-settlements that
prevailed in the region until recently. In sum, evidence ti'om the towns of the
Abri- Delgo Reach suggests that they functioned as the main administrative
centers of the province of Kush during the viceregal period.
What then was the nature of Egyptian control in the 3rd-4th Cataract "frontier zone" region? There has been considerably less survey and excavation in this
area. An Egyptian fortress is known to have existed somewhere in the region of
Gebel Barkal and the 4th Cataract. We know that this fortress was later called
Napata, but its exact location is uncertain. Several scholars have argued that
Napata served as the major viceregal center. However, it seems extremely
237
238
Robert Morkot
unlikely that the principal administrative center would have been placed on the
southernmost frontier, and evidence from further north contradicts this interpretation. fu discussed above, I have proposed that the 3rd-4th Cataract region
was left in the direct control of indigenous rulers who received military support
for their regimes along with economic and other benefits. In return, they may
have been directly responsible for tlle acquisition and transmission of "luxury"
commodities, such as ivory and ebony, tlll"ough trade Witll the central Sudanese
savanna. The title "Overseer of tlle Southern Foreign Lands" held by tlle viceroys has been considered a "poetic variant" of tlle usual viceregal designation.
However, other officials, who seem to constitute a homogeneous group, also
used tlle title. They include tlle viceroys, tlle Chief of Bowmen ofKush (the head
of the militia in Nubia), and otllers who are almost certainly Kushite princes.
Significantly, tlle local rulers of Lower Nubia did not hold tllis title. It thus seems
reasonable to conclude tllat it designated, quite specifically, control of the part
of Kush that was not integrated as a province, but nonetheless owed allegiance
to tlle imperial administration. The role of tlle indigenous rulers in this region
is considered furtller below.
This model presents tlle 3rd-4th Cataract as an imperial margin, with symbolic frontiers at Gebel Barkal and tlle 4tll Cataract (riverine routes) and at
Kurgus/Abu Hamed (desert routes). Arguing that the region between the 3rd
and 4th Cataracts was not n111y integrated into the viceregal administration has
a number of important implications. First, it suggests that the Egyptian system
of temple-town economies was not introduced in this area and that locally prevailing economies persisted. Second, there would not have been as widespread
acculturation of the non-elite population as appears to be found in the integrated
parts ofNubia. This in itself has significant implications for the succeeding postimperial phase, discussed below. Some archaeological support for this interpretation now seems to be emerging. During ten years of excavation in the Debba
Bend of the Dongola Reach, K. Grzymski and his team have identified no
Egyptian material and conclude that during the New Kingdom this area was
inhabited by a non- Egyptianized indigenous population (Grzymski 1997).
The local elites
There has been no major synthetic prosopography of the New Kingdom administration of Nubia in recent years. The doctoral dissertations of Michel
Dewachter (1978) and Ingeborg MUlier (1979) remain unpublished and any
attempt to assess the administration of Nubia is thrown back on the original
study of Reisner (1920) and a mass of articles and excavation reports. Most
recently, Torgny Save-Soderbergh and Lana Troy (1991) have reassessed the evidence for the indigenous princes of Lower Nubia in the New Kingdom. The
importance of these rulers to the viceregal administration had already been
emphasized by Kemp (1978), Frandsen (1979), O'Connor (in Trigger ct al.
1983), and others. While the role and importance of the princes is beyond
Egypt and Nubia
doubt, there has been little study of the remainder of the administration and the
role of otller local e1ites.
Integration oftlle Nubian elite began early in tlle phase of imperial expansion.
The children of rulers of Upper Nubia were sent to Egypt to be raised in the
palace from the reign of Thutmose 11 (+ 60-63) onwards. By tlle co-reign of
Hatshepsut and Thutmose III (+ 63-84) members of tlle ruling families of
Lower Nubia had adopted Egyptian names in addition to tlleir Kushite ones, and
were employed within tlle provincial administration. This suggests tllat tlley too
had been educated at tlle Egyptian court from an even earlier date (perhaps
under Thutmose I, + 49-60). The titles of local rulers persisted into the later
18tll and 19t1l Dynasties, but their names are purely Egyptian; indigenous names
have been dropped. The elites buried in the main centers of Lower Nubia from
the same period all had Egyptian names and styles of burial. Lacking skeletal
material, it is hard to prOlJc that they were Nubians rather tllan Egyptian settlers.
The princes of Lower Nubia do not appear to have opposed the Egyptian
authorities, altllOugh our evidence is, of course, one-sided. Upper Nubia,
however, had proven more difficult to absorb. Initially the power of tlle Kerma
kingdom had to be broken, and there was constant "rebellion" in tlle first
century of Egyptian activity. Such factors may have led the Egyptians to use education at the Egyptian court, gift, and military support, and to "allow" a degree
of autonomy, in order to maintain their authority in the 3rd-4th Cataract region.
The binding of the administration to the central government was certainly
achieved through the distribution of "gift." A few texts record the installation of
the viceroy and his first tour of duty accompanied by the royal envoys, on which
occasion he "rewarded" the local officials. Doubtless gift/reward was given on
other important royal occasions, such as accession and jubilee. Instances ofindividual reward are also known.
The binding oflocal elites through marriage to the Egyptian crown is a more
obscure issue. Despite the very clear instances of marriage between pharaohs and
Asiatic princesses detailed in the Amarna archive, Egyptologists have generally
persisted in arguing that pharaohs did not marry Kushite women (e.g., Frandsen
1979). This stands in contrast to the claims of some earlier Egyptologists who
suggested, on the basis of superficial evidence, that some Great Royal Wives were
ofNubian origin (e.g., Tiye and Nctertari). This ambivalent attitude is probably
best regarded as a residue from older prejudices. While direct positive evidence
is lacking, there is a strong likelihood that pharaohs did marry Kushite women.
It should also be noted that although Egyptian pharaohs married the daughters
of many Asiatic rulers, policy decreed that daughters of pharaohs were not sent to
be wives offoreign rulers (Schulman 1979). Requests for daughters of pharaoh
by the kings ofMitanni and Assyria/Babylon were apparently refhsed. This contrasts with the Hittite policy by which daughters were given as wives to foreign
rulers or their heirs, with a contract to ensure that the Hittite princess would be
chief wife and chief queen, and that her son would be eventual king (Schulman
1979). The effect was an expansion of the Hittite empire through blood.
239
240
Egypt and Nubia
Robert Morlwt
Another major tool in the binding of Egypt and the Nubian provinces was
religion. The presence of Egypt in Nubia in the New Kingdom is seen most obviously in the temple building of the late 18th and early 19th Dynasties. Yet the
very size and number of these edifices has in the past posed a problem for historians of Nubia, especially when allied with presumptions about the region's
history. Earlier literature rarely regarded the temples as centers of religious belief.
Instead they were seen as massive structures oflimited function, built to overawe
the indigenous population, or even to preside over a deserted no-man's land.
While peculiarly local features are apparent in the iconography and associations
of the kings in the Nubian temples (as is common in many other imperial contexts;
see Alcock and Brumfiel, this volume), the function of the temples reflects current
trends within Egypt itself. The development of Egyptian religion and particularly
of the royal cult in Nubia is important because, most obviously, it informs on the
ideology that the Egyptians wished to impose on their dependencies. It is also significant when the later phases of Kushite history are examined. The
"Egyptianization" of the Napatan and Meroitic periods (see below) has been seen
as a residue of the years of occupation, gradually dissipated through the reassertion ofindigenous phenomena. The importance of the Anum cult in the Meroitic
period is an obvious example of continuing Egyptian influence.
Habachi (1969), followed by Trigger (1976), Kemp (1978), and others,
urged that the Nubian temples should be looked at within the broader context
of New Kingdom Egypt and not in isolation. Habachi's (1969) fundamental
study of the deification of l{amesses Il in Nubia showed it to be essentially the
same process as found throughout Egypt. Even so, the royal cult generally has
been interpreted as a manifestation of political power lacking religious content
(Habachi 1969). Price (1984) critiqued similar attitudes in his discussion of the
relationship between religion and politics in interpretations of the Roman imperial cult. He (1984: 9-10) did not deny the obvious political aspects of the imperial cult, but emphasized that initiatives could come from below, and need not
all be imposed by central authority. This can be paralleled in New Kjngdom
Nubia where private inscriptions invoke living and dead rulers. The endowment
of royal cult images by members of the elite doubtless guaranteed prestige and
may have had economic benefits, but discussions of these have tended to emphasize the economic rather than religious aspects. As in Egypt, Roman imperial
cults did not endure long after the emperor's death. Deceased emperors and pharaohs joined the ranks of the gods, but the most potent form of cult was that of
the living ruler. The organization and exploitation of the Roman imperial cult
by local elites as detailed by Price has parallels with the pharaonic cult in Nubia.
Many members of the Nubian elite also held religious offices, whether of the
royal or of other cults. Female members of the elite, particularly, were involved
in religion as chantresses, singers, and Chief of the Harem of local deities. As in
Egypt itself, there was no church-state divide. Members of the same elite families held offices in civil, religious, and military institutions (Morkot 1994: ch.
6). The ritual of Egyptian religion involved festivals focusing on a processional
"appearance" by the god. When that god was also a manifestation of, or merged
with, the living ruler, there must have been a further binding of the subject
people with the dominant state and its ruler. Participation in these festivals, and
the gifts of food and other commodities that are associated with them , must
have served an important role in cementing the relationships between rulers and
subjects.
The acculturation of Nubia's non-elite is more difficult to assess. Adams
(1964: 107-8; 1977) and others, following Cecil Firth, proposed that after the
expansion of Egyptian power in Nubia in the early 18th Dynasty ( + 5-100) there
was a rapid recession, and because of hydraulic crisis a decline in the population,
throughout the later 18th (+185-246) and 19th (+246-356) Dynasties.
Adams (1964: 244-5) suggests that "by the end of the 18th Dynasty almost all
productive activity in the region had probably ceased." However, the apparent
disappearance of a large proportion of the indigenous population in the 18th
Dynasty (presumed to have been retreating into Upper Nubia) may in fact have
been due to a rapid acculturation and a reorganization of the agrarian economy
around the Egyptian towns. Adams (1964: 106; 1977: 235-40) argues against
acculturation as a satisf.1ctory explanation, but the evidence presented by SaveSoderbergh and Troy (1991) suggests the contrary. The Scandinavian Joint
Expedition found graves of relatively late New Kingdom date that continued
typical Nubian burial traditions but contained entirely Egyptian objects (SaveSoderbergh 1967-8; Save-Soderbergh and Troy 1991). With the imposition of
a redistributive economy the products that were handed out, and therefore the
objects recovered, would have been typically Egyptian in style. It remains difficult to assess to what extent the basic features of indigenous cultures may have
survived masked by Egyptian material culture.
Ifwe accept that the majority ofNubian officials were indigenes then we raise
a number of questions about what would have happened at the end of the New
Kingdom. Most significantly, would they have attempted to carve out a separate
state for themselves? I turn to this issue below.
Economy
The older view of Egyptian economic activity in Nubia was one of exploitation.
Egypt simply plundered Nubia of its resources - mineral (principally gold, but
also various stones), animal (ivory, hides, ostrich feathers), vegetable (ebony),
and human (as slaves). Kemp (1978), particularly, has argued that economic
exploitation was a prime motive in Egyptian imperial expansion. He quite rightly
stresses the investment by the Egyptians in temple building, defense, and administration, and suggests that the reorganization of local economies around tile
temples would have resulted in much of the local agricultural production being
consumed locally. As S. T. Smith (1991: 81-2) points out, other scholars from
various backgrounds have also regarded economic exploitation as significant to
imperialism. He suggests that the Egyptian presence in Nubia during tile New
Kingdom may therefore be seen as a manifestation of "Acculturation
Colonialism" (1991: 92-3).
241
242
Robert Morkot
The most recent discussions of the economy of Nubia during the New
Kingdom (Morkot 1995a; S. T. Smith 1995) do not reject Kemp's arguments,
but recognize that there was both investment and significant economic exploitation. In Lower Nubia agriculturally productive land was always much more
limited than in the broad flood plain of Egypt. This would have dictated a rather
dispersed settlement pattern. And even if the land was intensively cultivated, its
agricultural potential was limited. Throughout history, Lower Nubia has never
supported much more tllan a subsistence agricultural economy, Witll the exception of date-production. Its importance to Egypt was as a source of vast mineral
wealtll, notably tlle gold of tlle Eastern Desert.
Upper Nubia was more productive agriculturally. The results of a recent
survey have shown tllat the Nile flowed tlll'ough three river channels in the
Dongola basin during tlle Kerma period (c. 2000-1500 BCE). It is unknown
whetller tllese still functioned in New Kingdom times. If tlley did, we will have
to reconsider the potential of tlle region as an arable producer. It is certain that
tllis was a major cattle-pasturing region during tlle New Kingdom. However,
much of its importance must have been as tlle access route to the luxury commodities of tlle central Sudanese savanna.
The model of an internal redistributive economy based to a considerable
extent upon the temple-towns argues against tlle simple plundering of Nubia's
resources. Land was held by the religious foundations and administrative offices
of the viceregal dominion; its produce was predominantly destined for the use
of people and institutions within Nubia.
While the evidence for an expanding population in Egypt and consequent settlement of Egyptians in Nubia is inconclusive, there are indications of statecontrolled manipulation of the Nubian population. Forcible removal of people
from Nubia and settlement of foreigners in the country is indicated by some
texts. However, it is impossible to assess the fi'equency of such events and the
numbers involved, and consequently the total impact of such actions. These
transplantations, as paralleled in other ancient societies (notably the Late
Assyrian empire; see also D'Altroy, p. 216, Kuhrt, p. 118, this volume) are
usually associated with military action. Although the evidence is at present problematic, it at least suggests that the Egyptians were not averse to the forcible
movement of population under certain circumstances.
I have argued (Morkot 1995a: 178-80) that although there was a limited agricultural potential in Nubia, a surprisingly large range of its products was nonetheless imported into Egypt. Among the most notable non-mineral products
were those of the date and dom palms. The sources limit our ability to quantitY
the economic production accurately, but the few figures at our disposal suggest
that cattle sent fi'om Kush to Egypt (perhaps just to the temple of Karnak) numbered about 300 per annum. This is three times the number sent from Wawat.
Wawat, however, produced about sixteen times more gold than Kush.
There is no evidence for the methods of cross-frontier trade in ivory, ebony,
and the other "luxuries" of the central Sudan. It seems likely that the acquisition
Egypt and Nubia
of these commodities was one of the chief responsibilities of the elite of Kush.
There are no records of trading expeditions such as are known for the Old
Kingdom. However, the commodities appear as part of the regular annual
"tribute" system.
If the administration remained largely in the control of tlle indigenous elite,
so too the internal economy ofNubia must have. Kemp (1978) has argued tllat,
given the extensive investment of the Egyptians in temple building, military
defense, and so on, Egyptian "imperialism" was not wholly exploitative. The
model of the redistributive economy also provides an explanation for tlle "disappearance" of the C-Group population of Lower Nubia during tlle 18tll
Dynasty - as the range oflocally produced artifacts was replaced by centrally supplied goods.
The old idea of a decline in population and productivity throughout tlle New
Kingdom can be rejected as an incorrect interpretation oftlle evidence. It does,
however, seem clear tllat there was a substantial decline in gold production in
Lower Nubia by tlle 20th Dynasty and that the gold was almost worked out by
available methods (renewed gold production in the Ptolemaic period used different technology). Nevertheless, the Egyptians did not abandon Nubia as a
drain on their resources. It is clear tllat they regarded Nubia as an extension of
Egypt and that other factors forced the withdrawal from the southern region,
perhaps in the reign of Ramesses IX or Ramesses Xl.
Summary
The literature on Egyptian Nubia underemphasizes the impact of time. Nubia in
the period of the Egyptian imperial expansion is not likely to have been the same
as Nubia after 300 years of Egyptian domination. I have proposed that the
Egyptian attitude to Nubia was fundamentally the same as that toward Asia, and
that consequently Egyptian-Nubian interaction was different than often
assumed. With greater emphasis on the role of the indigenous elites, and a more
complex society and economy in Nubia, the rise of an indigenous successor state
is more easily explicable. Lower and perhaps parts of Upper Nubia had at the
end of the New Kingdom a developed state system with an organized and trained
bureaucracy, social and political hierarchies, military forces (formidable, apparently), control oflocal resources, and agricultural subsistence. In addition, there
were, certainly in Upper Nubia and probably still in Lower Nubia, local organized political entities - "chiefdoms" or "kingdoms" - that controlled the luxury
trade of the central Sudan and had their own military forces.
The model argued here would see a large part of Upper Nubia remaining
under the direct control of indigenous rulers throughout the New Kingdom and
therefore not Egyptianized to the same degree as the rest of Nubia. Its rulers,
many raised at the Egyptian court, would have been Egyptianized and may have
introduced elements of Egyptian culture and religion into their states. But the
majority of the population, even ifit acquired some Egyptian objects, would have
243
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Robert Morkot
remained largely unaffected by Egyptian culture, language, and ideology. In this
model the "problem" of Egyptianization is reduced. Following the end of the
viceregal period, Upper Nubia would not have "reverted" but simply continued
long-standing Kushite traditions.
THE KUSHITE DOMINATION OF EGYPT (THE
EGYPTIAN 25TH DYNASTY), c. 750-650 BeE
The traditional interpretation
As discussed above, the conventional view is that following the period of
Egyptian rule in the New Kingdom, Lower Nubia was abandoned for a considerable period and the people of Upper Nubia reverted to a tribal or seminomadic lifestyle. Tlus state of affairs is argued to have continued until the
emergence of an indigenous chiefdom, later to become a "kingdom" in the midninth century BC E. This kingdom then rapidly expanded to control the central
Sudanese savanna between the Atbara and Nile (the earlier archaeology of this
region is still barely known) and is divided into two historical phases: Napatan
(from the eighth century BCE to c. 200 BCE) and Meroitic. The Meroitic
phase is largely coincident with the Ptolemaic and Roman periods in Egypt, continuing until about the mid-fourth century CE, when the state fragmented. Its
three successors became the three Christian kingdoms of medieval Nubia. The
king-list (largely compiled from tomb material) and the few "historical f.'lcts" of
the Napatan-Meroitic kingdom probably mask a series of dynasties and fragmentations of the state. Throughout the Napatan-Meroitic periods the rulers (male
and female) continued to use Egyptian pharaonic styles of title and regalia, combined with some indigenous forms. Egyptian gods continued to be worshipped
and the Egyptian hieroglyphic script was used for official texts.
However, this later Napatan phase is dismissed in much early literature: "much
of tile Egyptian veneer disappeared ... and the last pyramids and hieroglyphic
texts are almost a mockery of Egyptian culture" (Adams 1964: 115). The subsequent Meroitic period was similarly characterized as a further debasement: "it
was the Egyptianized kingdom of Napata running downhill to a miserable and
inglorious end ... the last two or three centuries were ones ofunrclieved degeneration and gloom when compared with the glories of the past" (A. J. Arkell
quoted in Adams 1964: ll5). While this view of the Meroitic period has been
largely rejected in more recent literature, there is still a view that the Egyptian
elements of the culnJre are something of a "veneer."
A reinterpretation
The phase ofKushite domination of Egypt, in Egyptian terms the 25th Dynasty,
lasted from about 750/740 BC E until 656 BC E, and thus forms the earlier part
of the "Napatan" kingdom. As the earliest phases of Kushite expansion into
Egypt and Nubia
Egypt are still very obscure the initial date is somewhat arbitrary. The domination can be divided into the following phases:
1 Kushite expansion into Upper Egypt, under kings Kashta and Piye, witll
control only of Upper Egypt (c. 750/40-710 BCE).
2 Domination of tile whole of Egypt witll major residence at Memplus,
and increasing involvement in western Asia: reigns of Shabaqo and
Shebitqo (c. 710-690 BCE) and Taharqo (690-664 BCE).
3 Assyrian invasions of Egypt, in tile reigns ofTaharqo and Tanwetamani.
Eventual ascendancy ofPsamtik I of Sais; Kushites still acknowledged in
Upper Egypt until 656 B CE.
A principal issue, which the literature has until recently largely ignored, is tile
process of state formation in Nubia (Kush; for recent discussions see Torok
1992,1995; Morkot 1994, 1995b, 1999,2000; T. KendaIl1999). The Kushite
expansion stands at tile end of what is generally tllOught to have been a very rapid
process of state formation (e.g., T. Kendall 1982). Much of the scholarly literature (e.g., Adams 1964, 1977; Kitchen 1973: 358; O'Connor in Trigger et al.
1983: 242-3) begins with the Kushite invasion of Egypt and continues from
there without any analysis of how the Kushite state came into being. As discussed
above, the conventional view is that Kush developed from an apparently modest
chiefdom (mid-ninth century BCE) to a state with the military and economic
resources, and presumably the political homogeneity and hierarchies, to gain
control of a considerable part of Egypt. Further, it was able to do this from a
homeland that is separated from Egypt proper by the sparsely (or un- )populated
divide of Lower Nubia. This characterization has developed largely on the basis
of the archaeological material. GeOl'ge Reisner excavated a cemetery at el-Kurru
that contained burials of some of the "25th Dynasty" pharaohs and others that
he interpreted as several generations of ancestors. This cemetery formed the
focus for all discussions of the emergence of the Kushite state and largely continues to do so (see heated controversy ofT. Kendall1999 and Torok 1992,
1995). While there has been very little archaeological work in other parts of
Upper Nubia that has recovered material that can be attributed to this phase, the
possibility that such might exist has generally not even been considered.
Consequently, the literature emphasizes the archaeological and historical hiatus
and the sudden emergence of Kush "from a perplexing historical void" (T.
Kendall 1982: 9).
Adams (1977) is onc of the few archaeologists to have characterized the
"Napatan" period as a "successor state." Adams follows the historical theories of
Arnold Toynbee. He views the emergence of the Kurru kingdom as one of
Toynbee's "heroic ages" in which Nubia, Egypt's "external proletariat,"
becomes "a classic example of a successor state: a barbarian people assuming the
mantle and the burdens of empire from the hands of their former overlords"
(Adams 1977: 244-5). Kush undoubtedly should be seen as a successor state,
but the difference between this and other successor states is the 200 years it took
245
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Robert Morkot
between the collapse of the colonial system and the supremacy of the "barbarians." Unable to explain tius archaeologically, Adams (1977: 247-8) was forced
to comment ti1at "it took some time for ti1e lesson ofti1e pharaohs to sink in."
T. Kendall (1999) concentrated on the chronology of the Kurru cemetery and
did not consider the broader issues at all. T6r6k (1992, 1995) also discussed elKurru, advocating a different reconstruction, but also focusing on ideological
factors. Yet any attempt to discuss ti1e process of state formation must consider
all of the bases: political (interaction of the social hierarchy, geopolitical regions,
etc.), military, economic, and ideological.
In my writings (Morkot 1995b, 1999), I have emphasized ti1e importance of
a continuous tradition of kingship/rulers hip in Kush that can be traced back to
ti1e A-Group phase (pre-3000 B CE). I argue ti1at such a continuous tradition
(which was exploited by Egyptians during the New Kingdom) would have
resulted in ti1e emergence of independent states and power holders soon after
ti1e Egyptian witi1drawal. In this context, the idea of regression to a tribal level
is not convincing. I suggest ti1at conventional discussions ofti1e "emergence" of
ti1e Kushite state have been prejudiced by a number of factors. First, is the
emphasis on ti1e archaeological material from the cemetery of el- Kurru. This has
led to ti1e assumption ti1at the rise and expansion of the state was under the direction of a single ruling dynasty - that buried at el-Kurru. There has been no consideration ofti1e possibility that ti1e Kurru rulers may have taken over (by force,
marriage, or other methods) a state that was already rapidly developing.
Second, ti1e confused chronology of the Kurru material has been ordered
within an accepted Egyptian chronology, resulting, in the most favored model
(T. KendaIl1999), in a "gap." T6r6k (1995) and others have proposed lengthening the chronology of the Kurru cemetery, and so almost closing the gap,
although there still remain many archaeological problems. There has been no
consideration of the emergence of the indigenous Kushite state by analogy with
other postimperial contexts. This again has been influenced by interpretations of
the archaeology ofNubia. Yet, in the later phases of Egyptian rule in Nubia, we
have indications of a powerful state somewhere in the southern part of the
domain (or across its frontier) which posed a threat - Irem. We also have evidence for powerful elite families within the Nubian administration. It is, at the
very least, possible that the Egyptian empire in Nubia did not vanish in a puff of
smoke, but withdrew in the face of rising indigenous powers.
Kushite imperial expansion and control
Our reconstructions of Kushite expansion into Egypt are based largely on fragmentary data and assumptions. A stela fragment of King Kashta, excavated at
Elephantine, Egypt's southernmost town, indicates that he had adopted pharaonic style, and had advanced, presumably militarily, to the Egyptian frontier,
and into Upper Egypt. In Thebes, the Kushite princess Amenirdis I was
Egypt and Nubia
installed as heiress to the reigning God's Wife of Al11un, Shepenwepet, at
Thebes. Earlier Egyptologists thought ti1at it was Kashta who had done tlUs,
ti1ereby gaining acknowledgment as ruler in the Thebaid. More recentiy, following ti1e theory ti1at the Kushite succession passed fi'om brother to brother,
it was proposed ti1at Al11enirdis was installed by her brother, Piye (Kitchen
1973: 151). However, all other God's Wives were installed by ti1eir fathers, and
ti1ere is no evidence to suggest ti1at Al11enirdis was an exception. Neither is the
theory of broti1er-succession substantiated (Mm'kot 1999). The likelihood is
ti1at Kashta used ti1e inviolable office - as it already had been - as a way of
having Kushite authority in Thebes recognized (Mm'kot 1991b; 1994: 330-64;
1999). Beyond tius, nothing can be confidentiy said about ti1e Kushite occupation of Upper Egypt.
The "Victory Stela" of Piye (Lichtheim 1980: 66-84; Eide et al. 1994:
62-112, no. 9) indicates that at ti1e time of his campaign against Tefnakht of
Sais, Piye was acknowledged as ruler of Upper Egypt and had a military force
present ti1ere. One of ti1e most illuminating of Kushite historical texts is ti1e socalled "Sandstone Stela" of Pi ye (Eide et al. 1994: 55-9, no. 8), which predates
ti1e much better known "Victory Stela." The sandstone stela certainly belongs
to a point early in the king's reign, perhaps year 4. It attributes the king's accession to Amun. Although it is not specifically stated, it is a reasonable surmise ti1at,
following his accession, Pi ye had travelled to Egypt to ensure the continued
acknowledgement of Kushite rule in Upper Egypt and particularly Thebes. The
king tells us:
He to whom I say "You arc a IPcr-chief," he shall be a IPcr-chief.
He to whom I say "YOll arc not a IlIcr-chief," he shall not be a IlIcl"-chief.
He to whom I say "Make a khau-appearance (as king)," he shall make a khauappearance.
He to whom I say "Do not make Ilhall-ilppearance (as king)," he shall not
make I,hau-appearance.
The inference fi"om this must be that Piye either reappointed rulers or
appointed new rulers. It is necessary to distinguish between the IIIcr-rulers and
those who make Izhau-appearance (i.e., ncsut-kings - "pharaohs"). This passage
clearly reflects the situation in Egypt at the time of the Kushite invasions, in
which there were four ncsut-kings who had adopted filII pharaonic style witi1 fivefold titulary and the appropriate regalia. These are referred to in the later inscription as the "uracus-wearing" kings. There were other powerfill local rulers,
mostly of Libyan origin and closely related to the kings who carried the Libyan
titles "chief" (wcr) or "great chief" of the Ma. The broken stela does not name
any of these rulers, but the "Victory Stela" of Pi ye's 21st year records his defeat
of the Saite ruler Tefnakht and his allies, including many of the rulers of the
Delta. Piye's overlordship was again recognized by both nesut-kings and wcrchiefs. All except Tefnakht came in person and swore their oaths. Tefnakht swore
247
248
Egypt and Nubia
Robert Morkot
his in the temple of his own city in the presence of a general and the Chief Lector
Priest sent by Piye. The text of the oath is preserved on the stela although it is
probably very abbreviated. If not as lengthy as the Assyrian Vassal Treaties it contains similar promises, notably that Tefnakht will abide by Piye's commands and
will not make war on his own account.
Following Piye's death, his successor, Shabaqo, was again faced with the
expansion of the Saite kingdom under its ruler Bakenranef. The act of "rebellion" at the change of ruler was common (almost usual, see D'Altroy, p. 209; cf.
Kuhrt, p. 94) and presumably reflects the termination of treaties on the death of
one of the signatories. This pattern is already evident in the Amarna Letters of
the 18th Dynasty, where Egypt's relations with Mitanni are renewed on the
death of rulers in either country and sealed by diplomatic marriage. Following
his defeat of the Saites, Shabaqo's rule extended over the whole of Egypt, and
he appears to have ruled from Memphis. Shabaqo followed the policy of earlier
Libyan pharaohs and appointed a son as High Priest of Amun at Thebes. Unlike
his predecessors he did not install a daughter as there were already tvvo heiresses
to the God's Wife of Amun, one his sister (Amenirdis I) and the other Piye's
daughter. There is evidence for the reallocation of some offices at Thebes,
although the precise dating is unclear; it may have occurred in the reign of
Shabaqo or of Shebitqo. The Kushite Kelbasken was installed as Mayor of
Thebes and 4th Prophet of Amun. The Nakhtefinut f.·lInily had held the latter
office for six generations. Later, both offices were granted to the family of
Monthuemhat, which had previously occupied the Vizierate. The Vizierate, in
turn, passed into the family of Nesipeqashuty.
While it is difficult to impose any form of "policy" on these changes in administrative office holders, it can be said that families that had controlled offices for
a considerable period had those offices removed. Even so, Kelbasken is the only
Kushite known to have been installed in a major non-religious office (as Mayor)
and although there were many Kushites in Thebes, they do not generally seem
to have replaced the Theban elite. In the case of the Monthuemhat f.1mily, the
loss of the Vizierate appears to be a demotion, but we know from both Egyptian
and Assyrian sources that Monthuemhat remained the most powernll individual
in Upper Egypt. Monthuemhat also established a marriage alliance with the
Kushite royal house; his third wife, Wedjarenes, was a granddaughter of Piye.
There is a strong likelihood that Shabaqo established marriage alliances with
Egyptian elite families. Although marriage between members of the Kushite
royal family and the Egyptian elite are known, most Egyptologists have argued
that there were no such marriages with the Libyan dynasts.
There is considerably less evidence for the methods of Kushite control of the
elite in north Egypt. One stela does record the marriage of a Kushite princess
(probably a daughter of Shabaqo) and the northern Vizier, suggesting a policy
similar to that in Thebes. Following the defeat of Bakenranef, Shabaqo may have
appointed a Kushite governor in Sais, but the only direct evidence for this is the
epitome of Manetho's history. Elsewhere, he probably reconfirmed or replaced
rulers. Donation stelae from his reign record some of the same Chiefs and Great
Chiefs who had earlier paid homage to Piye.
Taharqo followed similar policies as his predecessors. His daughter was
installed as eventual successor to Shepenwepet 11; a son was appointed as Second
Prophet of An1t1I1 at Thebes; Shabaqo's grandson succeeded as High Priest. His
policy toward the Libyan dynasts also appears to have been the same - despite
the considerable upheavals and changes of alliance during the Assyrian invasions.
Taharqo's successor, Tanwetamani, also confi'onting Assyrian invasions, adopted
the same pragmatic approach to the Libyan rulers, accepting their allegiance
when they came to pay fealty. The Assyrians, too, confirmed and reappointed
dynasts who had previously been loyal to the Kushites. They may also have
installed a new vassal, Nekau, in Sais. Later, when the dynasts reverted to Kushite
allegiance, some were deported to Nineveh, and apparently executed. One
Assyrian vassal, Psamtik, son of tile ruler of Sais, was installed in his own fiefdom
and adopted an Assyrian name, Nabu-shezzi-banni.
Economy of the Kushite empire
The imperial expansion ofKush must have had enormous economic impact, but
the documentation is extremely scanty. The narrative of the Victory Stela of Pi ye
records that tile wealth of conquered rulers and cities was accorded either to the
temple of Amun in Thebes, to Amun Lord of Thrones of the Two Lands (which
might be the god's Kushite temple), or to the royal treasury. Piye received the
contents of the treasuries of several towns along with gifts ofjewelry, gold, semiprecious stones, linen, and horses from the Libyan dynasts. The conclusion of
the text states that Piye returned with ships laden with silver, gold, copper, clothing, and the produce of Syria and aromatic woods. Some of this diverted wealth
was doubtless used for the support of the Kushite army and officials in Egypt,
and some for the king's extensive building works in the temple of An1l1I1 at Gebel
Bat·kal.
Trading activities with western Asia were certainly important during Kushite
rule in Egypt and may have been a significant factor in Kushite expansion. Once
they had established themselves in Memphis, the Kushites presumably gained
some control of the old royal monopolies, including in papyrus and byssos(linen)
which were valuable exports at this time. The principal trading partners were tile
Levantine cities of Tyre, Sidon, Byblos, and Ashdod. Timber from the hinterland of tile more northerly cities is recorded in the building inscriptions of
Taharqo, as is Asiatic copper. Exports fi'om the Kushite heartland included ivory,
ebony, and elephant-hides. These items can be found in the "tribute" of tile Sea
Coast paid to Assyrian kings as early as the reigns of Assurnasirpal 11 and Tiglathpileser Ill. Horses are another possible export (MOI'kot 1991b, 1995b; Heidorn
1994).
249
250
Robert Morkot
The Kushite empire: summary
From the reign ofShabaqo (c. 710-696 BCE), the Kushites were ruling from
Memphis. How they controlled their vast empire is not yet well understood. The
empire fell into four major regions. These were: (1) Egypt, which was reasonably homogeneous; (2) Lower Nubia which, if not without population, probably had only a rather limited population; (3) the 3rd-4th Cataract, which was
fertile and fairly homogeneous; and (4) the central Sudan as far as present-day
Khartoum, separated from the regions further north by the Bayuda Desert. If
we assume the 3rd-4th Cataract region to have been the original Kushite powerbase, then their imperial expansion was both northward (toward Egypt) and
south into the central Sudan.
There is still very little information concerning how tlle Kushite rulers administered tlleir home territories. We have only one reference to a Kushite prince
installed as "mayor" of a town. Administrative terms that do occur in texts are
of Egyptian origin (such as sepat, Le., "nome"); however, it would be rash at tllis
point to assume tllat an Egyptian-style administrative system was imposed. We
are forced to conclude from tllis admittedly scanty material tllat the Kusllites
adopted tlle Egyptian system witllin Egypt. This entailed reconfirming most officials and tlleir families in office, placing Kushites only in positions tllat had formerly been occupied by members of the Libyan ruling houses. It is likely
tllat witllin Kush a different system operated that had its origins within Kushite
tradition.
In Egypt, the Kushites appear to have followed the same policy as earlier
Libyan pharaohs in their relations with the elite. Under the Libyans, the High
Priest of Amun had been a son, in the later phase the eldest son, of the reigning
pharaoh. The God's Wife of Amun was a daughter of the pharaoh, but her office
was inviolable and not all pharaohs installed a daughter as God's Wife or as her
heiress. The position of High Priest of Ptah at Memphis had also been held by
a royal scion, but there is no direct evidence for a Kushite occupant. The evidence from Thebes suggests that local elite f.1milies continued to exercise power,
although there was some limited redistribution of offices. The Libyans had established numerous marriage alliances with the elite Theban f~lInilies. There is less
evidence from other parts of Egypt, although the same situation may be
assumed. Some Kushite-Theban alliances are known and a royal daughter
married tlle Vizier of Lower Egypt. Marriages with the Libyan dynasts are, in my
opinion, also very likely. One wife of Shabaqo carried religious titles that arc not
characteristic of a Kushite queen but suggest that she was daughter of a Libyan
(MOl·kot 1994: Appendix 6).
Following the Assyrian invasions and Kushite reconquests, Psamtik I of Sais
gained control of Lower Egypt. The Kushites were still acknowledged as rulers
of Upper Egypt until Psamtik's 9th regnal year (also year 9 of the Kushite king
Tanwetamani). The transfer ofThebes and Upper Egypt ft·om Kushite to Saite
Egypt and Nubia
rule appears to have been effected diplomatically. Psamtik sent his young daughter Neitiqert to be tlle eventual successor to the Kushite God's Wife of Amun,
Shepenwepet 11. The situation is thus similar to the initial Kushite appearance in
Thebes. Both Shepenwepet 11 and tlle reigning Kushite High Priest of Amun
were still active some years later.
The Egyptian pharaohs oftlle New Kingdom had attempted to integrate local
e1ites in bOtll Nubia and Asia. The Assyrians later followed a similar policy. In
bOtll instances if a ruler was deposed, a member of tlle same family often replaced
him. Indeed, one of the problems of tlle Late Assyrian empire derives directly
from this policy (see Liverani, tllis volume). Leaving local rulers in control
involved considerably less expenditure, but was subject to tlle potential of rebellion. Eventually a number of vassal kingdoms were converted into provinces
because of rebellion. In Egypt, the Libyan dynasts changed tlleir allegiance
according to which power was tlle more imminent tlll"eat, Kushite or Assyrian.
The Egyptian empire in the New Kingdom appears to have faced less rebellion
tllan tlle Assyrian empire and certainly lasted considerably longer. Important
factors may be tllat the Egyptian empire was far smaller than the Assyrian and
military troops could be more rapidly moved to rebellious areas. It is also possible that the Egyptians interfered less with tlleir vassal states.
In sum, the evidence for some aspects of the themes under discussion is scanty.
However, it seems reasonable to state tllat tlle Kushites exploited already existing economic and power structures. They did not reorganize the hierarchies, and
only occasionally appointed their own nominees. Those nominees usually occupied powerful religious posts that had previously been the preserve of the Libyan
pharaohs.
In the economic realm, it is evident that during the phase of conquest considerable wealth (principally food) was reallocated to the temple of AnulI1 at
Thebes. This temple was directly under Kushite control. In addition, there is evidence that large amounts of precious materials were sent to Kush. Skilled
workers were also sent to Kush and the later years of the dynasty saw extensive
building works there. With Kushite involvement in western Asia, a proportion
of the commodity trade no doubt also went directly to the Kushite homeland.
One question that inevitably emerges from this is to what extent was trade or
the economy a significant f.1ctor in Kushite imperial expansion. Obviously,
numerous f.1ctors affected the emergence of the Kushite state. Until we have a
much greater knowledge of the history of the southern parts of the Kushite
kingdom, we are unable to assess the role of the social, economic, and political
structures of that region and the ways they affected state formation.
Nevertheless, it is difficult to see why a Kushite state would expand in the way
that it did and with the speed that it apparently did, if the economic circumstances of the eastern Mediterranean lands had not been influential.
251
Local processes and imperial strategies in Vijayanagara
10
Coercion, resistance, and hierarchy: local
processes and imperial strategies in the
Vijayanagara empire
Kathleen D. Morrison
252
The Vijayanagara empire (c. AD 1300-1700) was among the most areally extensive imperial polities in South Asia, laying claim to a vast territory on the Indian
peninsula that stretched from coast to coast and covered much of southern India
(Fig. 10.1). However, the nature of this polity and its internal organization - in
particular, in the nature, scope, and degree of power exercised by its rulers - is
much in dispute. Scholarly interpretations range from images of a rather benign,
ritually incorporated segmentary (B. Stein 1980, 1995) or theater state (Fritz
1986, after Geertz 1980), to images of a militaristic empire (Nilakanta Sastri
1975) or efficient extractor of produce (Palat 1987). More recently, Sinopoli and
I have pointed out the great variability in the form and extent of economic power
exercised by elites, including those at the eponymous capital city (Morrison
1995a; Morrison and Sinopoli 1992; Sinopoli and Morrison 1995; Sinopoli
1986; and see Morrison and Lycett 1994).
In part, this disagreement reflects the evolving state of scholarship on the
Vijayanagara empire. However, much academic debate also stems from the significance of the Vijayanagara period itself for Indian history. Not only was this a
time of transition from more regional polities to larger-scale imperial incorporation, it was also the period in which the influence of European trading companies and countries began to make itself felt, a period in which the structural
conditions later encountered by European colonial powers were solidified. More
than this, however, the later Vijayanagara period was a time of transition: of the
movement of population on a large scale, the modification of natural environments, and the creation of various marginal and marginalized groups (or more
properly, of the sets of economic and social strategies adopted by these groups),
some of whom have come to be understood as remnants of an enduring, timeless Indian past. Such marginalized groups include various hunting and gathering peoples as well as peasant agriculturalists. Far from being holdovers ft'om the
deep past, however, such strategies were products of the complex political
economy and political ecology of the Vijayanagara empire, products of the age.
In most previous analyses of the Vijayanagara empire, analytical effort has been
directed primarily toward those who presumably constituted the most dynamic
actors on the imperial stage, e1ites of various sorts including kings and their families, officers, local leaders, priests, and temple managers. Tllis chapter partially
inverts this focus, moving away from viewing imperial strategies solely as intentional or unintentional acts of powerful elites and toward incorporating those at
the margins of Vijayanagara imperialism into perspectives on the empire itself.
From this perspective, imperial expansion and incorporation are not fully explicable in terms oftlle intentions and actions ofleaders and rulers, or even oftllOse
intentions coupled with material and cultural possibilities and restraints. Instead,
they appear as recursive and "negotiated," both imposed from witllOut and
actively constructed, resisted, and manipulated by those who are brought into
imperial systems (e.g., Irschick 1994). This "negotiation" is both ideological and
physical, and in both spheres can be violent, bloody, and devastating. The phenomenon of imperial incorporation is thus more graphic, disjunctive, and immediate in the experience of subalterns than the rather dry language of scholarsllip
written from the perspective of an imperial elite or reified imperial polity generally makes it out to be. As such, fuller understanding of key moments of political, economic, and environmental change associated with the Vijayanagara
period requires analysis of both elite and non-elite action and experience.
Studying the construction, experience, and perhaps rejection and reworking
of domination in the past is a difficult enterprise. I am aided in this by a tradition of theoretical scholarship in the social sciences and history, and I rely on the
work of many historians of South Asia. However, I also bring to this work evidence from the archaeological record of Vi jay ana gal'a, perhaps the only "voice"
that remains for many who have been largely or completely written out of textbased history (Morrison and Lycett 1997). The material record may not often
make clear what Scott (1976: 4) refers to as the creation of social dynamite - the
nature of exploitation in peasant society and the moral economy of peasants that
interacts with that exploitation to create potentially explosive situations. And it
probably even misses a great deal of the detonation of that dynamite (Scott 1976:
4), moments of rebellion or revolution (Wolf 1969). However, archaeological
remains make clear, more so than texts, the material conditions of life under
which participants in the Vijayanagara i1'l'lpcritmt labored, conditions that, as I
suggest here, powerthlly shaped both the possibilities and the course of
Vijayanagara imperial expansion.
In this paper I consider some processes of imperial expansion and incorporation, their effects on those so incorporated, and, to the extent possible, the
dynamic responses, strategies, and conditions of life of three different groups of
subject peoples. The first group of people I consider are small-scale agriculturalists making a living on the semi-arid Karnatak plateau and living within a day's
journey of the city of Vi jayana gal'a, one of the most populous places on the subcontinent in the sixteenth century. These f.1rmers are known on the basis of both
historical and archaeological data, and their impact on the landscape is also documented through studies of pollen and charcoal (Morrison 1994, 1995a). The
second group, known only from the documentary record, is a more diverse
253
Local pJ'ocesses and illl pel'ial stmtegies in Vijayrt1wgam
KrtthlCe1l D. MOJ'J'iSOll
254
255
assortment of agriculturalists and craftspeople fi'om what is now northern Tamil
Nadu, a region several hundred kilometers distant from the capital city. Finally,
I discuss what may be the most marginalized and least "Vijayanagara" of all the
cases considered here, the gatherer-hunter-traders of the western coastal mountains. These are people who by and large were never under direct or even indirect Vijayanagara rule, but fc)r whom the changes in land use and economy of
the Vijayanagara period proved far-reaching. These three examples - briefly and
preliminarily sketched out in this chapter - are meant to suggest a range of experiences with and responses to Vijayanagara imperialism from the local to the provincial to the remote.
DOMINATION AND EMPIRE FORMATION: BASES
OF POWER
Bay
of
Bengal
Coromandel Coast
Arabian
Sea
N
t
L-l-.L.--:-!
o
100
200 km
I mperial expansion and incorporation - empire-building - is at the core a process
ofdominatiol1, of the exercise of power. However, such power is always deployed
(or attempted to be deployed) within specific historic, cultural, and material
contexts. These contexts, and their potential implications for processes of empire
t()l'Ination, operation, and dissolution, are my specific concern here.
Nevertheless, I do wish to make clear that by using terms such as domination
and resistance, terms that can lead one into a kind of social science quicksand, I
do not intend to imply that the existence of structured inequalities or the exercise of power can be understood solely as a product or process of elites, as a kind
of "top-down" flow of action, ideas, and vitality. Instead, at the risk of belaboring the obvious, I would agree with other scholars that- subalterns also play an
active role in the making of history, that creating meaning as well as the material
structures of/ile are processes in which all members ofa society take part in some
way. Subaltern actions and consciousness are not simply reactive, as use of dle
term resistance might imply. Instead, processes of power might be understood
more (idly in light of recent discussions that stress interplay and the mutual constitution(s) of' power relations (e.g., Scott 1976, 1985; Irschick 1994; Agrawal
1999). Without sinking too deeply into this quicksand, I might simply point out
that there is more than one type of "actor" on the imperial stage (central elites)
or even two (elites and non-elites), but instead a plethora of players, individuals,
and groups of differing status, interests, and abilities who mayor may not share
common goals (see Brumfiel and Deagan, this volume).
Nevcrtheless, while recognizing that nOl1-elites also shape the f(mHS of stratified society a recognitiol1 that has been rather belated among archaeologists,
perhaps as a result of the traditional t()CUS of fieldwork on the monumental - it
also seems necessary to add that this shaping is often done under severe constraint. In the empires discussed in this volume, there is inevitably a materiality
to the exercise of power. People within an imperial society (and many without)
operate within systems of structllt'ed inequality - what Wolf ( 1990) refers to as
10.1 The
Vijt7)'II1JlllTtU'1l emjJire.
'l7Jf solid tinc
i1Jd imtt:s the
mllximulII Ilrm IInder
dirt:Ct imperitlt
cOlltrol; th/; dtHhed
lillc indhMes disjJllted
m'CIls or Ilrms tl1Ider
indirect con trot.
256
Kathleen D. Morrison
structural power - so that their knowledge and understanding may pale before,
and indeed be only minimally effective in, confronting institutional and cultural
structures that oppress and limit them.
The Vijayanagara empire grew from a small regional polity based in the interior of the rather remote Karnatak plateau (Venkata Ramanayya 1933). Like
several other South Asian empires before it (Inden 1990), the Vijayanagara
empire burst forth from a resource-poor, semi-arid homeland to conquer large
tracts of fertile agricultural land and its inhabitants, including the rich alluvial
deltas ofIndia's eastern coast. The limits of the empire shifted through time with
conquest, incorporation, and rebellion (Sewell 1982 [1900]; B. Stein 1980,
1989). But even in the early years of the fourteenth century, there is little doubt
tllat tlle polity incorporated a hugely diverse set of inhabitants, differentiated on
tlle basis of economy, religion, language, and social organization. By tlle sixteentll century, when tlle empire reached its maximum spatial extent, tllere
existed not only diverse groups of peoples within tlle empire, but also a wide
range of degrees of imperial control over and interference in local patterns of
governance and revenue extraction. While tlle Vijayanagara empire was certainly
a conquest state, critically dependent on force and the tlU"eat of force to incorporate and hold togetller its domains, tlle polity was also integrated in otller
ways, notably through complex sets of ritual relationships (see B. Stein 1980;
Inden 1990: 207-10) tllat were built upon relations of hierarchyl rather than
simply coercion. These relationships had the potential bOtll to ramify (e.g.,
Appadurai 1978) and conflict, creating a shifting field of power relations that
admitted a certain cultural and political fluidity (e.g., Mines 1984; Ramaswamy
1985c; Karashima 1992).
In the following abbreviated case studies, I suggest that the diversity of
responses to and experiences of Vijayanagara empire-building is predicated on
four conditions or dynamics, as well as to more contingent and less predictable
exigencies of historical circumstance. The first two conditions relate to tlle
"center" (a falsely concrete construction when seen from some analytical distances; a reasonable abstraction from others) - to its material and organizational
bases and to the intentions and goals of its leaders. The second two relate, on
the other hand, to the "objects" of domination and incorporation (if they may
be objects with agency), their ecological situation, their social, cultural, and
political organization. That local conditions powerfully structure the course of
imperial expansion and consolidation comes as no surprise; our challenge is to
balance the analytical pull of our usually sketchy, biased, and always imperfect
data to accommodate this complexity.
The first set of conditions structuring the course and consequence of imperial
expansion relates to the organizational and material base of the imperial polity
itself. What are the technologies, both organizational and physical, of domination? In tlle Vijayanagara empire, the answers to these questions change through
time, witll, for example, the possibilities for communication, transportation, and
monitoring of activity over the long distances of the empire shifting with the
Local processes and imperial strategies in Vijayanagara
relocation of the capital city in the late sixteenth and again in tlle seventeenth
centuries. The empire was extremely large and most military movement took
place over land, so that imperial armies, though always on the move, could never
patrol tlle entire realm. The troops attached to subsidiary rulers were always
important, both as participants in imperial wars and raids and as threats to
centralized control. When firearms became a routine part of warfare during the
sixteenth century, the technology of war necessitated changes in defensive architecture and worked to change the contours of the conquest state.
No less important were the ultimate material bases of power: food and labor.
How were workers in the imperial cause mobilized and how were elites, soldiers,
and otllers provisioned? The Vijayanagara empire relied to a large extent on agricultural produce and the income from agricultural production (Mahalingam
1951; B. Stein 1980), and tlle productive capacity of both dry and irrigated land
lies behind any consideration of imperial expansion, warf.1re, or politics. The
location of the capital city in a small "oasis" of irrigation potential (Morrison
1994, 1995a) is certainly relevant to its survival; the location of the core provinces of tlle empire in a region of agricultural uncertainty is certainly relevant to
its expansion. The success of the court depended on being able to avoid the
uncertainties of rainf.111 and crop failure that most dry f.1rmers in the vicinity of
the capital f.1ced. This was accomplished only partly through involvement in irrigation (Morrison and Lycett 1994; Morrison 1997b) - incorporation of more
productive regions and a peripatetic court also served this purpose. In general,
Sinopoli (1988) and I (Morrison and Sinopoli 1992; Sinopoli and Morrison
1995) have noted, with others, that the degree of central involvement in production and distribution varied with the product and its relevance to elite concerns. War horses from the Arabian peninsula and trade goods such as textiles
occasioned great efforts on the part of rulers and royal officials (Digby 1982),
while more quotidian crafts such as earthenware ceramics engendered almost no
notice at all.
The second set of conditions structuring response to imperial domination has
to do with the goals and intentions of central elites and the extent to which these
are shared by (or at least not actively opposed by) those who actually execute
those goals and by other elites. This concern for intentionality - what "the
empire" was trying to accomplish, what the emperors did and meant to do makes up the bulk of traditional Vijayanagara history (e.g., Sewell1982 [1900]).
There is no doubt that kingly intentions varied through time, including even
their degree of ambition and scope. For example, the first few Vijayanagara kings
did not claim the same kind of titles suggesting universal dominion that later
rulers did.
That pretensions to universal sovereignty had real implications is not at issue.
However, it may be necessary to break down analysis of intentional acts more
careflllly. For example, consideration of the goals and intentions of imperial
rulers invites questions about the identity and recruitment of such elites, the
bases of their power, and the means by and extent to which they were able carry
257
258
Kathleen D. Morrison
out their desires. In the Vijayanagara empire, political leaders had the military
option as one direct course of action (although they held no monopoly on the
use of force as local leaders also maintained armies), and religious patronage as
another, indirect strategy. Patronage of Hindu temples, Brahmins, and other
religious institutions linked rulers (and others; patronage was by no means
limited to political leaders; Morrison and Lycett 1994) to these economically,
ideologically, and socially powerful institutions. Vijayanagara emperors asserted
their legitimacy, in part, as protectors of Hindu dharma (cf., Sale tore 1982), a
claim buoyed by their religious activity. Indeed, claims of sovereignty are often
followed closely by accounts of religious patronage. The Sivatatvacintamani (fifteenth century) for example, boasts:
The king (Devaraya II), just as [the god] Shiva vanquished the mythological
demons (tripllriislIriis) and achieved victory, too accomplished victory over the
three sovereigns . . . and manifested himself as the supreme emperor at
Vijayanagara and on that account he was known as Devarajendra (king of all
gods). The king manifested himselflike his patron god Virupaksha [an aspect of
Shiva], in the bejewelled throne as the supreme emperor (rtijadhi-rtija-parami
fllaram) Sri-Vira-devarajendra. That king subscribed to the construction oHour
beautiful entrance gateways to that temple of god Pampa-Virupaksha, at the four
cardinal points. They were all beautified with precious stones and glittering pinnacles on the top.
(Kotraiah 1994: 36-7)
I'
I
Religious institutions were also brought doctrinally into the business of imperial
consolidation, as local deities, particularly goddesses, were incorporated into
orthodox Hindu pantheons (B. Stein 1980).
These first two f.'1ctors structuring the course and nature of attempts at imperial domination and control refer to aspects of the center and to political elites,
and as such conform to conventional historiographic and archaeological understandings of the nature and operation of empires. As I hope to have made clear,
this notion of a (thinking, goal-directed) center is perhaps f.'1lsely concrete,
failing to take into account, for example, inter-elite competition (see Brumfiel
and Fox 1994; also D'A1troy, this volume) and the contingent and sometimes
shifting nature of "elite ne ss" itself. Analysis based on center-out, top-down perspectives, while important, leaves out vital elements of the imperial story.
Understanding the diverse responses to Vijayanagara expansion requires the
addition of at least two further structuring f.'1ctors, both relating to the human
and other conditions at the receiving end of imperial ambitions. Like any discussion of imperial "centers," imperial "peripheries" quickly fall apart as coherent
objects of study on close examination. Incorporated peoples rarely constitute
single interest groups. Nevertheless, any understanding of the dynamics ofimperial expansion will require attention to local conditions and at least some attempt
to untangle the diverse threads of local interest and action.
The first of these conditions is the underlying (in the sense of preexisting,
not in the sense of natural or given) ecological dynamic of the area and peoples
Local processes and imperial strategies in Vijayanagara
to be incorporated. This ecology is a human ecology that includes not only
environmental conditions, flora, and fauna, but also human demography and the
organization of production, distribution, and consumption. In the case studies
below, factors such as the technology of agriculture - irrigation, storage, transportation - play an important role in the range of economic and hence political
options open to subjects of the Vijayanagara empire. Irrigation networks cannot
exist and the production of irrigated crops such as rice cannot take place without
suitable sources of water, appropriate slopes and soils, and particular climatic
conditions. Hunting and gathering as an exclusive subsistence strategy cannot
be sustained under conditions of high human population density; what such a
density may be is in part a product oflocal biotic conditions. To say that the ecological structure of a subject region and people makes a difference to the
outcome of empire-building is, however, to say very little. To this must be added
tile fourtll factor in our list of conditioning factors, the cultural and social
dynamic of the conquered.
To build tile example of irrigated rice production, we might tllen add to tile
soils, slopes, and rainfall regimes mentioned above tile technical knowledge of
canal and reservoir construction, as well as tile ability to mobilize labor in f.'1cility construction and maintenance, agricultural operations, and crop processing.
Vijayanagara rulers and local leaders consistently followed a policy of encouraging agricultural expansion into new areas as well as promoting the intensification
of existing cropping regimes through the construction of irrigation f.'1cilities.
Such policies require particular constellations of land, labor, and environment
and, one might suggest, local cooperation in order to be successful. Elite goals
and intentions, then, are not sufficient to understand the ways in which programs
of agricultural expansion and intensification played out; local conditions are also
critically important.
In organizational terms, there exist different possibilities for the domination
and control of people integrated into powerful corporate organizations than for
those who are not. Several scholars have described the merchant and producer
guilds of southern India (K. R. Hall 1980; Abraham 1988) who, during the
earlier Chola empire, not only regulated and ran workshops and markets, but in
some cases even maintained armies, managed temple finances, and collected
taxes. These powerfi.ll bodies disappeared during the early Vijayanagara period
or survived in very altered form (Abraham 1988). Other locality-based forms of
self-government also have a long tradition in southern India, and there is little
doubt that localities within the Vijayanagara empire maintained considerable
control over local affairs. The social (religious, caste, ethnic) composition of such
local bodies was, however, limited to the upper, dominant groups, often landed
agriculturalists (B. Stein 1980; Karashima 1992), leaving tile landless and tile low
with little collective power. Smaller-scale communities standing outside of
lowland caste society - "tribal" agricululralists, gatherers, and hunters, for
example - not only lacked the corporate organization of upper-caste landowners
259
260
I •
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Kathleen D. Morrison
or high-status craft specialists (Ramaswamy 1985b, 1985c), but also had fewer
personal ties of patronage, dependence, and loyalty to the powerful than even
landless laborers in the lowlands might have been able to muster.
The efforts of Vi jayan agar a rulers to create, consolidate, and extend their rule
across southern India met with variable success. This variability was partly
responsive to tile factors outlined above. Dry farmers in the immediate vicinity
of the capital city operated under very precarious economic and ecological conditions - this much is quite clear archaeologically (Morrison 1995a, 1997b).
They also appear to have been rather peripheralized participants in networks of
food grain exchange and prestation tllat were closely tied to bOtll politics and
ritual. In this, tlleir domination cannot be understood without reference bOtll to
tile ecological imperatives of dry farming (and to tile economic conditions that
kept them dry farming) and to their social condition. Unfortunately, in tllis case
we still know little about their resistance to such exploitation and their strategies
for circumventing it. That is, a number of texts refer to tenants "running away"
from oppressive landholders, but we are unable to link any of these historical references to dry farmers in tile immediate Vijayanagara hinterland. This situation
contrasts witll the case of several groups offarmers and craft specialists in a southern province of tile empire who actively resisted imperial revenue demands and
were able to obtain concessions from those in power. This success is mirrored by
that of certain groups of weavers, for whom the Vijayanagara economy provided
opportunities for social and ritual group mobility (Ramaswamy 1985a; and see
Mines 1984). Finally, we move to the physical as well as conceptual margins of
the Vijayanagara empire. There, upland gather-hunter-traders, in part of an
ongoing process of displacement and oppression, were literally created as dispossessed and subject groups as a consequence of the operation of sixteenth- and
seventeenth-century economies, rather than as the result of some imperial policy.
DRY FARMERS IN THE URBAN HINTERLAND:
FOODGRAINSANDPO~R
In precolonial India, literary descriptions of prosperous realms typically represent them in highly conventional terms as being lush, green, and (perennially)
watered. The Vijayall1t1'1'l1iri Charite, written by Srutakarti, a Jain poet from the
Mysore region in about 1567 C E, evokes an earlier South Indian empire, the
Hoysala, describing the landscape of its capital city, Darasamudra. This evocation of the long-faded Hoysala empire, an empire that expanded out of the
Mysore region on the heels of the cataclysmic military defeat of the Vijayanagara
armies in 1565, is certainly not coincidental. Like many texts, this one begins
with a description of the Hoysala realm:
The country had a number of reservoirs, streams, ponds, stepped wells, and
wells full of good water which supplied water to the gardens, irrigated lands,
other lands, etc., all resulting in (increased agricultural production and) offering a pleasant sight to the eyes and mind. There were also fields with standing
Local processes and imperial strategies in Vijayanagara
crops of coconuts, sugarcane, superior variety of paddy [rice] (gandha-ftili).
There were groves of fruit-bearing trees yielding pomegranates, jack fruits,
oranges, bananas, areca nuts, lime fruits and others.
(Kotraiah 1994: 5)
Indeed, from such accounts, one might imagine all food grains to be rice and all
fields to be irrigated. This was not the case.
In sixteenth-century southern India, food grains not only expressed and
reflected status relations, but were also differently valued as ritual foods and as
the means to pay taxes and otller obligations. Because of the sharply defined conditions under which differently valued food grains would grow in the semi-arid
interior, marked disparities existed in the diets, agricultural strategies, and economic articulation of different groups of grain producers. I consider here a few
aspects of the production and disposition offood grains in the Vijayanagara hinterland, and the logically independent but articulated networks of circulation
through which food grains traveled. I suggest that the dominant relations of
power that structured Vijayanagara prestation - in the context of the temple
economy and in the disposition of "traditional" produce shares, including those
due to political leaders - were maintained by the demand for items of value (rice
and cash). These demands forced producers without access to wet lands to participate in a market economy and to sustain a system of investment, ritual, and
consumption to which they themselves did not have access.
These dry farmers are only partly visible in the historical record; much of what
is known about their forms and strategies of production derives from the archaeological record. In the area around the city of Vijayanagara, archaeological
survey data provide evidence for the tempo of settlement and agricultural expansion and intensification between the fourteenth and twentieth centuries
(Morrison 1995a). The initial settlement expansion in this area dates to the midfourteenth century and is visible in the construction of the urban core walls of
the city as well as the establishment of a number oflarge temple complexes. Early
settlements, most of which continued to be occupied throughout the
Vijayanagara period (and several into the present), tend to cluster nearer the river
and the city and although they are found across a large area, parts of the region
were not permanently settled during the fourteenth century. In a roughly 120
square kilometer surve}' area, we have identified more than thirty reservoirs that
were partly or wholly constructed at this time; most settlements are associated
with reservoirs. Other agricultural facilities associated with the Early period
include at least five canals that drew water from the Tungabhadra River by means
of anictttsor long diversion weirs. Rainf.1ll f.1rming of millets was, however, probably the mainstay of most agriculturalists. The pace of growth was rapid, and
much early expansion was apparently fueled by immigration to the capital city.
The archaeological record of Early Vijayanagara settlement growth and agricultural expansion is complemented by historical and palaeobotanical data that
reflect similar trends. Pollen and microscopic charcoal data from reservoir cores
indicate a relatively open, treeless landscape and intensive regional burning
during the Early period, consistent with the archaeological interpretation of
261
262
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4
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Kathleen D. Morrison
intensive agriculture and field clearance. Inscriptional data also show a strong
overall temporal distribution, with an Early, fourteenth-century peak in the
number of inscriptions followed by a trough in the fifteenth century and a dramatic expansion in the sixteenth century or Late Vijayanagara period (Morrison
1995a). Thus, the archaeological record of growth and stagnation in settlement
and agricultural production is matched closely by tlle historical data. The fifteenth cenulry is ratller uneventful archaeologically; only one settlement and one
reservoir can be definitely assigned to tllis period. The growth of the Early period
seems to have stalled, and indeed this was a period of some dynastic uncertainty
(Sewe1l1990 [1982]; B. Stein 1989). This political uncertainty may be relevant
for understanding both tlle lack of monumental construction and tlle decline in
elite investment that characterized tlle fifteentll century. The sixteentll century,
in contrast, was a period of phenomenal groWtll in and near the capital city as
well as a period of territorial expansion and consolidation. Inscriptional, archaeological, and palaeoecological data all reflect this expansion. The sixteentll
century was also, as far as we are able to tell, a period of political reorganization
(e.g., Karashima 1992: 2) when new forms of governance were introduced into
some oftlle provinces oftlle empire. By the end of the sixteentll century, the city
of Vijayanagara was abandoned and bOtll tlle boundary and tlle capital of tlle
empire shifted further soutll.
In the immediate hinterland of the city of Vi jayan agar a, tlle security and abundance of agriculture relied almost exclusively on the control and storage of water.
The capital city is situated in the dry interior, in an area that receives approximately 500 mm of rainfall annually. This scanty rainfall is subject to an estimated
25 to 30 percent variability, so that in any given season the summer monsoon
rains may fail to come at all. Under these climatic conditions, only very hardy
crops such as sorghum (So"lfhum sp., known as jOlJlar or cholum) and other
millets can survive without supplemental watering and, as such, were and are the
food grains of the poor.
Rice (Oryza satiJla) was a highly valued food, tlle grain of choice for those
wealthy or powerful enough to afford it. Rice figures prominently in many rituals
and its social "value" has been discussed by many scholars (Hanchett 1988;
Raheja 1989; Reynolds 1991; and see Howe 1991). Rice is also discussed in texts
describing tlle activities of Vi jayan agar a elites. One such text (the Sanatlmmara
Charite), said to date to 1485 C E, described the consumption of at least twelve
different rice dishes at a royal wedding, as well as the presentation by the host to
the guests of "auspicious rice" (akshate; Kotraiah 1993: 3-7). In elite (vegetarian) cuisine, a cuisine also relished by the gods, rice dishes constituted one of the
four major categories of cooked food. In t:1ct, while rice is never missing from
menus of feasts and food offerings, millets are never explicitly present. 2
In tlle region around the city of Vi jayan agar a, rice was grown in paddies, specialized and constructed microenvironments with level ground, secure sources of
flowing water, and complex networks of ditches, borders, and drainage channels.
Long-term existence of rice paddies in an area actually modifies soil strucUlre,
Local processes and imperial strategies in Vijayanagara
creating a hard pan underneatll the plow zone. Thus, rice transformed physical
environments as well as social and economic ones. In the Vijayanagara hinterland, wet crops such as rice were supported by a network of canals and canal-fed
irrigation features (Fig. 10.2). Canal construction occurred in two major episodes, tlle first during tlle initial period of urban occupation and the second
several hundred years later in the early sixteenth century. Altllough it is difficult
to be certain what crop mixes were grown in specific areas, existing botanical evidence suggests that rice was a major focus of production in tllese canal-irrigated
zones. The desire for rice and elite demands for rice may, in part, lie behind some
of the early focus on intensive irrigated agriculture in the Vijayanagara region.
However, in addition to its powerful status associations, paddy rice is also a highly
productive crop tllat can significantly outproduce other grains. Further, rice is
extremely storable. Particularly in its less processed forms, rice may store WitllOUt
deterioration for several years. Old rice has been said to taste the best, and rice
reportedly may be maintained in storage for generations (Breckenridge 1985:
49). In fact, rice that is not cured but is cooked immediately after harvest tends
to become pasty, lose solids in solutions, t:1il to swell, and disintegrate (Grist
1975: 385).
Rice land was not well distributed tllroughout the Vijayanagara hinterland.
Land in canal zones was limited and the extension of canal irrigation may well
have displaced individuals or groups with limited potential to assert their use
rights over the land. Outside the canal zones, it would have been possible to raise
only very small plots of rice under the more reliable reservoirs and/or by using
water laboriously lifted from wells. The labor demands associated with paddy rice
cultivation are considerable and even small holdings under paddy cannot generally be maintained without recourse to extra-household labor. Mencher (1978)
has noted a striking association between cropping patterns and the proportion
oflow-caste landless laborers in South India. Where wet rice dominates, the proportions of landlessness are highest and distinctions of class and caste most
marked (and see B. Stein 1980). Thus, rice production requires significant access
to resources such as low-lying, level land, water rights, and labor. In turn, rice
and other valued foodstuffs were involved in the assertion and replication of
power relations in the form of both temple ritual and investment and the market.
Dry grains such as sorghum and other millets such as ragi (Eleusine corocana)
and bajra (Permisetum typhoideum) probably always constituted the staple food
for the majority of the population. Millets can be grown under a raint:1ll regime,
although such production is very risky and a variety of strategies were devised to
facilitate crop growth. In the Vijayanagara region, these strategies included tlle
construction of a range of soil and water control featl1l'es such as check-dams,
terraces, and gravel-mulched fields. Reservoirs, ranging in size from simple dams
a few meters long to massive constructions several kilometers long, also
addressed the problems of crop production in the context oftlle highly seasonal
and low rainfall (Morrison 1993). Land under reservoirs was referred to by a
term meaning "dry crops on wet lands" (Ludden 1985), suggesting that millets
263
Kathlecn D. Lv[orrisOll
264
10.2
'i7JC
TiruJlClllfala 11 a t/m
tClIIple in a
CIlIII1I-
in'ilfatcd ZOIlC (!t'lbc
Vija)'1lIlIl/JIlI'll
imperilll capilli I (1I111e
mllll/ ill Ufi/ifl'r(qIJl).
were the primary staple grains grown under reservoirs. Agrieultural (~1Cilities supporting the produetion of millets varied not ollly in size, but also in their degree
of connectivity. Thus, there were major organizational difkrences between the
production of dry crops ill fields with a kw small check-dams, features whose
placcment only modestly affected the overall runoff and erosional characteristics
of the larger landscape, and those grown under reservoirs or larger terrace
systems that significantly altered af'fCcted rcgional watersheds and slopes
(Morrison 1997b). The physical linkages of the latter imply concomitant social
linkages that arc absent in smaller-scale dry (~\I·ming.
Dry grains do not figure prominently in the historical record even though it
is clear on the basis of archaeological data that they constituted the major staple
crops. Rapi could be stored in pits f(lr several years, but there seems to be general
agreement that millets do not store as well or as long as paddy (Breckenridge
1985: 49). The disposition of different f(IOlI grains served to reinf(lrce existing
relations of power by f(lrcing producers of less valued dry grains to participate,
albeit indirectly, in a network of prestation, ritual, and investment fi'om which
they were excluded. The remarkable structure of temple investment in the
Vijayanagara period, a structure with significant political, social, and ecological
as well as religious ramifications (Appadurai 1978; B. Stein 1980; Hcitzman
1(87), has been referred to by Breckenridge (1985) as a system of "social
storage," as 1 discuss shortly. It is important to note, however, that this social
Loml processes and imperial strategies in Vijayanagara
storage was not for everyone, even f()r everyone drawn into the system. For the
majority of small f:1l'll1erS and agricultural laborers, storage was of the more
material kind and social storage on a regional scale was perhaps more personal
and less institutional than that envisioned by Breckenridge.
Precolonial Hindu temples were symbolically and economically powerful loci
f(JI' the consumption and distribution as well as, less directly, the production of
f(lOd grains. Temples ranged in size ft'om small shrines without resident religious
specialists, to large complexes that attained the size of small citics. Many tcmples
had storcrooms and large kitchens. In the capital city, major temple complexes
were designated as towns in their own right (Filliozat and Filliozat 1988) and
supportcd large populatiolls of various kinds of specialists (Ismail 1984).
In thc historical rccord, temples appear as the rccipients of gifts. Gifts givcn to
temples included land, rights to produce from specified villages, valuables, and,
less often, cash or livestock. Local political leaders are the most ubiquitous donor
class in this period, but a wide varicty ofprivilegcd groups and individuals made
gifts to temples that are recorded in stone and copper-platc inscriptions. These
groups included royalty, mcrchant groups, groups of landowning villagers, and
religious functionaries. Thc vast majority of these gifts went to tcmples, with
other religious endowmcnts such as feeding houses f(lr Brahmins occasionally
receiving indcpendcnt gifts. Temples used gifts ofland and producc rights partly
to support themselves and to providc large-scale semi-public feasts on festival
days (of which therc wcre many). Tcmples also acted as "developmcnt agencies"
(after Breckenridge 1985) (II' agricultural production, using donations to invest
in the construction of agricultural f:1Cilities, often pooling smaller donations. The
tcmple was then entitled to a produce share fi'om d1e lands watered by thc new
hcility, land that could produce a more secure and reliable crop, if not a more
valued crop. Thus, temples did not simply amass resources, but actively invcsted
thcm in agricultural production. A great deal more remains to be learncd about
the construction and investment activities of temples, and it would be important
to know, /(11' example, how labOl' was mobilized (II' construction projects.
Gins to temples accrued religious merit f(lr the donor and (II' those specified
by the donor. Such gins were also recognized by being recorded in stone or, less
publicly, on copper plates. However, sllch prestations were not simply alienations
but also investments through which donors received a material benefit (ct: B.
Stein 1980, 1989). This benefit accrued in the context of ritual consumption and
distribution. In her analysis of the great temple and pilgrimage center at Tirupati,
in the southern part of the empire, Breckenridge (1985: 56) notes that, in the
fifteenth century, the preferences of the gods at Tirupati shifted li'om gifts ofvaluablcs such as pearls, tCstive lighting, and cows, to f()()d. Aner the fifteenth
century, then, the Tirupati gods' enjoyment of tCasting required gifts of fcmd.
This shift brings to mind the complex sets of injunctions in normative Hinduism
about receiving f(){)(i of different kinds fi'om people of different kinds and,
inversely, about prestations that may be given as well as accepted. The gift of/(x)d
to goddesses and gods entailed the services of priests acceptable as f(lod-givers,
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and patterns of caste and community affiliation no doubt differed with the situation of the god. More than the identity of the giver, however, we might be concerned with the identity of the gift.
Gods had refined palates, and enjoyed the full range of dishes also relished by
elites. Thus, rice would have been appropriate in the context of temple worship,3
while other grains - at least in the larger temples - may have been less enthusiastically received. Food offered to the gods was returned as prasada, or sacred leftovers. At Tirupati, three quarters of the prasad was allotted to the temple and
one quarter to the original donor (Breckenridge 1985: 57). Prasad had sacral,
caloric, and market value since it could also be sold to pilgrims. Thus, prasad
embodied and produced "value" in a number of different contexts. Both temples
and donors could and did enjoy the continuing return on their original investment both in their diet and by converting prasad to other desired commodities
in the market. In this sense, we can see that rice was commoditized by temples
and elites in a specific sacral context, although a separate market for rice outside
this system of circulation also existed (Filliozat 1978: 58). Producers of less
valued food grains were forced to support this structure, even though they themselves did not participate in it, either as donors or as donees.
There has been considerable debate about the nature of taxation during the
Vijayanagara period, a debate complicated by both regional and temporal variability (see discussions by Mahalingam 1951; B. Stein 1980, 1989; Karashima
1992). Our understandings of Vi jayan agar a economic arrangements are complicated by the growing monetization of the pcriod. Although coined money had
existed for several centuries, cash was becoming increasingly important throughout the sixteenth century (cf. Pal at 1987). South Asian ethnographic and historical literature is replete with descriptions of the apportionment of the "grain
heap" at harvest time, and the various in-kind shares due to occupational specialists such as barbers, washermen, potters, and other service people (e.g.,
Berreman 1972: 57-61; Beals 1974: 70-1; but sce J. P. Parry 1994). That this
normative arrangement also obtained during the Vijayanagara period is generally assumed (e.g., Mahalingam 1951). The disposition of shares depended in
part on the tenancy arrangement of the land, with the "royal" or "landlord's
share" (melparam; Breckenridge 1985: 50) in some cases due to temples and in
others to political leaders. An almost bewildering number of arrangements
obtained, but the relevant point here is that at least for the superior share - that
due to governments or temples - obligations of ricc wcrc to bc paid in kind, but
obligations in othcr food grains or in gardcn producc wcrc to bc paid in cash.
This rcquircment would havc forccd many subsistcnce agriculturalists, produccrs of millcts, to participate in the market economy in order to obtain cash.
Thc requircment for cash may be partly accountcd for by the superior storability of rice, in that only less perishable foodstuffs would have becn desired by
the authorities. However, I suggest that the social value of rice and its appropriateness for prestation were also relevant to this demand. Simply put, like the
gods, temples and kings desired food and only certain products constituted
Local processes and imperial strategies in Vijayanagara
appropriate foods in the context of prestation. Where rice was not produced,
cash had to be obtained. Thus, agriculturalists without access to the significant
rcsources rcquired to produced valued foodstuffs - water, land under a canal,
labor - wcre forced to provide other culturally appropriate goods and, in a way,
to perpetuate the differential valuation of grains. The changing prefercnces of
the gods from valuables to food, thc markct in prasad, the investment of temples
in agriculture (particularly if construction workers were paid in cash), and the
dcmand for cash paymcnts of what werc formerly produce shares contributed to
a context in which food and cash circulated in a numbcr of conceptually distinct
but, in practice, interlocking systems of circulation - "traditional" produce
shares givcn at the harvcst, cash paymcnt of taxcs, market exchange, and temple
ritual and feasting.
Finally, I want to rcturn to thc issue of social storagc. In her analysis of investmcnt at Tirupati, Brcckenridgc noted that donors oftcn made gifts that spanncd
long distanccs so that tcmples and donors had rights in produce that crosscut
ecological zoncs. This pattern of entitlemcnts was particularly important in dry
zones, such as that surrounding thc city of Vi jayan agara, linking donors witll tile
wetter and morc fertile deltas of thc cast coast. Breckenridgc (1985) has perceptively refcrrcd to these nctworks of cntitlcmcnt as a form of social storagc. This
storagc, howcver, opcratcd at a rathcr high level so that the majority of the population in thc Vijayanagara hintcrland, for cxample, ccrtainly had no call on cast
coast produce. For thcsc produccrs, thc balance of rcsourccs crcated by tcmple
gifting must havc bccn somcwhat rcmote, belonging to a sphere in which thcy
barely participatcd.
Unlike thc donors to Buddhist monastic institutions in the first fcw ccnturics
eE, in the Vijayanagara period no "houscwifc and householdcr, fishcrman and
gardener" (Dchejia 1992: 35) appcars as donor. Instead, donors came from
morc privilegcd groups. In a challengc to the dominant intellcctual themc of
hierarchy that has pervaded studies of South Asian Hinduism (c.g., Dumont
1970; Marriott 1990), Raheja (1989) has recently suggestcd that ccntricity and
not simply hierarchy may bc the organizing principle of prestation. That is,
gifting itself marks thc ccntrality of donors (rather than their hierarchical ritual
status), so that donors with significant access to resources arc at the midpoint of
widening circles ofprestation. Sixteenth-century Vijayanagara, with its nexus of
in-kind paymcnt of sharcs in ricc and cash paymcnt of shares in millcts, could
also be conccivcd in terms of Rahcja's contcmporary obscrvations. Only those
with significant acccss to rcsourccs such as land under a canal, watcr, and labor
could produce socially and ritually valucd foodstuffs such as ricc and only thcsc
produccrs could makc paymcnts of sharcs in kind. That at least some of thesc
produccrs wcrc includcd in thc village assemblics fcaturcd as tcmple donors is
clcar. Othcr producers, without acccss to canal-irrigatcd land, wcrc excludcd
from gifting foodstuffs to (some) templcs or to thc govcrnment through tile
paymcnt of obligatory sharcs (taxcs). Thc agricultural improvements initiated by
tcmples, howcvcr, cnsurcd that f.1rmcrs would bccome increasingly obliged to
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Kathleen D. Morrison
them. Nevertheless, millet growers were not outside temple ritual, but supported it through their forced participation in the growing market economy.
Tills burgeoning market in food, in turn, allowed the traffic in prasad and thus
further enriched donor and temple alike. Giving gifts may have made donors
more "central," but it seems that the changing conditions of production, distribution, and consumption of food in the Vijayanagara period made dry farmers
more peripheral participants in a structure of privilege to which they had little
access.
In some conventional sense, Vijayanagara rulers had little control over (or
interest in) dry farming, even in the area around tlle capital city (Morrison and
Sinopoli 1992). However, dry farmers found themselves caught up in structures
of inequality that implicated bOtll rulers and temples (cf. Wolfl990). We know
little about tlle specific participation of small-scale dry f.1rmers in corporate
groups such as village assemblies. Certainly the large range of facility elaboration, scale, and degree of regional connectivity suggests some variability in the
wealth and connections of such farmers and thus perhaps in their ability to resist
the economic changes of the sixteentll century. For a closer look at forms of res istance documented historically, however, we must move on to the second case.
THE NORTHERN TAMIL PROVINCES:
REBELLION AND DISSENT
Vijayanagara conquest and consolidation moved primarily from north to south,
with portions of what is now the state of Tamil Nadu incorporated into the
empire early in its history. Much scholarly attention has been paid to the Tamil
country under Vijayanagara rule, and I attempt no review or synthesis of this literature here. Ecologically, this broad region includes both semi-arid inlands and
more mesic coastal areas, as well as the fertile delta of the Kaveri river, where irrigated rice fields supported a dense population (Ludden 1985). Although this
area is well studied historically, archaeological data arc virtually absent.
Karashima (1992) has suggested that the nature of Vi jayan agar a rule over the
Tamil country changed in the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries with the
imposition of naya/la rule, naya/las being military leaders, many of them Telugu
speakers from the northern part of the empire, assigned specific territories by the
king (see also Nilakanta Sastri 1975; B. Stein 1980, 1982, 1989; Talbot 1994).
This contrasts with the earlier, looser, system of ministers, governors, and generals (Karashima 1992: 2), many of whom were local. Naya/lashave been compared, controversially (see the excellent review by Kulke 1995), to feudal lords,
but this comparison should not be taken very far. What is clear, however, is
that naya/la power was significantly predicated on their military role, that many
sixteenth-century naya/ms were outsiders, and that naya/la rule increased the
success of revenue extraction over the Tamil provinces.
The establishment of the naya/la system over the Tamil country was preceded
Local processes and imperial strategies in Vijayanagara
by several recorded resistance movements of the lower classes of society. What
are sometimes called the Valangai-Idangai revolts are recorded in nine inscriptions from tlle greater Kaveri delta (Fig. 10.3). These resistance movements
explicitly targeted oppressive tax assessments and loss of control over land and
its produce (Karashima 1992: 141-58). Although tllere were independent
peasant proprietors who owned and f.1rmed their own land, it appears that an
increasing portion of agricultural land was coming under the control of a few
landlords who leased it out to tenant cultivators. A powerful subtext of these
revolts relates to the growing monetization of the period and resistance to
expanding market mechanisms that followed both from the dependent status of
tenant farmers and from demands for taxes in cash. The terms Valangai and
Idangai refer to broad social/occupational categories (literally, the "right hand"
and "left hand"; see discussion by Appadurai 1974; B. Stein 1980) that grouped
agriculturalists in the right-hand category and non-agricultural groups such as
merchants and craftspeople in the left. Although there are exceptions to this categorical division, the basic economic interests of each group differed and it is
worth noting the earlier record of conflict (some violent) between Valangai and
Idangai groups.
In 1429, agricultural tenants and craftspeople - Valangai and Idangai groups
together - rose in open revolt against landlords and the state, and successfully
(for a time) negotiated lower tax rates and an end to money taxes on fanners
(Karashima 1992: 141-8) that forced food producers into market participation.
Craftspeople, who in any case were largely dependent upon markets for food,
continued to pay taxes in cash. Karashima (1992: 142) summarizes part of onc
inscription:
1. Wc, the people belonging to Valailgai 98 and l<.\ailgai 98 ofV~ludilampanu­
uchavadi [a territorial division], assembled in this temple in full strength and let
the following be engraved on the wall of said temple.
2. In this mmlr/alam (ValudilampaHu), even if the IIclJiiJlar/i pmdlJiilli (the local
Vijayanagara governor), Va'll}iyar (military people), and jiJlitalilliimr (holders
of official [land] tenure) coerce us, or the Brahmana and Vellalla Iliilliyiilal"
(holders of Iliil}i [land] right) try to oppress us in collusion with the i1·iijagamttiir (government officers), wc shall never submit to such oppression.
3. If there appears any single person among us who helps the intruders, betrays
us ... or destroys the (cmrent) measuring rod [tor land assessment], wc shall
assemble as of today and enquire into it ...
It may be worth noting that local elites (Brahmins and others possessing certain
rights in land, in particular) as well as "intruders" came in for criticism. Several
other inscriptions stress the corporate nature of the uprising and the importance
of unity on the part of the oppressed (Karashima 1992: 144). That this at least
partly successful resistance was based in the resource-rich Kaveri delta, a ricegrowing area critically dependent on labor beyond that available to most landholders and where corporate organizations of agriculturalists and others have a
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J(MhleC1l D. Morrisoll
Local processes alld imperial strateiJies ill VijayattaiJara
o
Chandragiri
Tiruppachchur 8
8 Takkolam
o Kanchipuram
Bay
of
Bengal
°padaividu
l1li Places of revolt
o Imperial headquarters
OSenji
8 Other important centers
o Mountainous land
Elavanasur
l1li
l1li
Aduthurai
o
100 km
Nt
long history, may not be coincidental. Onc further contrast between the Kaveri
delta and the Vijayanagara hinterland is, of course, precisely its location far from
the putative scat of imperial power in the north.
The inscriptions relating to the movements of 1429 refer both to the imposition of Vijayanagara rule (Karashima 1992: 144) and to more proximate concerns of control over land and its produce. It is impossible to say whether
non-local rule was a cause or simply an idiom of discontent; one suspects that
the oppressed were concerned more with their structure of access to resources
and less with the regional identity of their oppressors. Interestingly, the revolt of
1429 and other episodes of unrest were led by precisely those people who are
most severely affected by lamines in stratified, market-based societies - landless
laborers and craftspeople. Further, the specific complaints taxation and land
control - directly implicate both access to productive potential and the price of
{(Jod (cf Sen 1981). The historical record indicates a series of famines in southern India during the late fCllIrteenth and early fifteenth centuries. The famine of
1396 was particularly severe and widespread, causing large-scale depopulation,
and was also said to last f(Jr twelve years (Appadorai 1936: 748; Loveday 1982
[ 19141: 17), as unlikely as that may be (cf. Watkins and Menken 1985). The
1423-4 f:lI11ine is also said to have al}Ccted the entire DecGll1 (Appadorai 1936:
748; Loveday 1982 [ 1914]: 17), as did the f:\I11ine of 1471-2. Not only do the
famines of the filteenth century coincide with the period ofullt"est just described,
but they also coincide with the lull in construction and settlement expansion seen
archaeologically. Whether or not there is some causal link between bmine 011 the
one hand, and dissent on the other, is difficult to say. But it is certainly intriguing
that issues of price and of exchange entitlement (in Sen's [ 1981[ terms; encompassing land control and market participation) were the very issues disputed and
the very f:1Ctors that have proven so important in the historical study of f:\I11ines.
Although the {(mus of data are not strictly comparable, the contrast between
the sitllation of small-scale l:mllers in the Vijayanagara hinterland and that of
Kaveri delta laborers and craftspeople is striking. The latter, hundreds of kilometers /i'om the capital and incorporated in a relatively loose way into imperial
political struct ures, {:1Ced diflerent structures of power and had different possibilities {(1I' redress. In this IlIsh, irrigated rice-growing region, the operation oCcanal
networks was linked on a regional scale and demands Ic)r labor were high. These
conditions contrast with those of the more ecologically and economically isolated dry 1:1l'I11erS of the Vijayanagara region, These {:1l'I11erS, not joined together
by the flow of irrigation water, managed very small-scale l:lcilities and grew crops
oflittle political and ritual value. In the Tamil provinces, corporate structures f()r
local action were well developed and it may be that social conditions {()I' sllch
concerted em)rt a\so differed, The later imposition of the 1JfI)'11IW system over
this region was certainly not a simple response to these lCw eft()rts at resistance,
but it may be significant that, although rc/erences to peasant flight from hardship continue, there do not seem to be any further recorded episodes ofslIccessful uprisings.
271
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Valangai -Idangai
rCl'ott i1l the nTmit
jJ1'oJlinces of the
VUITyallagara emjlire.
272
Kathlem D. Morrison
FORAGER-TRADERS OF THE WESTERN
MOUNTAINS: ON THE MARGINS OF EMPIRE
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In South Asia, peoples involved in the hunting of wild animals and the gathering of wild plants have long been involved in relations of exchange and interdependence with agriculturalists. These relationships, far from being immutable
and historically fixed, were marked by a high degree of variability and flexibility
with specific groups altering their strategies in relation to ecological, demographic, and political imperatives. I consider here some of the changes in the
organization of foraging/trading groups in southwestern India. These changes
were coincident with the political and demographic expansion of the
Vijayanagara and other lowland polities and peoples, and with the expansion of
the coastal spice trade and the increasing integration of this region into a world
economy between about 1400 and 1700 C E. In so doing, I want to illustrate
how imperial expansion created, mostly inadvertently, conditions under which
strategies of commercial foraging expanded. I suggest that the movement of hill
peoples into diverse kinds of subsistence economies including the collection and
trading of forest products constituted, in spite of its great social and economic
cost, a kind of successful resistance to incorporation into lowland polities and
societies, a strategy persisting to the present.
The southwest coast of India is set apart from much of the rest of the peninsula by both physiography and climate. Bounded by the Indian Ocean on one
side and the Western Ghat mountains on the other, this region consists of evergreen and semi-evergreen tropical forests dissected by well-watered alluvial
valleys. The Ghats' orographic effect on summer monsoon precipitation not only
ensures high rainfall along its western slopes but also creates the semi-arid conditions of the interior plateaus. The Malabar coast was the primary (but not sole)
locus of spice production in India, of which the most important was pepper
(Piper nigrttm), indigenous to the region. Forests inland and upland from the
Malabar coast also contained other important forest products including ginger,
cardamom, honey and wax, various gums and resins, dyes and scented woods,
and medicinal and poisonous plants (B. Morris 1982). In India today, as in the
Vijayanagara period, a number of "tribes" subsist in the Malabar Ghats by
hunting and collecting forest products for external markets, trading those products, and by wage labor and agriculture (Fox 1969; B. Morris 1982; Hockings
1985: 226; Bird-David 1992; Stiles 1993). Many forest groups depend on
lowland products, notably food grains, textiles, and iron, fur their basic subsistence. Thus, such exchange relations are essential rather than simply incidental.
Although the orthodox perception seems to be that contemporary furagers
are descendants of an unbroken tradition dating back as far as the Mesolithic,
there are alternate routes by which groups could have moved into specialized
collecting and trading. Hockings (1980, 1985), for example, considers the case
of refugees from caste society - marginalized groups who move into the forests
to take up new opportunities or to escape intolerable situations in their home-
Local processes and imperial strategies in Vijayanagara
land. Even if some upland groups represent refugees from tlle intensively cultivated lowlands, it is also likely that other specialized forager-traders reliant on
imported foodstuffs began as more generalized foragers and/or as swidden
agriculturalists.
I suggest here that the sixteenth and seventeentll centuries constituted a key
period in the move toward specialized foraging, a period in which the options
open to hill peoples became greatly reduced. This transition may have been
responsive to two factors. The first relates to the demands of the spice trade and
other, politically based demands for forest produce. The second factor is more
indirect but no less important, and this is the pressure on the forests from below
created by expanding agriculture. Both the land use "push" and tlle political
"pull" or demand for produce from below forced foragers and forager/agriculturalists into an increasingly specialized and increasingly marginalized position
as participants in a world market.
By the first few centuries BC E, an extensive network of exchange stretched
across the Indian Ocean, indirectly connecting tlle Mediterranean witll East
Asia. Historians of both Europe and South Asia (Braudel 1972; Digby 1982;
Mathew 1983; Chaudhuri 1985) are in broad agreement that the volume of
pepper, as well as of other products such as ginger and cardamom, increased significantly in the sixteenth century, and the structure of the trade in pepper and
other South and Southeast Asian forest products has been extensively discussed.
The expansion and restructuring of demands for produce that accompanied tllis
growth promoted changes in the opportunities and strategies of different collectors and producers and fostered relationships of economic interdependence
between them that survive, in altered form, into the present.
Briefly, the expansion of the spice trade prompted changes in both lowland
and upland subsistence strategies. In the lowlands, increased demands for rice
may have prompted expansion and intensification of production. One significant
factor in this may be direct demand for tribute in the form of rice, in order to
supply Portuguese forts and settlements (Subrahmanyam, this volume). These
demands fell almost exclusively on the kingdoms of the Kanara coast, particularly Honawar, Bhatkal, and Basrur (Desai et al. 1981; Subrahmanyam 1984:
445). The amount of rice involved was considerable; convoys of several hundred
small ships, often under Portuguese guard (Pearson 1981: 77), sailed up the
coast to Goa. In the 1570s and 1580s three to four convoys per year to Goa
alone are reported (Pearson 1981: 77). In addition to the consumption of rice
in the lowlands, the intensification of pepper production may have also created
an escalation in demand fur rice and other staples as pepper producers (and gatherers) focused their attention away fi'om subsistence crops. As discussed below,
the shipment of staples to the forested interior was necessary to support the foragers and cultivators of spices.
Increased demands on forest products followed fi'om the expansion of the
west coast trade. In the most direct way, the demand for pepper and other goods
was accelerated by purchases and forcible extractions that followed on
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Kathleen D. Morrison
Portuguese colonization. Numerous other small polities stretched up and down
the coast, however, and these were also engaged in the spice trade. The
Vijayanagara empire never controlled large portions of the west coast, and in
those areas it did claim there is little evidence of central involvement in tlle spice
trade. However, Vijayanagara did figure as a major consumer of products
involved in tlle trade of the west coast (Subrahmanyam 1990b: 78-9), and its
contribution to tlle survival oftlle Portuguese trade empire has often been noted
(Heras 1927).
Connections between primary producers and collectors and colonial or indigenous governments benefiting from forest produce were generally indirect.
Intermediate brokers or "secondary traders" (cf. Dunn 1975: 99) forged relations of dominance and indebtedness with forest peoples and these brokers dealt
Witll more proximate political autllOrities. Thus, a multi-link chain of power
stretched from the coast into tlle mountains. The contractual system depended
on keeping foragers constantly in debt and personally dependent on the broker,
who also acted as the supplier of subsistence goods (B. Morris 1982: 23,94).
Tribute could also be exacted tlll'ough local leaders, ratller than directly from
producers or collectors, in a way similar to that used to collect taxes from agriculturalists. Between tlle nintll and thirteenth centuries C E, Chola kings
demanded tribute in forest products from territorial units located in the Ghats
(Hockings 1985: ll5; see also B. Stein 1982). Fox (1969: 144) notes early
reports tllat the K1.dar made periodic visits to Tripura to carry tribute and to
exchange "gatllered" items such as tame elephants, wild honey, cardamom, and
otller forest products for rice, iron, chilies, and opium. B. Morris (1982: 23) cites
inscriptional evidence for a contract between the local Icing of Attingal and the
Hill Pandaram, appointing the latter "tenants" of the forest, in rcturn for which
the muppan, or chief, should bring certain forcst products to the capital cvery
year. In return, cloth and other "gifts" would be given. In this case the local king
was subject in turn to the Raja ofTravancore, to whom he had to pay tribute.
Thus, forest products moved down from the mountains to the coast through an
ever-widening circle of political authority.
The Portuguese, too, used this system ofintermcdiaries (see Diffie and Winius
1977: 319 on Sri Lanka). The Portuguese purchased goods on fixed-price contracts with a go-between. The Portuguese did prefer, however, to induce local
rulers to supply them with spices at an agreed-upon price (Danvers 1966 [1894];
Mathew 1983). Presumably, then, these rulers cmployed the intermediaries.
Pearson (1981: 28) notes that the Portuguese had no direct control over pepperproducing areas and thus were dependent upon coastal rajas and local merchants
for tllcir supplies. As an empirical pattern, then, we see with increasing scope of
political authority an increasing physical distance from the source of the product,
an increased concentration of stored goods, an increase in settlement nucleation,
and an increase in the status oflandholding groups. Along parts ofKanara coastal
strip, for example, Brahmins were the major landowners in the sixteenth and
seventeenth centlll'ies. Further inland, landholding was largely in the hands of
Local processes and imperial strategies in Vijayanagara
tlle Bant, a "clean" Sudra caste (Subrahmanyam 1984: 439). Still further inland
were tlle tribal swidden farmers and hunter-gatllerers. This social ordering corresponded well Witll the pyramidal strucnlre of power relations tllat knit together
large areas of forests with fewer inland riverine towns and even fewer coastal
cities.
The scheduling demands of pepper cultivation, and particularly of pepper collection, are of particular interest. Cultivation of pepper in mid-elevation, mixed
crop swidden fields seems to be most appropriate for the requirements of tlle
plant. Its drainage needs often result in its groWtll on hill slopes (Aiyer 1980:
269). In modern varieties, tlle harvest time falls between February and March
(Aiyer 1980: 276), but "wild" strains usually have fruit at all stages of maturity
on the vine at any given time. According to Buchanan (1988 [1807]: 334), dry
rice in tlle Anamalai region of the western mountains would have been harvested
at about the same time as cultivated pepper, occasioning conflict in scheduling
and labor demands involved in the different activities (and see Subrahmanyam
1990b: 66). Thus, demands of labor and scheduling for grain production and
pepper production (and even more, the collection of wild pepper) had to be
balanced.
While specialized pepper production in the context of hill swiddens might
have met the demand for pepper, the scheduling requirements of such a strategy
would seem to preclude at least some forest gathering activities. B. Morris (1982:
63) notes that the more sedentary Hill Pandaram who have made a commitment
to their swidden fields can only go for daily foraging trips. What, then, were the
effects of the sixteenth-century spice trade on Ghat tribes? It is difficult to say
with any certainty since historical data tend to focus on the coasts and on literate societies, and archaeological data are scanty. Still, it may be significant that
cultivation of pepper is only occasionally mentioned in historical documents
until the sixteenth century, while there are abundant references to the pepper
trade in both this and earlier periods. For example, in the corpus of Tamil
Sangam poetry, dating to the first thrcc or four centuries C E, some poems
mention a coastal intra- Indian trade in pepper and honey, both forest products
(Nilakanta Sastri 1975: 110; B. Morris 1982: 15). Indo-Roman trade also
included such forest products as sandalwood, ivory, pepper, ginger, cardamom,
myrobalan (Terminalia chebula and T. bellirica) (B. Morris 1982: 15), as well as
other woods, aromatics, and dyes (Ray 1986: 114). Finds of Roman coins are
reported from both coastal and inland sites in southwest India (Begley and
DePuma 1991). Thus, there is no doubt that pepper and other forest products
had long been items of trade. While some of these forest products may have been
collected by lowland traders or agriculturalists, the degree of specialized knowledge involved and the dispersion and seasonal availability of such products
suggest instead that they were collected by upland groups at least partially specialized toward gathering and trading of forest produce.
In a review of archaeological data from the Nilgiri mountains of the west coast,
W. A. Noble (1989) concludes that these mountains were not occupied prior to
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the first century C E. Pollen data from northern Kerala analyzed by Caratini et
al. (1990-1) also suggest at least small-scale occupation of the Ghat forests (and
probable swidden cultivation) by the first few centuries C E. While reconstruction of subsistence is still far from clear, it seems that there existed a complex
mosaic of practices that included swidden agriculture, gathering of forest products for trade with lowland groups, and no doubt gathering and hunting for subsistence as well. There are hints of the presence of specialized foragers in
inscriptions predating European documents. But certainly by the time documentary sources become abundant from the sixteenth century onwards, there are
clear indications of the presence of named groups engaged in specialized collection offorest products for exchange, as well as subsistence activities that included
agriculture, gathering, and hunting.
In South India, inscriptional evidence from at least the tenth century CE has
as a constant theme the expansion of agriculture at the expense of forests (B.
Stein 1980, 1982), a pattern consistent with what little palaeoecological data
exist (Morrison 1994). In tile Nilgiris, Hockings (1980) has documented the
expansion of the Badagas ("northerners"), a refugee group supposedly fleeing
the destruction of the Vijayanagara empire in the late sixteenth century. The
Badagas were accommodated by various hill groups and, according to the soil
evidence (von Lengerke and Blasco 1989: 44), established permanent fields
about three or four hundred years ago. Thus, forest dwellers have come under
increasing pressure as the result of agricultural land use practices, as well as from
demands for produce. In the Vijayanagara empire, agricultural expansion was
particularly rapid during the sixteenth century, and there may have been significant pressure on the eastern foothills of the Ghats at this time.
Several different options may have been available to upland groups faced with
both pressures on land and demands for produce. One such option was, evidently, to begin producing rather than simply collecting pepper. Pepper growers,
then, concentrated on their agricultural plots and the scheduling demands of
those plots almost certainly limited the spatial scale of their gathering and
hunting. An alternative strategy available to groups with knowledge of forest
resources would be to abandon cultivation as a major subsistence activity and
become specialized forager-traders, collecting ginger, cardamom, and other
forest products. It is difficult to say to what extent competition for land at lower
elevations (where swidden plots of pepper were presumably appearing) would
provide the "push" for the adoption of this strategy and to what extent scheduling consideration would have come into play.
Such strategies, which are ultimately dependent on long-distance rather than
local exchange links, and on world markets, are inherently risky. The relations of
domination and the precarious nature of forager-trader economies point to the
marginality of their position. This marginality is not, however, eternal but has
been created by a complex set of historical and ecological circumstances, only a
few of which I have been able to sketch here. The marginality of southwestern
Indian forager-traders is historically constructed, not given, and a great deal
Local processes and imperial strategies in Vijayanagara
more research - particularly archaeological research - remains to be carried out
tllat will more fully and accurately explicate tile nature of tllat construction.
In considering tile situation of Western Ghat cultivators and collectors, we
move beyond the conventional boundaries of the empire to suggest tllat tile
consequences of the political, economic, and ecological expansion of tile
Vijayanagara period had implications for the lives of even those outside direct
imperial rule. Ghat hunter-gatherers had few, if any, of tile organizational tools
we see employed by the Valangai-Idangai groups of the Tamil country and operated in an environment quite unlike either agricultural landscape discussed
above. Although in a sense they participated in both Vijayanagara and
Portuguese empire-building, in neither case can tlleir plight be understood
solely witll reference to policy, intent, or elite goals. Instead, they responded to
a complex and diverse set of ecological, social, and political pressures to forge a
series of strategies for survival and, through their withdrawal, perhaps for resistance as well.
COERCION, RESISTANCE, AND POWER:
CONSTRUCTING VIJAYANAGARA
In beginning to break apart the experiences of a variety of subjects under the
Vijayanagara empire, particularly those on the economic or social margins, and
their variable degrees of success in resisting and simply surviving structures of
power, I am suggesting that processes of imperial expansion and incorporation
are fundamentally responsive to both imposed and extant conditions as well as
to contingent circumstance. By this, I mean that structures of power are themselves constructed under specific material, organizational, and historical conditions at both "centers" and "peripheries," by both ruler and ruled. This
construction is not simply creative or free but labors under parameters of environment, social organization, and politics, as well as will. In studying the courses
and consequences of imperial expansion, consolidation, and even disintegration,
we would do well to consider both action and intent at the imperial center as
well as the diverse responses and conditions of incorporated peoples.
In the expansion of the Vijayanagara empire, some groups of people - certain
weaving communities, warriors, and others - were able to parlay their economic
and political roles in the empire into either forms of upward social and ritual
mobility or simply economic success. Others became marginalized or fbrther
marginalized by structures of power and privilege largely beyond their control.
These people on the edges of the system - dry f'anners, gatherer-hunters, landless laborers - were simultaneously marginal participants in the empire and integral parts of it. Their precarious positions were enhanced or, in a few cases, even
created by the political economy and political ecology of the period. Their positions were, however, not merely byproducts of imperialism, but fundamental
aspects of its operation, props for the forms of elite power and lifestyle that scholars often concentrate on, or even valorize as being the real loci of imperial
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Kathlem D. Morrison
systems. Marginalized participants in and on the boundaries of Vijayanagara
imperial expansion were not, however, simply hapless pawns of this South Indian
polity. Efforts to resist exploitation and the appropriation of produce are evident
in records of farmers fleeing heavy taxation, in continuing creative modifications
of the physical landscape in ways that enhanced agricultural productivity, in the
overt rebellions of the fifteenth century, and in the forms of avoidance and cultural separation that kept forager-traders from being assimilated into lowland
society.
In the course of Vi jayan agar a imperial expansion, regions, peoples, and polities were incorporated in divergent ways, ways that changed through the life of
the empire. Such variability complicates scholarly efforts at model building in as
much as models are by their nature ideal and systemic, often glossing over problems of failure, miscommunication, resistance, and compromise and ignoring
contingency altogether. Thus, to consider Vijayanagara as a particular type of
empire (see Barfield, this volume) is an analytical exercise that may capture something valuable for comparison, but it is also an exercise that elides process altogether. The level of current disagreement about the "fundamental" nature of the
Vijayanagara empire and, indeed, about the analytical category empire itself,
reveals something both about the variability (through space and time, and across
social distance) of this and other empires and about scholarly comfort with such
variability.
PART IV
IMPERIAL IDEOLOGIES
Sllsan E. Alcock and Kathleen D. Morrison
If"empire" is a difficult enough word to define in such a way as to achieve broad
consensus, "ideology" is even harder. In our original position paper for the
Wenner-Gren conference, the term was taken "to encompass the broad overlapping spheres of religious belief and ritual, of power negotiations and relations,
of self-definition and self-representation, or human understanding of 'world
order.»' While an admittedly rather ample embrace of potential meanings, such
an open-ended definition suits the variety of approaches and treatments which
appear in this volume. Imperial ideologies arc here considered in a number of
lights and along a number ofaxes: ruler cult (see papers by Kuhrt, MOl'kot); the
manipulation of provincial memories (Alcock, Yates); highlighting symbolic distinctions between centers and peripheries (Brumfiel, Liverani, MacCormack);
articulating difterence and facilitating relationships between two imperial
systems (Barfield); and the creation of new imperial cultures (Woolf).
What this broad range of approaches and our broad definition would suggest,
then, is that "ideology" cannot be taken simply as a more fashionable term for
what used to be glossed as "ideas." Ideologies certainly engage ideas about the
world, blit, critically, articulate with political and social action and organization.
Much previous scholarship had tended to treat the ideological realm as epiphenomenal to the "real" f.1cts behind processes of empire-building and social domination - the post hoc justification, the frosting on the cake. Also following such
a broadly historical materialist vein is the notion of ideology as necessarily
"f.1Ise," a perspective which follows directly from its position as a secondary or
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Susan E. Alcock and Kathleen D. Morrison
derived phenomenon. In this tradition, the complex interplay between thought,
belief, and action is ignored or minimized, making ideology seem to be, quite
literally, an afterthought to what are presumed to be more fundamental material
factors. What we suggest, however, and what many of the contributors to this
volume stress, is that there can be no simple divide between mental and material,
and that the notion of ideology encompasses a tangled skein of connections that
tie together beliefs and belief systems, rituals, representations, forms of organization and association, and even possibilities for action. To label ideologies,
then, as "false" or "true" is willfully to overlook their complexity. Alterations (or
resistance to alteration) in people's beliefs, symbols, rituals, memories, or cosmologies are taken as essential in understanding the impetus to conquest, the
attitudes that could support or deter military and ideological expansion, and the
control and restructuring of imperial society; both central polity and annexed
territories are here involved.
Despite their diversity, certain attitudes do bind together the majority of contributions in this section. Above all, awareness of the centrality of ideology and
ideological transformations to imperial dynamics is everywhere apparent. This
increasing recognition and stress on such factors in the study of empire is a significant development, and one in keeping with broader trends in the disciplines
of archaeology, anthropology and history in the later twentieth century. Yet a
balance is maintained here; none of the chapters in the volume, for example,
follows the controversial model of Conrad and Demarest (1984), in which a
defined set of ideological motivations is identified as the primary force driving
the growth of empire. Indeed, Brumfiel takes on one of their principal examples
- the Aztec - and, by expanding the contexts in which to examine Aztec ideologies, reveals just how partial such views can be. While an overtly war-like Aztec
religion has dominated the scholarly imagination, Brumfiel unpacks other manifestations of symbolic and ritual behavior among non-elite peoples and noncentral places, ideological structures very different from what has been assumed
as the violent norm. Canonical Aztec militarism emerges as but one active ideological phenomenon, targeting the youththl male elite, while other more local
concerns - fertility, commonality - engaged and influenced other Aztec hearts
and minds. This by no means implies that the ideology of blood was "imperial"
and other versions were not. Rather, Brumfiel makes the case for conceiving of
multiple contemporary strands of religious thinking and feeling, all engendered
and fostered within the imperial framework and leading to the production of
social difference across that framework. The existence of such plural ideological
responses and strategies is crucial to the arguments of several other chapters as
well (e.g., Alcock, Moreland, Morrison).
Brumfiel's invocation of "hearts and minds" raises the possibility of reflecting
on the personal impact of empire, on the degree to which imperial activity could
make a significant impression not only on the more material aspects of how
people lived their lives, but on how they perceived their lives and their place in
the cosmos. Most fundamental to this, perhaps, is the issue of memory. Alcock's
Part IV Imperial ideologies
chapter discusses a reconfiguration of social memory, a reformulation and representation of what the Greeks of the eastern Roman empire chose (or could
afford) to preserve of their past. She particularly stresses the untapped potential
of archaeology in recovering something of the spectrum of memories and
counter-memories that would have existed inside an extensive and plural empire.
As Woolf notes more generally for the Roman empire, the construction of a powerful notion of citizenship, of a (ruling) Roman people, was part of a critical
Roman "myth" that f.Kilitated the operation and expansion of the Roman imperium, a myth that, while based on shared imagination, was far from being frivolous, passive, or - one might add - superstructural.
In his chapter, Yates explores how the Qin overrode and overwrote preexisting moralities, boundaries and memories to create a new, "Chinese" people. The
specificity and precision of Qin intrusions - revising and naturalizing acceptable
conceptions of the body, of time, of the cosmos - may be the sharpest example
of the depths to which empire could reach, but several chapters mention similar
steps, such as the revision of calendars and ritual schedules, new modes of dress
or self-presentation, innovative educational systems, or reorganized patterns of
dwelling in the landscape (see Alcock, Deagan, MacCormack, Woolf). While the
degree and nature of such ideological intervention would obviously vary from
empire to empire, the burden of proof today would lie with those who might
claim that imperial annexation would make little difference in the everyday
hearts and minds of the conquered.
Another customary way to conceive of imperial ideologies has been as a kind
of "imperial glue," as a cohesive force employed in tandem with the ever-present
threat of military coercion. Such a role is certainly acknowledged here, in the
supremacy of the Achaemenid ruler who fought the Lie for all his people
(Kuhrt), in the spread of Christianity (Deagan), in the incorporation of local
deities into orthodox Hindu pantheons (Morrison), in the imperial cults of
Nubia (Morkot) or Rome (Woolf) or Peru (MacCormack). But the possibility
of rejection or subversion of such umbrella-like ideologies is also conceded.
Strategies of resistance in its various torms - both violent and passive - are
explored, if rarely explicitly foregrounded, in several chapters (see discussions in
Alcock, Brumfiel, Deagan, Morrison, Yates). Rome's self-declared position Jlisa-JJis natural and cosmological "constants," Woolf argues, generated a commandingly pervasive imperial vision of "empire as cosmic domination"; yet even
here a counterpoint narrative of subversion and destabilization is evident, springing up fi·om and inverting these same Roman myths of unity and supremacy.
Although this volume engages with the subject of imperial ideologies in
myriad specific ways, its essential lesson is relatively straightforward. It asserts the
immense potential for ideological manipulations and transformations, be they
blatantly relentless or elegantly subtle, across the territorial and social expanses
of empire. Indeed, one might argue (as some conference participants did) that
empires always build on some form of ideological transformation involving,
minimally, constructions of sovereignty or rule. Chapters in this volume unveil
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Susan E. Alcock and Kathleetl D. Morrison
a range of reconfigurations in the ideological sphere, while also offering various
models of how to access and measure such change. All manner of sources
(textual, art historical, ethnohistoric, and, of course, archaeological) are here
deployed and, in the best cases, combined - as they must be, if we are even to
begin to recover imperial ideologies in their boundless complexity.
11
Aztec hearts and minds: religion and the
state in the Aztec empire
Elizabeth M. Brumfiel
..
,
!'"
Like other imperial rulers, the Aztec kings invested heavily in religious monuments and rituals. The Aztec kings built and repeatedly enlarged the Great
Temple, a massive six-story-tall structure in the center of Tenochtitlan. They
commissioned great works of monumental sculpture tllat embodied the basic
concepts of Aztec cosmology. They supported a large priestllOod that made daily
offerings at tile Great Temple and otller ceremonial structures. And, tlu'ough
warfare, the Aztec kings provided a steady stream of captives for ritual sacrifice.
Such investments have been regarded as acts of piety by some scholars and
cynical efforts to manipulate the subordinate class by others. But despite the
debate as to whether state religion served pious or Machiavellian purposes, it
is universally accepted that religion had significant political consequences. As a
discursive and emotion-laden means of communication, religious ritual is a
powerful political instrument. Rituals declare the existence of social statuses,
rights, and obligations, and they present explanations of why the social order
is just, or at least inevitable (Durkheim 1915; Turner 1967). Through monuments, costuming, and skilled ritual performances, state personnel communicate their view of the social order in emotionally striking and therefore
particularly forceful ways, and they endow this view with an aura of permanence and certainty (Brumfiel 1987; M. W. Helms 1993; DeMarrais et al.
1996; Joyce 2001).
Who was the audience for imperial religion? Scholars most frequently cite the
effects of state religion on subject populations. For example, imperial religion is
said to integrate heterogeneous imperial domains by creating a uniform worldview and a common value system (Freidel 1981; Kolata 1981; L6pez Austin
1988; Yates, this volume). Or, imperial religion is said to sanctify the ruler in the
eyes of his subjects so that those subjects accept his authority (Conrad 1981;
Demarest 1981; Bauer 1996; DeMarrais et al. 1996; McCormack, this volume).
Or, imperial religion is said to magnify the ruler's power so that subjects accede
to his demands (Gilman 1996).
Less often, state religion is seen as affecting only part of the subject population, specifically members of the ruling coalition. It has been proposed that
283
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Elizabeth LvI.
religion is a particularly effective means of binding elites or state personnel to
courses of action that enhance the power and unity of the state (Abercrombie et
al. 1980; Baines and Yoffee 1998; Brumflel 1998; see Deagan, Moreland, and
Woolt~ this volume). Very rarely, state religion is considered an ideological
resource for subject groups, accepted by subjects, at least in part, because it legitimates their demands upon the state (Hicks 1999; Alcock, this volume).
The political consequences of state-sponsored religion would not necessarily
be the same fiJl' all ancient empires; different (C)l'Jm of religious practice would
produce different political results. For example, DeMarrais et al. (1996: 17)
suggest that rulers can choose ft'om an array of fC)l'Jns of religious action; they
can commission rituals, icons, public monuments, or written texts. Their choices
depend upon the availability of raw materials and labor and the audiences with
whom they wish to communicate. Depending upon the chosen media, ideological messages reach groups of different sizes and compositions, with differing
ideological commitments (Alcock and Woolt~ this volume). Rulers can also send
different messages to different groups, tailoring their communications to suit
l10bles or commoners, men or women, native or f(JI'eign-born (Brumfiel 1998).
Thus, the political consequences of state religion would not necessarily be the
same (c)r all segments of an imperial population. This paper explores the impact
of state religion upon various groups within the Aztec empire.
The Aztec empire was a military alliance created by the rulers of three central
Mexican towns: Tenochtitian, Texcoco, and Tlacopan. Shortly after its fC)l'Jnation in 1430, this alliance established control over the entire Basin of lvlcxico,
and its dominion expanded through nearly a century ofcontil1uous warbre (Fig.
11.1). By 1521, the Aztec empire extended Il'olll the Gulf to the Pacific coasts
and (l'om central Mexico to the Isthmus ofTehuantepec, encompassing 200,000
square kilometers and a population of five to six million people (Annillas 1964:
324). Tenochtitlan (Mexico City) had become the dominant partner in the alliance, a situation that is acknowledged by calling the ruler ofTenochtitian "the
Aztec king" and the city itself" the Aztec capital" (Gibson 1971: 383-9).
This chapter examines the impact o('state religion upon nobles and commoners in Tenochtitlan and its subject communities. It draws upon ethnohistOl'ic
records o('ritual activity in that Aztee capital and in a provincial town, Tepepolco,
and it supplements these records with archaeological data drawn fi'om
Tcnochtitian and surrounding provincial towns. These data indicate that, in
Tenoehtitian, the Aztec state used sacred and secular rituals to glorify warf;lre
and sacrifice, but few o('these rituals were reproduced in provincial towns or even
in commoncr households within the Aztec capital. The state's emphasis upon
warf;lre and sacrifice seems to have significantly af'fected only a narrow target
group: the young, male population ofTenochtitlan, the core of the Aztec army.
Rather than promoting a unifc)l'Jn world-view, Aztec religioll produced cultural
difference within the empire's boundaries.
Rcl~qioll
aIld state ill the Aztec
285
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SAHAGUN'S RECORD OF AZTEC RITUAL
Ethnohistoric data fix this study come fi'om two works by the sixteenth-century
Spanish fi'iar Bel'l1ardino de Sahagllll. The first is Sahaglll1's twelve-volume encyclopedia of' Aztec culture, the F/o},CIItille Code.,', compiled in tvlcxico City li'om
1561 to 1565 (Dibble 1(82). Sahaglll1 hoped that the F/ol'Clltillc Code:.: would
provide an account of' Aztec religion and culture that would be used by fi'iars
ministering to new Indian converts to the Catholic chlll'ch. As Sahaglll1
observed:
The sins of'idolatry, idolatrous rilllais, idolatrous superstitions, auguries, abuses,
and idolatrous cerelllonies are Ilot yet cOlllpletely lost. To preach against these
llIatters, and even to know if' they exist, it is lleedllJi to know how [the Aztecs I
pract iced t he III in the tillles of' their idolatry, I()t', through [OUl' [Iaek of' knowfedge of' t his, they perf(ll'Ill llIan), idolat rous things in our presence without our
understanding it.
(Sahagltn 19H2: 45)
In addition, Sahaglll1 intended the text of'the HOI'C1Itillc Code:.: to supply a
lexicon of the Aztec language and examples of' Aztec syntax, usage, and oratory
(Sahaglll1 19X2: 50). These would aid Spanish priests preaching the Catholic
doctrine.
11.1 'UJC Aztcc
clJIjiil'l: ill 1511).
[){lJhed lilies depict
illljicrial/JIl/l1Idfll'ies;
illdejlclldcnt districts
tlrc i1Jdimted ill
cajlitallct/cl's.
286
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Elizabeth M. Brumfiel
The Florentine Codex consists of three interdependent parts: a Nahuatl text, a
Spanish text, and illustrations (Nicolau D'Olwer and Cline 1973: 189). The
Nahuatl text was solicited from native informants using a structured interview
protocol (L6pez Austin 1974). The Spanish text is Sahagt1l1's translation of the
Nahuatl original. The illustrations, which accompany each paragraph of text,
were drawn by native artists altllough tlley often incorporate European elements.
Baird (1993: 116) suggests that these illustrations helped to elicit information
from Sahagun's informants who were more used to working witll pictorial documents tllan written records.
Sahagun composed the Florentine Codex witll tlle help of ten native leaders
from Tlatelolco/Mexico City (Sahagun 1982: 54). These leaders were male
members of the Aztec urban nobility who had reached maturity prior to Spanish
conquest. They were also Christian converts and members of the developing
colonial enterprise. Sahagl1l1's account of Aztec religious ritual was undoubtedly
colored by the noble, male, urban, Christian perspective of his informants; it was
also shaped by Sahagl1l1's own scholastic training (L6pez Austin 1974).
Nevertlleless, tlle precision and detail of the Florentine Codex make it an essential source for tlle study of Aztec religion. In particular, the work enables us to
differentiate with some clarity between the religious practices of the state and
those of Tenochtitlan's commoners. The difference between state and commoner religious practice enables us to gauge the extent of ideological domination and cultural homogeneity within the imperial capital.
The Primeros Memoriales were Sahaglll1's prototype for the Florentine Codex.
Sahagl1l1 compiled this early draft of what would eventually become the Codex
in 1559-61, at the end of an eight-year stay in the provincial town ofTepepolco
(Nicholson 1973). Like the Florentine Codex, the Primeros Memorialeswere prepared with the help of native informants. Their words were recorded in Nahuatl,
and each paragraph was accompanied by a picture drawn by native artists. The
range of topics was more limited than those presented in the Florentine Codex,
and when the two texts cover the same material the Tepepolco texts are much
shorter. The Primeros Memoriales are often regarded simply as an early version
of the later, more polished Florentine Codex, and thus of greatest interest,
perhaps, for showing the evolution of Sahagl1l1's "ethnographic" method.
However, because they were compiled in a provincial town, the Primeros
Memoriales also provide a valuable account of Aztec culture outside the capital.
As Nicholson (1973: 208) observes: "The fact that the P[rimeros] M[emoriales]
provide a view oflate pre- Hispanic culture from the standpoint of a subordinate
community lends them special ethnographic value."
The descriptions of religious ritual in the Florentinc Codex and the Primcros
Memorialcs permit us to determine how [.1r the official religion of a provincial
capital resembled those of the Aztec state. Hence, these documents reveal the
extent of ideological domination and cultural homogeneity in the imperial
hinterland.
Religion and state in the Aztec empire
AZTEC STATE RELIGION
In Tenochtitlan, religious ritual was organized by two religious calendars, a 365day solar calendar and a 260-day rinlal calendar. Altllough the ritual calendar
required interpretation by ritual specialists, and tl1l1S seems to offer great potential for state control, state-sponsored religious ritual emphasized the solar calendar. 1 The Aztec solar calendar was divided into eighteen montlls of twenty days
each. Each month culminated in a ritual performance dedicated to one of tile
many Aztec gods. The five days at the end of the year were a dangerous, liminal
period, tile Nemontemi (Sahagun 1981: 171-2). During tllese days of ill
fortune, the Aztecs abstained fi'om bOtll work and ritual activity, for any activity
undertaken was bound to end badly.
Aztec monthly rituals were complex affairs, with many seemingly disconnected events going on simultaneously: "some feast, dance, and make merry,
while others fast, are punished, or are sacrificed" (Pasztory 1976: 195). Priests,
rulers, nobles, warriors, merchants, young men and young women, commoners
of different urban wards and individual households all carried out ritual acts
during one or more of the montllly celebrations. For example, during the third
month, Tozoztontli, the old men of the urban ward ofYopico sang and shook
their rattle boards. Commoners went to the fields to gather flowers to offer at
the altars of all the gods, and they ate tamales of wild amaranth seeds. The urban
ward of Coatlan made offerings to its patron deity, Coatlicue. And a procession
of warriors carrying the month-old skins of sacrificial victims wound through the
streets of Tenochtitlan to the temple at Yopitli where the skins were buried
(Sahaglll1 1981: 57-60). Some of these activities were orchestrated by the state;
others were in the hands of individual households.
Aztec religion has often been viewed as supporting militarism and encouraging
imperial expansion. For example, in his classic analysis of Aztec religion, Alfonso
Caso described how religion inspired the Aztec warrior (and see Fig. 11.2):
Each prisoner taken by the Aztecs was a star that was to be sacrificed \"0 the sun
to nourish him with the magical sustenance that represents lite and \"0 forti!)'
him for the divine combat ... Hence the pride orthe Aztec, who looked upon
himself as a collaborator of the gods ... In a sense the universe depended upon
him for its continued existence; upon him depended food for the gods, upon
him depended the beneficence of the gifts which they showered on mankind.
(Caso 1958: 93)
Conrad and Demarest agree, stating that religion was what "set the [Aztecs]
apart from their ncighbors and predecessors and ... launch[ed] the armies on a
divine quest, a quest which would result in the sprawling Aztec Empire" (1984:
42). Leon- Portilla (1963: 61) concludes: "The mystical vision of the cult of
Huitzilopochtli transformed the Aztecs into great warriors, into 'the people of
the Sun.'"
287
288
Religion and state in the Aztec empire
Elizabeth M,
289
Tabk 11.1. Com1Jlollers' ho/tsehold ritllals during the eighteC1J months of the Aztec solar year
52.
11,2 War mptil'rs
alld slal'cs JIIcrc
JI1cl'~{icrd at stl1tc
tClI/phs to 1lOlIl'is/i //ic
SIl1I II' it" /J111/l1111
blood, Accordillg to
Aztu state rc/i,tTi01I,
/J111/l1111 blood
strcllgt!JCllcd //ic ,1'//1/
ill itJ dl1i~}' S/I'I(f(lr/C
I1gl1illst t"r.filrus I!f'
d11 rIm css,
And ytt, at its cort, Azttc rdigion/ixustd on subsisttnct conctrns rathtr than
on war!;llT per se. In slatt ttl11pks, tht monthly rituals wtrt altuntd to tht agricultural cyck and nprtsstd conctrns with rain (during months I, (), 13, and 1()),
ITlltWtd vtgttation (month 2), young corn (months 3 and 4), tht tarth (months
g and 11), and tht sun (month 15). Othu subsisttnct conctrns WtlT also
addrtssttl: salt (month 7), gamt animals (month 14), and I1rt (months 10 and
Ig). Succcssful warl:ll't was a ()Cal conctl'l1 only in month 15, which was dtdicattd to tht Azttcs' patron, Huitzilopochtli, a warrior, solar dtity.
Warf:ll't and human sacrif1ct apptar as ptrSistenl mol ifs in state rituals, cekbrated as tht necessary means of achieving ritual goals. Howtver, in the rituals
of commonu households, subsistence concerns were paramount, and rew activities betrayed a concern with war(:lI'e or cosmic strife.
Houschold ritual in Tcr/ochtitian
In Ttnochtitlan, the months wue markttl by offerings and sacrifice within individual homes (Tabk 11.1). Like the dedications made at state-sponsored
tempks, household offerings were intended to rtpay the gods (lr thtir cf'/(lI'ts in
maintaining life-sustaining conditions during tht prtvious ytar and to solicit
tvlonth
Commontrs' household rituals
1. Cuehuitlehua
Poles with paper streamers were set up in commoners' houses, on mountain tops, in
young mtn's houses and the temples of the urban wards, to encourage the coming of
ram.
2. Tlacaxipehualiztli
Commoners would feast their neighbors if a member of their household had captured an
enemy warrior who was offered in sacriflce.
3. Tozoztontli
Commoners gathered flowers to offer the gods; they ate tamales of wild amaranth seed.
4. HuC},tozoztii
Commontrs gave gifts to young men who brought them green maize stalks to place in
their houses. Then, commoners covered green reeds with their own blood as an
offering to their household gods. At night they drank a special atole.
S, Toxcatl
Commoners offered quail and incense to Huitzilopoehtli, and children were cut on their
stomachs, chests, and arms.
6. Etzaleualiztli
Commoners exchanged etzlIlli, a stew of maize and beans; people went ft'om house to
house dancing and demanding etzl1fli. Commoners who witnessed the midnight
sacrifice of victims to Tlaloc f:\Ilned their children with artemisia flowers to frighten
worms tt'om their eyes.
7. Tecuilhuitontii
Commoners did not engage in any ritual activity,
R. Hueytecuilhuitl
Commoners received distributions of .Hole and tamalcs tt'om the ruler ofTenochtitlan.
Then, all prepared tortillas (i'om the year's Hrst green maize. They also made plain
tamales and fi'uit tamales fc)r themselves and to offer the gods.
9. Tlaxochimaco
Commoners went to the countT)'side to make flower garlands to offer the gods in their
temples, the ward telllples, and homes. They made meat tamales oftmkey and dog,
and they sang fc)r the gods well into the night.
10. Xocotlhuetzi
All the men and boys danced in the civic-ceremonial precinct and competed to climb the
xocotl pole.
11. Ochpani)"tli
Comllloners who had distinguished themselves in warf:\I'e were given military array.
12, Teotieco
Commoners gave presents to )'oung men who brought fir boughs to their houses, and
the)' offered balls of dough in the temples. The men and bo),s assembled to dance the
serpen t dance.
13. Tepeihuitl
(:ommoners made wood and amaranth dough-images of mountains and presented
offerings to them and to those who had died of water-related causes.
14. Quccholli
Commoners ofkred miniature arrows and pine torches and sweet tamales to the dead.
Women offered sweet tamales at Mixcoatl's tcmple, and their children were held by the
old women of the temple, All the men and boys participated in a ritual deer hunt on
the hill of !',acatepee.
IS. I'anquetzliztli
Commoners prepared and ate amaranth seed t,\males, slicing them with a length of
maguey fibel" Sleeping mats were rolled up, and commoners slept on the ground on
old capes.
16. Atemoztli
Commoners htlfilled vows the), had made to honor the mountains. They prepared
amaranth -dough images of the mountains, dressed them in paper garments obtained
fi'om specialist priests, held an all-night vigil over them, and sacrifictll thcm by cutting
290
Etizabeth M.
Religion and state in the Aztec empire
291
Table 11.1 (cont.)
Month
16. Atemoztli (cont.)
Commoners' household rituals
them with a weaving batten in the morning. This vigil ended with a feast fl)r f~lInily and
friends.
17. Tititl
Commoners engaged in a mock battle with paper- and grass-stuffed halls.
18. Izcalli
Youths and boys captured small animals to be thrown on to the brazier of the fire god
Xiuhtccutli. All the commoners exchanged very hot tamales stuffed with amaranth
greens. Every f<>urth year, small children had their car lobes pierced, were "singed"
over an open fire, and were given pulque. Afterw,lrds, commoners danced in their
homes.
their aid for the future. Offerings and sacrifices were often described as "paying
a debt" to the gods, and the gods were said to expect these of'(erings. Offerings
and sacrifice at the household level were not dependent upon state-sponsored
religion or warfare. As indicated in Table 11.1, Aztec commoners made a variety
of offerings including songs, flowers, incense, quail, and blood fi'om their own
bodies (Fig. 1l.3). All of these offerings could be produced at home or purchased in the marketplace, without state intervention.
Other forms of ritual activity at the household level included the preparation
and consumption of special seasonal f<JOcis and the bringing of'ritual objects into
the home. The preparation of seasonal t()()ds generally did not require the intervention of the state; the only exception occurred in month 16 when commoners had to obtain ritual paper garments lI'om specialist priests to complete their
amaranth-dough figlll'es. Ritual objects were also brought into the home
without state assistance. For example, in month 9, people went into the countryside to gather flowers to make into garlands f<lr their household gods. 2
Because parallel offerings and sacril1ces were made in the ward temples and
the young lllen's houses of Tenochtitlan, household religion might be seen as
incorporating the rites of the state religion. But it is equally possible that the state
mimicked household religion in an ef[(lI't to transfer sentiments fi'om the household to the state (Kus and Raharijaona 20(0).
Household ritual activity and the state's warr:lI'C-centered ideology did occasionally intersect. In months 2 and 10, when warriors ofkred captured enemy
soldiers t<lr sacrifice in the state ritual, each warrior's achievement was recognized
with a household fcast given in his honor by his f:1Il1ily. Kinsmen and neighbors
were invited. The prominence given to successful warriors in this and other
public per/(Jl'Il1anCeS is discussed at greater length below (pp. 299-3(1):1
CalplIlco jJwrticijHttiort in state ritlUtI
Beyond the household, commoners were drawn into ritual activity as
members of err/plllli groups, which were ethnic groups that served as units of
11.3 111 TCllochtitlall,
offcr
b/ood-co}!cl'cd scdgcs
I1nd maize g1'1lel
(,Hole) i1l their houses
during the.lilllrth
mouth ofthc Aztec
so/al' ca/cndfl/: «And
allY yo 11 IIl1 1111111, quitc
of his OWII will, drew
blood .11'11111 his s/Jall/<J
ol'.lhJIIJ hiscl1l's.»
COIJlf/IIITJCI'S
----- .
state administration. Tenochtitlan's errtplllli groups were urban wards composed
of commoners who preserved histories of their common origin and maps that
defined their collective land holdings. The members of a wtplltti were jointly
responsible t<lr supplying tribute goods and tabor to the ruler and fielding military units in time of war. Each wtjJ1ttti maintained a young men'5 house (teljJochcaUi) to educate its youth and a shrine (catPIt/co) to honor its patron deity.
CatplllIi leaders represented the group to the ruler and made sure that the group
met its tribute obligations. Some catPlt1ti groups were a\so occupational groups;
!<l!' example, in Tenochtitlan, there were catPllltis of gold workers, flower
workers, feather workers, mat makers, and merchants (Carrasco 1971; van
Zantwijk 1985: 24-6; Hicks 1986).
Many catPllltis had ritual responsibilities that Were incorporated into the state
religion (van Zantwijk 1985). These activities (sec Table 11.2) were carried out
by the older men of the cat/,lIlti groups, who executed their duties in the m/pulli
shrines located in the central civic-ceremonial precinct ofTenochtitian (Sahagllll
1981: 192-3). For example, on the Hrst day of month 3, the old men of the ca/PIlIti of Yopico sang and shook their rattle boards until the day had ended
(Sahagllll 1981: 57). In month 5, the members of the catjJlt!!i Huitznahuac
made an effigy of their patron deity Huitzilopochtli which was carried to the
Great Temple and offered quail and incense (Sahagllll 1981: 71-4). In month
18, the catPll1ti Tzonmoico was responsible f(JI' dressing the god of Hre,
XiuhteCllhtli (Sahagllll 1981: 1(8). In months 2 and 17, impersonators of all the
gods appeared in state-sponsored ceremonies, wearing costumes that were supplied by the various mtjJlI/cos (Sahaglll1 1981: 51, 156).
292
Elizabeth M. Brumfiel
Table 11.2. Ritual actiJlities in the calpulcos during the eighteen months of the Aztec solar year
Month
Commollers' ritual actiJ1ities
1. Cuehuitlehua
.,
,.. ..
2. Tlacaxipehualiztli
The old men of tile calpltlco held a vigil for the captives and tile takers of tile captives in
tile calpulco of tile captors (Sahagun 1981: 47). After tile sacrifice, tile old men of the
calpulco received tile body of tile victim, dismembered it and prepared a stew of human
flesh which would tllen be passed out in a feast in tile captor's household (Sahaglll1
1981: 48-9). Impersonators of all tile gods witnessed tile gladiator sacrifice, wearing
the raiment tllat was supplied by tile various calplllcos (Sahagun 1981: 51).
3. Tozoztontli
Old men of the calpulli ofYopico sang and shook tlleir rattle boards until the first
day of tile montll ended. The flower workers of tile calpulli of Coatlan made offerings
to its patron deity, Coatlicue (Sahaglll1 1981: 5, 57).
4. Hueytozoztli
5. Toxcatl
The members of tile calpulli Huitznahuac made an effigy of tlleir patron deity
Huitzilopochtli which was carried to the Great Temple to be offered quail and incense
(Sahaglll1 1981: 71-4).
6. Etzalcualiztli
The fishermen, canoe makers, irrigation ditch workers, and water sellers sacrificed a slave
representing their patron deity Chalchiuhtlicue (Sahaglll1 1970: 21).
C
r-
..
l"·
~:
[:
t
".
.........
7. Tecuilhuitontli
Religion and state in the Aztec empire
Some calpulli groups practiced human sacrifice. Many, perhaps all, calpulli
groups sacrificed a slave to their patron deity during that deity's annual feast.
These slaves were purchased in the marketplace, without the need for warfare or
state intervention, but the sacrifice was carried out by state-sponsored priests. In
month 3, the flower workers of Coatlan made offerings to their patron deity
Coatlicue (Sahagun 1981: 5,57). In montll 6, the fishermen, canoe makers, irrigation ditch workers, and water sellers sacrificed a slave to t11eir patron deity
Chalchiuhtlicue (Sahagl1l1 1970: 21). In month 13, the mat makers sacrificed a
slave to t11eir patron Napatecutli; in month 14, the pulque makers sacrificed a
slave to Izquitecatl; in month 15, the feather workers sacrificed a slave to Coyotl
inaual (Sahagun 1970: 45; 1981: 210,137-8; 1959: 87).
In addition, the old men of tile calpulli had ritual duties in montlls 2 and 10,
when war captives were sacrificed. The night before the sacrifice, a vigil was held
in the calpulli shrines for the captives and the takers of the captives (Sahagl1l1
1981: 47,113-14). The vigil ended at midnight when the captors cut hair from
the crowns of their captives' heads. The next day, when the captives had been
sacrificed, the old men of the calpulco received their bodies, dismembered them,
and prepared a stew from their flesh that would then be served at a feast in each
captor's household (Sahagl1l1 1981: 48-9). The old men of the calpulli also performed these duties when slaves rather than war captives were offered for sacrifice (Sahagl1l1 1981: 133,138,144).
8. Hueytecuilhuitl
9. Tlaxochimaco
10. Xocotlhuetzi
The old men of the calpulco held a vigil for the captives and the takers of the captives in
the calpltlco of the captors (Sahaglll1 1981: 113).
11. Ochpaniztli
12. Teotleco
13. Tepeihuitl
The mat makers sacrificed a slave representing their patron deity Napatecutli (Sahaglll1
1970: 45; 1981: 210). After slave women were sacrificed to the mountains, their
bodies were returned to the calpulli groups that sent them, to be dismembered by the
old men of the calpu/co(Sahaglll1 1981: 133}.
14. Quecholli
The pulque makers sacrificed a slave represeming their patron deity Izquitecatl. The old
men of the calpltlco held a vigil for the slaves and the owners of slaves to be sacrificed
(Sahaglll1 1981: 137-8).
15. Panquetzliztli
The feather workers sacrificed a slave representing their patron deity Coyot! inaual
(Sahaglll1 1959: 87). The merchants offered slaves to Huitzilopochtli (Sahaglll1 1981:
144).
16. Atemoztli
17. Tititl
Impersonators of all the gods appeared in state-sponsored ceremonies, wearing the
raiment that was supplied by the various calplIlcos (Sahaglll1 1981: 156).
18. Izcalli
The dressing of the god of fire, Xillhtecllhtli, was the responsibility of the calpltlli
Tzonmolco (Sahaglll1 1981: 168).
Telpochcalli participation in state ritual
Young men were articulated with the state through their membership in young
men's houses (telpochcalli). Boys entered these houses between the ages of 10
and 15 and left them upon marriage, in their early twenties (Calnek 1988: 171) .
While in the telpochcalli, the boys were under the authority of a state-appointed
leader (Sahaglll1 1978: 55). The boys maintained their telpochcalli by sweeping
it and gathering firewood, and they f()I'flled work parties for communal labor
projects assigned by the state: "they undertook the preparation of mud [for
adobes], walls, agricultural land, canals. They went in a bunch or they divided
into groups. And they went to the forest. They took, they carried on their backs
what they called torches for singing" (Sahaglll1 1978: 56). As the boys worked,
they trained for their nltl\l'e role as Aztec warriors.
Some of the boys' activities had religious overtones (Table 11.3). For example,
in months 4 and 12, the boys fanned out into the countryside to collect corn
stalks and fir branches to bring to people's homes (Sahaglll1 1981: 62, 127).
These materials were used in household rituals. The tepochcalli boys sometimes
engaged in mock battles with the boys of the more aristocratic schools, the calmecacs, or with adolescent girls (Fig. 11.4). As discussed below (pp. 296-7), these
battles were imbued with symbolic meaning (Sahagl1l1 1981: 62--4, 157-8). After
a day's work, the boys gathered at the ruler's palace for dancing and singing from
293
294
Elizrtbeth M.
B1'tm~fiel
Religion Ilnd ,rtMe in the Aztec empire
295
Table 11.3. Actipities fill' telpochcalli youths during the eighteen mOllths ofthc Aztec sO/fir ye(//'
Month
Youths' ritual activities
1. Cuehuitlchua
2. Tlacaxipehualiztli
3. Tozoztontli
4. Hueytozoztli
5. Toxcatl
Thc tcljiochCfllli youths fanned out into the countryside to collect corn stalks to bring
to people's homes. They engagcd in mock battles with youths tt'om the call1/ccacs.
Young girls in a procession honoring Chicomecoatl taunted boys who had not
distinguished themselves in war (Sahaglll1 1981: 62-4).
11.4 In Tmochtitlflll)
thc boys of the
tclpochcalli fight a
1Il0c/l battle with the
boys of the caimecacs
ming long stOtl t reeds
bound together with
cords dt/ring the
fifteenth month of the
Aztec solar CtTlcndal:
"It was as ifwal'cs
were b/'CtTlling 011 the
shore. Verily they
hflrmed one at/other;
pcrily they JIIcre hl4rt.))
The tcljiochCll1li youths joined their leaders, the masters of youths, and the young
seasoned warriors to dance the serpent dance while maidens danced the popcorn
dance (Sahagl1l1 1981: 75).
6. Etzalcualiztli
7. Tecuilhuitontli
8. Hueytccuilhuitl
Tellochtitlan's military elite in hIll array danced with maidens while tclpochcalli youths
stood by holding fire ladles to light their way (Sahaglln 1981: 1(1).
9. Tlaxochimaco
The tclpochcalli youths, the masters of youths, and the seasoned warriors danced
together in the courtyard ofHuitzilopochtli's temple. 'Nomen danced \00, but "those
who cm braced the women were only the great, bravc warriors" (Sahagl1l1 1981: 110).
10. Xocotlhuetzi
11. Ochpaniztli
12. Tcotleco
Youths limned out into the countryside to collect Hr branches to bring to pcople's
homcs (Sahagl1l1 1981: 127). All the men, youths, and small boys ofTenochtitlan
gathered to dance the serpent dance (Sahaglll1 1981: 129).
The, valiant, men, the chief warriors put on neck bands of large white gastropod shells or of gold ... As onc's adornment, car plugs were worn, turquoise
car plugs werc worn, hcron leathcrs were worn, nctted capes were worn ... This
nett cd capc was of twist cd magucy libcr, knotted, likc a net set with small, white
ga~trop()d shells. The rulers had golden gastropod ~hells in their netted capes.
13. Tepeihuitl
(Sahagllll 1978: 56)
14. Quecholli
Joyce (200 I) points out that these dances provided opportunities fClr dclinition
of value though beauty; attending these dances, boys became committed to their
future roles as Aztec warriors.
15. l'anquetzliztli
16. Atellloztli
17. Tititl
Boys pelted maidens in the strcets ofTcnochtitlan with net balls stuffed with grass,
shreddcd paper, or green maize leaves (Sahagl1l1 1981: 157--8).
18. [zcalli
dusk until midnight. Although these dances were recreational, they may have
been regarded as a /Cll'll1 of offering. In one passage, Sahaglll1 (1997: 57) refers
to dancing and singing as "tribute with song." The boys' leaders also danced; as
successful warriors, they provided role models for the boys.
The boys were also present when warriors danced on more fCll'll1al occasions
(Sahaglll1 1981: 75, 101, 110). These dances provided opportunities fc)r accompished warriors to display the sumptuary goods that they had won through their
exploits:
The elahoration
Tertochtit/rtrt
(~f'tt
JJJa1:!ttre-centered ideology in
Although a direct concern with warl:1l'e was clearly expressed only during the
month of Panquetzliztli, three ritual practices highlighted the importance of
state-sponsored wad:ll'e. These included the sacrifice of war captives, mock
battles, and public per/(lI'Inances that /Catured successful warriors.
The sacrifice of war captives in state rituals directed attention to the importance of state-sponsored warl:lre, even when the captives Were offered to gods
of agricultural tertility rather than Huitzilopochtli. Por example, a multitude of
captured enemy warriors were sacrificed in month 2, even though month 2 was
ostensibly dedicated to Xi pe Totec and concerned with the renewal of vegetation
"1
~ ~
..
~.
"', ~
d
'i
......~,,
."
296
Religion and state in the Aztec empire
Elizabeth M. Brttmfiel
at the start of the rainy season (Sahaglll1 1981: 47-8). Another war captive was
sacrificed in month 5, a month dedicated to Tezcatlipoca, a god related to tile
creation of the cosmos. More captives were sacrificed in montll 10 in a ceremony
dedicated to Xiuhtecutli, the god of fire (Sahagun 1981: 115). Even during the
months when slaves ratller tllan war captives were sacrificed, tile slave sacrifice
was preceded by the sacrifice of enemy warriors, which were said to provide a
"fundament" or foundation for the sacrificial slaves, This practice implied that
no human sacrifice could be properly carried out in tile absence of warfare
(Sahagun 1981: 94,148,164; L6pez Austin 1989: 377-8).
The state made sure that tile sacrifice of war captives would not be ignored.
Highly dramatic ceremonies of human sacrifice took place atop the Great
Temple. Because of the temple's height, the sacrifices could be seen from all parts
of tile city. To draw public attention, tllese sacrifices were announced Witll the
beat of drums and tile blare of trumpets. The noise and tile spectacle were
impressive, as Diaz del Castillo, a Spaniard who fought with Cortes against the
Aztecs, records:
again there was sounded the dismal drum of [Huitzilopochtli] and many other
shells and horns and things like trumpets and the sound of tllem all was ten'if)'ing, and we all looked towards the lofty [pyramid] where they were being
sounded, and saw that our comrades whom they had captured ... were being
carried by force up the steps, and they were taking them to be sacrificed.
(Diaz del Castillo 1956: 436)
Smell also brought human sacrifice to public notice. In month 3, the skins of sacrificial victims were worn by penitent individuals who walked through the streets
ofTenochtitlan begging for gifts:
they went stinking; they went in a group. So did they stink [that the stench]
verily wounded the head. It could not be endured. There was holding of the
nose when they were met, when they went among people. (Sahaglm 1981: 58)
To maintain public interest, the number of war captives was increased over time
and new forms of sacrifice were introduced (Duran 1967,2: 171).
The importance of human sacrifice was also emphasized through works of
monumental sculpture commissioned by the Aztec state. For example, the Aztec
calendar stone bears symbols that refer to cosmic cycles: the four creations that
preceded the current onc, the twenty days of the Aztec ritual calendar, and the
solar and starry skies that alternate with day and night and change with the
seasons. The importance of human sacrifice in this cosmic scheme is underscored
by the deity figure at the center of the calendar stone who has a sacrificial knife
protruding from his mouth and whose talons on either side of his f.1ce grasp
human hearts (Townsend 1979: 63-70). The monumental sculpture of
Coyolxauhqui, which lay at the base of the Aztec Great Temple, celebrated the
victory of the Aztec solar deity Huitzilopochtli over his perennial opponents, the
moon and stars of the nighttime skies (Matos Moctezuma 1988: 135-42).
Warfare was also incorporated into Aztec rituals in the form of mock battles
297
Table 11.4. Mock battles dttring the eighteen months of the Aztec solar year
Month
Mock battles
1. Cuehuitlehua
2. Tlacaxipehualiztli
A mock battle occurred between those wearing tlle skins of sacrificial victims and
Tenochtitlan's warriors (Sahaglll1 1981: 55-6).
3. Tozoztontli
4. Hueytozoztli
The boys fi'om the telpochcalli fought mock battles Witll YOUtllS from tlle calmecacs.
Young girls in a procession honoring Chicomecoatl taunted boys who had not
distinguished themselves in war (Sahaglll1 1981: 62-4).
5. Toxcatl
6. Etzalcualiztli
7. Tecuilhuitontli
8. Hueytecuilhuitl
9. Tlaxochimaco
10. Xocotlhuetzi
11. Ochpaniztli
A mock battle was fought between the impersonator of the earth goddess Teteoinnan
with her "Huastec" companions and Tenochtitlan's warriors (Sahaglll1 1981: 123).
12. Teotleco
13. Tepeihuitl
14. Quecholli
15. Panquetzliztli
A mock battle was fought between the slaves about to be sacrificed to Huitzilopochtli
and Tenochtitlan's warriors; another battle was fought between the priests and the
youths (Sahaglm 1981: 141,149) .
16. Atemoztli
17. Tititl
Boys pelted maidens in the streets ofTenochtitlan with net balls stuffed with grass,
shredded paper, or green maize leaves (Sahaglll1 1981: 157-8).
18. Izcalli
fought in the streets of Tenochtitlan as a part of several monthly rituals (Table
11.4). Mock battles occurred in month 2 (between those wearing the skins of
sacrificial victims and Tenochtitlan's warriors), month 4 (onc battle between
young men residing in the temple schools and young men residing in calpttllisponsored young men's houses; another battle [of words] between young girls
carrying ears of maize to Chicomecoatl's temple and the young men whom they
encountered), month 11 (one battle among the female companions of the earth
goddess Teteoinnan; another battle between the impersonator of Teteoinnan
with her "Huastec" companions and Tenochtitlan's warriors), montll 15 (one
battle between tile slaves about to be sacrificed to Huitzilopochtli and
Tenochtitlan's warriors; another battle between the priests and the youths), and
in month 17 (when people fought each other in the streets ofTenochtitlan with
298
Elizabeth M. Brumfiel
Table 11.5. Warriors) activities during the eighteen months of the Aztec solar year
Month
Warriors' activities
1. CuehuitIehua
Throughout tIle year, the captive warrior who impersonated TezcatIipoca walked tIle
streets of tIle city, reminding residents of his inevitable sacrificial deatII in montIl 5
(Sallagun 1981: 9).
2. Tlacaxipehualiztli
'-
3. TozoztontIi
,....,-.
4. Hueytozoztli
,,--
5. ToxcatI
The limbs of captives who were sacrificed were returned to tIleir captors, who added
tIlem to a stew of dried maize. The stew was used to feast friends and relatives, who
bore witness to the worthy acts of tIle captor (Sahag{1I1 1981: 49). A mock battIe
occurred between tIlose wearing tIle skins of sacrificial victims and Tenochtitlan's
warriors. The leaders of young men's houses, the warriors who had taken four or
more captives, and young men who had taken onc or two captives, danced in tIle
civic-ceremonial precinct in tIle company of maidens or "pleasure girls" (Sahagun
1981: 55-6).
The captors of victims sacrificed in Tlacaxipehualiztli led a procession tIlfough the
streets ofTenochtitlan .
",
The leaders of young men's houses, tIle warriors who had taken four or more captives,
and young men who had taken onc or two captives, danced in tIle civic-ceremonial
precinct in the company of maidens or "pleasure girls" (Sahagl1l1 1981: 75).
I'"
"" ..
6. EtzalcualiztIi
I,·'
"."R
7. TecuilhuitontIi
8. HueytecuilhuitI
The leaders of young men's houses, the warriors who had taken four or more captives,
and young men who had taken onc or two captives, danced in the civic-ceremonial
precinct in the company of maidens or "pleasure girls" (Sahagl1l1 1981: 98).
9. Tlaxochimaco
The leaders of young men's houses, the warriors who had taken four or more captives,
and young men who had taken onc or two captives, danced in the civic-ceremonial
precinct in the company of maidens or "pleasure girls" (Sahaglll1 1981: 109-10).
10. XocotIhuetzi
Huitzilopochtli's envoy, Paynal, appeared on the Great Temple, seized war captives
by their hair, and dragged them to the top of the temple for sacrifice (Sahagl1l1
1981: 115). The limbs of sacrificial victims were added to a stew of dried maize and
served to friends and relatives, who bore witness to the worthy acts of the captor
(Sahagl1l1 1981: 115). The leaders of young men's houses, the warriors who had
taken four or more captives, and young men who had taken onc or two captives,
danced in the civic-ceremonial precinct in the company of maidens or "pleasure
girls" (Sahagllll 1981: 116).
11. OchpaniztIi
A mock battle was fought between the impersonator of the earth goddess Teteoinnan
with her "Huastec" companions and Tenochtitlan's warriors. The young maize god
Cinteotl traveled to enemy lands to deposit a mask made from the skin of a sacrificial
victim (Sahagl1l1 1981: 122). Costly war insignia were distributed to warriors. The
leaders of young men's houses, the warriors who had taken four or more captives,
and young men who had taken onc or two captives, danced in the civic-ceremonial
precinct in the company of maidens or "pleasure girls" (Sahagl1l1 1981: 123).
~:
12. TeotIeco
Religion and state in the Aztec empire
299
Table 11.5 (cont.)
Montll
Warriors' activities
13. TepeihuitI
14. Quecholli
15. Panquetzliztli
A mock battle was fought between the slaves about to be sacrificed to HuitzilopochtIi
and Tenochtitlan's warriors. The leaders of young men's houses, tIle warriors who
had taken four or more captives, and young men who had taken onc or two captives,
danced in tIle civic-ceremonial precinct in tile company of maidens or "pleasure
girls" (Sahagiln 1981: 141).
16. Atemoztli
17. Tititl
Boys pelted maidens in tIle streets ofTenochtitlan WitII net balls stuffed witl1 grass,
shredded paper, or green maize leaves (Sahagun 1981: 157-8).
18. Izcalli
net balls stuffed with grass, shredded paper, or green maize leaves) (Sahagllll
1981: 52,62,119-21,146,149,157-8). The repeated use of mock battles in
the montllly rituals emphasized antagonistic competition as a mode of divinely
sanctioned interaction. 4
Finally, a concern with warfare was expressed by giving model warriors prominence in both ritual and secular performances (Table 11.5). The ritual performances included the incarnation ofTezcatlipoca by a captive warrior chosen to
impersonate the deity. For a year until his sacrifice in month 5, this exemplary
warrior walked the streets of the city, serving as a reminder that glory on the battlefield and death in sacrifice was the highest destiny that young men could
achieve (Fig. 11.5; Sahaglll1 1981: 9). In month 10, Huitzilopochtli's envoy,
Paynal, appeared on the Great Temple, embodying the perfect warrior as he
seized war captives by their hair and dragged them to the top of the temple for
sacrifice (Sahaglll1 1981: lI5). In month 11, the young maize god Cinteotl
played the ideal Aztec warrior as he fearlessly travcled to enemy lands to deposit
a mask made from the skin ofa sacrificial victim (Sahaglll1 1981: 122).
Successnll warriors were also recognized in secular ritual. As mentioned above,
the men who had taken captives and offered them in sacrifice in months 2 and
10 were celebrated with household feasts featuring a stew made from the limbs
of sacrificial victim. Friends and relatives came to bear witness to the meritorious
acts of the captor (Sahaglll1 1981: 49). In month 3, the men who had taken captives carried the skins of their sacrificial victims through the streets of
Tenochtitlan (Sahaglll1 1981: 58). In month 11, the Aztec ruler distributed
costly war insignia to warriors according to their achievements on the battlefield
(Sahagllll 1981: 123). These eye-catching items of military attire and civilian
dress were distributed according to a strict sumptuary code (Duran 1971:
197-8; Sahagllll 1979: 76-7). The iconography of the costumes ensured tllat
300
Religion and state in the Aztec empire
Elizabeth M. Bl'ltlllfiel
11.5 III TCllochtitlrtll,
a wm' eaptipc without
physical blcmish was
choscn to impersonatc
the god Tczeatlipoea
jiJ1' a yem: He
aNearcd ill public,
hOllorcd by 1IIC/l mid
W01llCII, until hc was
sacrificed d1lring the
fifth mO/lth afthe
Aztec ealendm:
successful warriors would be associated with, and perhaps kel themselves united
with, supernatural powers of various sorts (Anawalt 1992). In months 2, 5,8,9,
10, 11, and 15, Tenochtitlan's warrior elite danced in the civic-ceremonial precinct (Fig. 11.6; Sahagl1l1 1981: 55-6,75,98,109-10,116,123,141). The
dance rhythms and the songs of the warrior elite carried across the city on the
nighttime air. In months 2, 11, and 15, the warriors participated in the 1110ck
battles already described, gaining public recognition.
The state also set aside a series of private spaces 1<:>1' the cultivation of warrior
identity. When warriors had taken filtlr captives, they gained entry to the
Cuauhcalli, the Eagle House, a special hall associated with the ruler's palace
(DllI'<ln 1971: 187-8; Sahagllll 1979: 43). Here, celebrated and titled warriors
could pass their days in the exclusive company of their fellows. Archaeological
excavations at the Aztecs' Great Temple have revealed a structure that may have
served such a function (Matos Moctezuma 1988: 82-3). 5 Commonly refcrred to
as the Precinct of the Eagle Warriors, it consists of two connecting 1'00ms: an outer
western 1'00m bordered by low benches and an inner eastern room with a sunken
patio. Privacy was insured by offset doors that shielded the inner patio (i'OI11 the
eyes of passers-by (Molina Montes 1987: 1(2). The limited access underscored
the exclusiveness and prestige of the group inside. The benches at the entrance to
the structure and within the west l'Oom were decorated with processions of carved
and painted warrior figures, richly attired in military dress. These figures arc led
by the Aztec ruler who was also dressed as a warrior (C. F. Klein 1987: 314). Large
ceramic statues of warriors dressed in eagle costumes flanked the door leading to
the western room, and statues of skeleton figures stood on either side of the door
leading to the inner patio. These statues evoked the I:lte of soldiers who died in
battle or sacrifice; transported to the sky, they accompanied the sun across the
heavens (Sahagl1l1 1969: 162). Within these private spaces, elite warriors could
be subjected to intense ideological indoctrination.
Finally, the warrior ideal was celebrated in monumental art. For example, on
the great sacrificial stones of Moctezuma and Tizoc, Aztec rulers were depicted
as warriors seizing enemy rulers by their hair, taking them captive ft)r eventual
sacrifice (Soils 1992; Umberger 1996a).
In public per(i)l'(l1anCeS and exclusive gatherings, then, young Aztec men were
glamorized as captors and captives, participants in ceaseless (cosmic) warf:lI'C.
DISCUSSION
The basic orientation of Aztec monthly rituals toward the agricultural cycle is
somewhat surprising. Tenochtitlan was, aller all, a conquest-based urban capital,
apparently insulated fi'ol11 rural concerns with rain, fCrtility, and harvests. But
when harvests arc small, peasants meet their own subsistence needs Ilrst, and
even slightly substandard harvests create noticeable shortages of marketed (Clod.
In times of t:lmine, people who arc detached (i'om the land suffcr the most
(I-licks 1987; Melior and Gavian 1987: 540).
Basic subsistence issues werc reHected in ritual activities of Tenochtitlan's
hOllseholds. Household ritual activilY (i)llowed an annual round that paralleled
state ritual without actually being a part of it. Household ritual ttxused on honoring rain and fCrtility gods; households celebrated warbre only when household members oHcred captured enemy soldiers ft)r sacrifice, an act recognized
by feasting in the warrior's honor. C'a!jllIlli.\,\vere more active participants in state
rituals, but their activities, too, mostly supported the monthly rituals of the agricultural year. Like households, the wljlllltiswere most commonly drawn into the
celebration of'\varf:lI'e when their members offcred enemy soldiers li)r sacrifice.
However, both ethnohistoric and archaeological data (I'om Tenochtitlan
suggest that Aztec rulers did target a specific group (t)r ideological indoctrination: namely, the young, male population of Tenochtitlan. More resources were
301
11.6 Danccrs in thc
Aztec I'IIlcr's palace.
Dallces proPided
ojijlol'tllllities jii/'
accomplished warriors
to display the
slllllptuary goodJ that
thcy had won through
their exploitJ. "And
all the onloo/lcl'S, the
bc/aped old IPOIIICII ...
raised a tcm/it! cry
... They said: '77JCJc
arc ollr bclopcd sow
wholll we Jce hcre. If
ill jipe days, in ten
days thc [war is}
mmolt1lccd, ",ill thc)'
... cOllie rctllrNing?»)
,
302
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Elizabeth M. Brumfiel
devoted to engineering consent within this group than in other segments of the
commoner population.
Some concern with warfare and human sacrifice may have entered commoners' consciousness as a product of the numerous state-sponsored sacrifices, mock
battles, and celebrations of warriors to which tlley were exposed. Tllis is possibly
reflected in tlle analogies tllat were sometimes made between household implements and weaponry. For example, spindle whorl designs sometimes replicate
tlle designs on warriors' sllields, suggesting tllat tlle two might be equated
(McCafferty and McCafferty n.d.).6 Weaving battens were used to "sacrifice" the
amarantll images of mountains tllat were placed in commoners' houses during
montll 16, as if the battens were warriors' swords (Sahaglll1 1981: 29). Burkhart
(1997: 26), following C. F. Klein (1994), goes so far as to argue that the ideology of warfare suffused Aztec households: "an ideology of male-female complementarity was maintained tlu'ough an investment of the home with the
symbolism of war." But Klein's and Burkhart's claim seems to be based upon literary texts produced by elite male segments of the Aztec population, who may
have read military symbolism into women's roles in ways not shared by commoner women. The rarity of elements of warfare and human sacrifice in monthly
household rituals suggests that warfare was not an orienting ideological principle at the household level, although as we shall see below (p. 306) it may have
influenced commoner tllinking to a degree.
AZTEC RELIGION IN THE HINTERLANDS TEPEPOLCO
Tepepolco was a town of more than 10,000 people, located 72 kilometers northeast of Tenochtitlan, between the Basin of Mexico and the state of Tlaxcala
(Gebhard 1993: 53). Tepepolco was subject to the ruler ofTexcoco throughout
most of the fourteenth century and fell briefly under Tepaneca control in 1418.
In 1430, Tepepolco was restored to Texcoco's rule and was thereafter firmly a
part of the Aztec empire (Alva Ixtlilx6chitl 1975-7: I, 317, 380; I1, 53).
Tepepolco's ritual calendar closely resembled that ofTenochtitlan. The solar
year was divided into eighteen months. Most of these months bore the same
names as the months in Tenochtitlan and were celebrated with similar rituals.
However, these similarities do not necessarily demonstrate Tenochtitlan's influence on Tepepolco because this pattern of religious practice was probably well
established in central Mexico prior to Aztec expansion, as discussed below. Like
Tenochtitlan, Tepepoko worshipped Huitzilopochtli (Acuna 1986: 175), but it
is not clear whether the worship of Huitzilopochtli in Tepepolco began during
the fifteenth century under Aztec domination, or whether this worship originated a century earlier, having been introduced by a group of Aztec refugees who
entered Tepepolco after the disintegration of the town of Culhuacan (Acuna
1985: 6,85; Alva Ixtlilx6chitl1975-7: 1,433).
Despite fundamental similarities, tllere were also some very clear differences
Religion and state in the Aztec empire
in the ritual cycles ofTenochtitlan and Tepepolco. Specifically, almost all of the
practices tllat underscored the importance of state-sponsored warfare in
Tenochtitlan were less prominent in Tepepolco.
For example, tllere was less human sacrifice and less sacrifice of enemy warriors in Tepepolco. In Tenochtitlan, montll 2 was tlle occasion for tlle mass sacrifice and flaying of captured enemy warriors. But in Tepepolco, both captured
enemy warriors and slaves purchased for tlle occasion were sacrificed and flayed
(Sahag6n 1997: 56). In Tepepolco during montll 5, a maize-dough image of
Tezcatlipoca was sacrificed in place oftlle living warrior sacrificed in Tenochtitlan
(Sahag6n 1997: 56). In montll 10, tlle merchants ofTepepolco sacrificed slaves
to their patron, Yiacatecuhtli, in contrast to the practice in Tenochtitlan where
merchants offered their slaves in montll 15 to the warrior god Huitzilopochtli
(Sahaglll1 1997: 61). In Tepepolco, it seems that merchants attended to their
own affairs, sacrificing to tlleir own patron instead of competing Witll warriors
for public recognition by sacrificing to Huitzilopochtli. Also in month 10,
Xiuhtecutli was given only blood from the ears of the winner of the poleclimbing (xocotl) contest in Tepepolco, but in Tenochtitlan, Xiuhtecutli received
a sacrifice of enemy warriors (Sahagl1l1 1997: 61). In month 13, birds were sacrificed to the mountain gods in Tepepolco while humans were sacrificed in
Tenochtitlan (Sahag(1I1 1997: 64). In month 17, no human sacrifice was carried
out in Tepepolco, but a living impersonator of I1amatecutli was sacrificed in
Tenochtitlan (Sahag(1I1 1997: 66). Month 18 ended with the sacrifice of a living
impersonator of Ixcozauhque in Tepepolco, while in Tenochtitlan, no slaves or
captives were sacrificed for three conseclltive years; however, every fourth year,
numerous captives and slaves were slain in Tenochtitlan (Sahag(1I1 1981: 162;
1997: 67).
Successful warriors in Tepepolco played a much less prominent role in public
ritual. Dancing and singing during the monthly celebrations in Tepepolco often
featmed the entire population or non-warrior segments of it. For example, in
month 1, the entire population delivered sacrificial papers to Tlaloc's mountaintop shrine: "In the courtyard of the temple of the devil, there the people paid
their debt [to the gods]. All the commoners, noblemen, [and] lords took [the
papers] there ... " (Sahag(1I1 1997: 56). In month 2, all the nobles and commoners gathered in the marketplace to dance with their rattles: "everyone paid
tribute with song in the center of the city" (Sahagl\l1 1997: 57). In month 5, a
procession of women planted sacrificial papers at the temple of Tezcatlipoca
(Sahagl\l1 1997: 59). In month 6, there was "singing by the women," and a procession of youth carrying birds tied to poles (Fig. 11.7; Sahagl1l1 1997: 59). In
month 7, there was again "singing by women for twenty days" (Sahaglll1 1997:
60). In month 8, women once more sang for twenty days and danced in new
clothing with garlands of flowers around their necks and on their heads (Sahagl1l1
1997: 60). 111 month 9, when the xocotl- a great ceremonial pole - was brought
into the town, "everyone went out to receive it," and "everyone pulled it in"
(Sahagl1l1 1997: 61). In month 11, there was again "singing by women for
303
304
Elizabeth M. Brumfiel
Religion and state in the Aztec empire
65-6). There is no record of mock battles between the wearers of sacrificial skins
and the warriors in month 2, between the telpochcalli and calmecac youths
in montlls 4 and 15, or of verbal battles between young men and women,
also in month 4: all of which are recorded in Sahaglll1's account of ritual in
Tenochtitlan.
ARCHAEOLOGICAL EVIDENCE FROM THE
HINTERLANDS
-,
:i
,-'
-,
,.'
~,
..jl
'.'
~,
'
~,
~,
,,,
11.7 In Tepepolco,
rituals associated JlIith
the sixth morlth of the
solar calelldar: JlIomen
sirlg, a processioll of
youths carry birds tied
to poles, priests (?) lie
on rushes for jil'e days,
fasting, alld all
impersonator of the
rain god, Tlaloc, is
sacrificed arId placed
in a cal'e.
twenty days," and everyone danced, including the seasoned warriors, the offering priests, and all of the commoners (Sahaglll1 1997: 62). In month 15, all the
villages surrounding Tepepolco had the task of singing in the city center. All of
the maidens and youths danced and made offerings of large, long tortillas to
Huitzilopochtli (Sahaglll1 1997: 65). Successful warriors were exclusively featured only once each year in Tepepolco; in month 11, men danced in the courtyard of Huitzilopochtli's temple with all their insignia and war array (Sahaglll1
1997: 63).
Mock battles were also less common in Tepepolco than in Tenochtitlan. In
Tepepolco, mock battles are recorded for only three ceremonies: in montll 11,
the impersonator ofTeteoinnan engaged in tile Battle with Straws; in month 15,
tile impersonator ofHuitzilopochtli engaged in the Battle ofChochayotl; and in
month 17, people fought each other with "barn owl" balls (Sahaglll1 1997: 6,
The extent of the warfare-centered ideology disseminated to subordinate populations can also be gauged using archaeological evidence. In the first place, monumental sculpture bearing images of elaborately dressed warriors is rare in
provincial towns outside of the Basin of Mexico (Umberger and Klein 1993;
Umberger 1996b). These durable testimonies to the glorious life of the warrior
were mostly confined to Tenochtitlan. Secondly, the style and frequencies of
Postclassic figurines from three provincial towns (Huexotla, Xico, and Xaltocan)
suggest a low degree of acceptance of the Aztec ideology of warfare and sacrifice.
Small, molded ceramic figurines occur in low frequencies at almost all
Postclassic rural sites in the Basin of Mexico. These figurines were made by craft
specialists (C. Cook 1950; Otis Charlton 1994), but they were used in household contexts - at least this is suggested by the invariable association of figurines
with household debris in archaeological contexts. The figurines may have been
used in ritual activity at the household level, or they may have been toys. In either
case, they should reflect popular priorities and concerns. The frequencies of different types of figurines in hinterland communities before and during the period
of Aztec dominance should provide a valid indication of the extent to which
popular consciousness was affected by state ideology.
The figurines are usually anthropomorphic. Details of clothing and anatomy
can be used to identify males and females, and in pre-Aztec contexts, males and
females occur in an approximately even ratio. In collections dating to the period
of Aztec dominance, however, female figurines become more fi'equent; they outnumber male figurines by a ratio of three to one (Brumficl 1996). Moreover, the
male figurines dating to the period of Aztec dominance are often not warriors.
They sit rather than stand, and they hold drums rather than the implements of
war. This suggests that hinterland commoners were not preoccupied with male
warriors and their work.
Female figurines, too, differ from the idealized images of women presented by
the Aztec state. In state-sponsored arts such as sculpture and manuscript painting, women are posed in a controlled kneeling position, perhaps in reference to
their role as producers of cloth and food. In contrast, female figurines more often
stand than kneel, and they fi'equently hold one or two children, perhaps in reference to their reproductive roles (Fig. 11.8). Again, this suggests that commoners were not preoccupied with the state's definitions of social roles and status
(BrumfielI996).
305
306
Elizabeth M. Bl'umjicl
Religion and state ill the Aztec empire
DISCUSSION: OlUGINS, INNOVATIONS, AND
STRUCTURAL POSES IN AZTEC RELIGION
Human sacrif1ce and the glorification of warriors were more muted in hinterland
towns than in the Aztec capital. This raises two important issues, one concerning
the originality of the Aztecs' wartu'C-ccntered ideology and the other concerning the constraints on the diffusion of this ideology to hinterland communities.
The Aztecs have been considered the originators of their warf:lI'e-centered
ideology. For example, Conrad and Demarest state:
The original contribution of the lVlcxica to the evolution of lVlcsoamerican civilization was an ideology that successttdly integrated religious, economic, and
social systems into an imperialistic war machine. The ideological changes which
caused this integration were the work of the same handful of men (Itzcoati,
Tlacaelel, IVloctezuma I, ete.) who had ... instituted other rcl(JI'Il1s.
(1984: 37)
11.8 All Aztccperiod ccramic
fiHlIrillc (!(a 1I'01lla1l
holdillFIWO childrcn.
Hci.!J/;t /9 CIII.
The period of Aztec domination did produce a new figurine type, the temple
replica. Temple replicas arc 10 to 20 cm tall; they arc models of temple pyramids
topped by temple structures or deity figures. The deities on the temples arc
usually male, and they often hold weapons. Kaplan suggests that the temple replicas may have integrated peasant ritual with the cults of the urban elites
(Pasztory 1983: 289-91 ). This is probably true, but it is important to recognize
the rarity of these replicas in figurine assemblages. At Late Postclassic sites in the
Basin of Mexico, temple replicas always constitute less than 10 percent of the
figurine collections, and usually less than 5 percent (Brumf1elI996: 155; Parsons
1972: 105-6, M. E. Smith in press).
The low fi'Cquency of warflre-centered images in the material culture of hinterland populations suggests that the ideology of cosmic warf:lre did not diffuse
to rural regions of the empire; hinterland commoners were not impressed by the
state's claim that military activity was crucial for their existence. In contrast,
a collection of seven f1gmines fi'om Metro excavations at Mexico City/
Tenochtitlan included two temple replicas and f()llr women presented in a kneeling pose (Arana and Cepeda 1967). This suggests a somewhat greater degree of
acceptance of state ideology by (commoner?) households in Tenochtitlan, as
suggested by C. F. Klein (1994) and Burkhart ( 1997).
Conrad and Demarest's view is supported by ethnohistoric documents that
clearly describe how new practices were introduced by Aztec rulers and their
advisors. For example, the documents state that the Aztec king Itzcoatl awarded
the first titles to successful warriors, and Moctezuma instituted the Hrst sumptuary laws that raised successful warriors above their peers (Oman 1967: U, 98,
236-8). Moctezuma is also credited with having set aside a gathering place f()r
celebrated warriors (Oman 1967: 11, 213; Sahaglll1 1979: 43). Moctezuma's
advisor Tlacaelel is said to have introduced a new f(mn of sacrifice that tcatlll'ed
mock combat (Oman 1967: II, 171).
But many of these "innovations" wCl'e present in central Mexico bcf()re the
Aztecs' rise to power. For example, warriors and human sacrif1ce arc highlighted
in sculpture and carved fi'iezes at Tula, an important regional center 95 km north
of'Tenochtitlan that flourished 900-1050, f()ur to live centuries prior to the
Aztec state (Oiehl 1983; Cobean and Mastache 1995; Jimcnez Garcla 1998).
Tula contains a colonnaded hall with masonry benches depicting processions of
richly dressed males similar to those 1()lll1d in the Eagle House in Mexico City.
The similar plans of' the two structures, and their use of benches bearing almost
identical designs, suggest that Tula's colonnaded hall anticipated the Aztecs'
Eagle l--louse as a gathering place f()r elite warriors.
In the Aztec empire, the geographic distribution of tribute payments in elite
warrior costumes suggests that such costumes were manut:lctured at several
places in central Mexico, particularly in the central and northern provinces
(Broda 1978). The central and northern provinces coincide with the boundaries of the ancient Toltec empire (compare Bro(ia 1978: 148 and Anawalt 1992:
138), raising the possibility that Toltec rulers also used fCathered warrior costumes to reward successful warriors and that this cultural legacy was available to
Aztec empire-builders.
307
308
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Elizabeth M. Brumfiel
In Aztec times, sculptures, structures, and warrior costumes celebrating valiant
warriors were broadly distributed in the political capitals of central Mexican states
that lay outside of the empire. For example, the drawings of costumed warriors
in the Lienzo de Tlaxcala suggest that the Tlaxcalan kingdoms shared the Aztec
institution of military orders. Mural paintings found at the Late Postclassic sites
ofTlaxcala and Puebla bear militaristic motifs (Contreras Martinez 1994; Sisson
and Lilly 1994a, 1994b; Pohl 1998); perhaps these rooms served as gathering
places for military elites. This would imply that such places were not the exclusive invention of Aztec rulers and that the rulers of many Late Postclassic states
shared the Aztecs' concern with warfare and sacrifice.
How can the evidence for a cult ofwarf.lre prior to the Aztec empire, and in
kingdoms beyond its control, be reconciled with the statements in ethnohistorical documents that Aztec rulers and their advisors invented the cult of warfare
and sacrifice? And what explains the greater emphasis placed upon agricultural
fertility in provincial towns that were a part of the empire such as Tepepolco,
Huexotla , Xico , and Xaltocan? Perhaps neither the cult of sacrifice and warfare
nor the cult of agricultural fertility had a clear chronological priority. Instead, the
two cults could have coexisted in time, as a function of the political status of
various towns and cities. The religion of Late Postclassic Mesoamerica may have
rotated through two "structural poses" (see Leach 1954).
When central Mexican polities were in ascendance, they adopted the cult of
sacrifice and warfare, "inventing" it as they introduced it to the local scene. This
cult was used to socialize young men, to make them into warriors and to create
a cohesive force that would carry out the ruler's coercive policies. The ideological message of cosmic warfare was used to capture the commitment of these men
by conferring upon them a place of dignity and high status within the state's view
of the universe. This ideology sought to establish the moral worth of military
achievement by linking it to cosmic structure and human smvival and by rewarding it with social differentiation and esteem. Young men joined the state in its
"projects" of warfare and human sacrifice, their actions being shaped by their
"images and ideas of what constitutes goodness - in people, in relationships, and
in conditions oflifc" (Ortner 1984: 152).
This warfare-centered ideology was effective only when it was properly "materialized" in monumental sculpture, built spaces, and special costuming (see
OeMarrais et al. 1996). It was an expensive ideology, and it could only be supported in political centers like Tula and Tenochtitlan that collected substantial
tribute. Once instituted, it produced a cohesive fighting force that carried out
more conquests and produced more tribute to finance the cult of sacrifice and
warf.lre and create a larger and even more cohesive army.
When central Mexican polities were politically subordinate, like Tepepolco or
Xaltocan under the Aztecs, they adopted a less militaristic, less expensive ideology better suited to their limited means. The rulers of subordinate politics concentrated on "bread and butter" issues, such as rain, fertility, and bountiful
harvests, on sponsoring religious rituals that drew wide participation. Provincial
Religion and state in the Aztec empire
rulers may have used these rituals to mask the emerging differences between
tllemselves, whose interests came to coincide with those of tile Aztec elite, and
their people, who bore the brunt of Aztec tribute demands (M. E. Smitll 1986).
This, in turn, suggests tllat the focus upon human sacrifice and warf.lre did not
serve as an integrating mechanism in the Aztec empire. The sacrifice of captives
and the deeds of warriors were emphasized only in the Aztec capital, and perhaps
in the most wealthy allied towns that surrounded it (i.e., Texcoco, Xochimilco,
and Tlamanalco, see Umberger 1996b: 166). Because human sacrifice and
warfare were not heavily celebrated in provincial capitals, hinterland people
would not have been convinced of their importance or of the importance of tile
state's activities in providing nourishment for tile sun.
CONCLUSIONS
Aztec state religion was not necessarily geared to produce a uniform world-view
and a common value system within Tenochtitlan, nor to sanctit), the ruler in the
eyes of his subjects. Rather, it was intended to win the loyalty of a relatively small
target group, the young men who formed the core of the Aztec army. This
achievement-based system of social status cut across particularistic loyalties of
kinship and ethnicity. From the beginning, Aztec rulers rewarded both their own
warriors and men from other city-states who distinguished themselves in the
Aztec cause (Oman 1967: 11, 100). This centralized system of reward and prestige created a cohesive imperial force at the expense of various kinship groups,
ethnic groups, and local city-states.
In Tenochtitlan, members of commoner households were frequently exposed
to the sights and sounds of the cult wad-are and sacrifice, and, on occasion,
household members were drawn into these cult activities. Figmines from
Tenochtitlan indicate that commoner thinking came to incorporate some of the
definitions and priorities implicit in the imperial cult. But the ethnohistorical
record suggests that commoners had no special enthusiasm fc.>r imperial religion;
the warrior ideal was not often celebrated in monthly household rituals. Instead,
these rituals focused on commoners' own concerns: agricultmal fertility, successful childbirth, and good health.
Provincial clites may have embraced the cult of warfare and sacrifice. As
Michacl Smith (1986: 75) observes, the Aztec rulers invited provincial clites to
witness rituals in Tenochtitlan that involved massive human sacrifice. At these
festivals, provincial clites were given sumptuous gifts of clothing, jewels, and military insignia (Oman 1967: I1, 174-5,279,293,308-10, 325, 345,415-16,
437, and 483). It is possible, as M. E. Smith (1986) suggests, that the rituals and
gifts won over the regional elites and created a cultmally cohesive ruling class.
But if regional elites supported the cult ofwarf.lre, its influence is not apparent in the rituals that local rulers sponsored in provincial capitals. According to
the ethnohistoric record, rituals in provincial capitals joined many different
sectors of the local population in activities to ensure rain, fertility, and bountiful
309
310
Elizabeth M. Brumfiel
harvests. Archaeological investigations of peasant houses in the provinces are
consistent with the ethnohistoric record; they yield few indications of militarist
ideology (BrumfielI996; M. E. Smith in press).
This variation in ideology across divisions of age, gender, class, and locality
may be typical of ancient empires. Given the mosaic of economic, political, and
cultural circumstances in ancient empires (D'Altroy 1994; Morrison 1997a;
Sinopoli 1994a; Smith and Hodge 1994; G. Stein 1994) and the difficulties of
communication in the ancient world, it is probably unrealistic to expect that
whole empires could be integrated by a single dominant ideology. More likely,
dominant ideologies were specifically tailored and selectively deployed in ancient
empires to win the support of strategically important groups. In Tenochtitlan,
tllis was young men of fighting age, tlle core of the Aztec army.
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12
Inventing empire in ancient Rome
GregWoolf
INTRODUCTION
Ancient empires may be characterized as geographically extensive political entities. Most were ruled by elites who were often centrally located and internally
divided, and whose power was severely limited by low levels of surplus production and preindustrial communications and technology. Imperial aristocracies
thus depended on devolving a great part of their running costs on local elites of
various sorts: creoles, descendants of traditional rulers, new cadres recruited
from subject societies, and the like. Ancient empires were therefore of necessity
tolerant of regional diversity and their rulers set themselves modest goals, often
little more than maintaining their security against internal and external threats
and extracting sufficient profit to reward those on whom imperial power
depended. Despite, or perhaps because of, the resultant lack of homogeneity,
many ancient empires were very long lasting.
The early Roman empire of the first three centuries of the Common Era
broadly conforms to this pattern (Fig. 12.1; for general accounts see Garnsey
and Sailer 1987; Jacques and Scheid 1990; Goodman 1997). At the center an
imperial court coexisted with a senior (senatorial) and a junior (equestrian) aristocracy. Tensions existed between the emperors and the senate, within both the
senior and junior aristocracies and between aristocracies and the court. The
emperors' power was based on their control of the empire's finances, of its
administration, and of the standing army. But they also cultivated a reputation
for generosity and virtue with all sectors of society: especially with the army and
with the privileged populations of the capital and of Italy (Veyne 1976; Millar
1977). In the course of their conquest of the Mediterranean basin and its continental hinterlands, the Romans had absorbed kingdoms, cities and temple
states, federal leagues, and sedentary and semi-nomadic tribal societies ofvarious
types. The early empire was divided into provinces, but each governor presided
over a large number of semi-autonomous communities, most notionally organized as republics, but in f.1Ct differing from one another widely except in tlleir
duties to the Roman state, principally the maintenance of civil, social, and religious order. The communities of the empire had their own cults, constitutions,
generally their own laws, and often their own monetary systems (Lepelley 1998).
311
312
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Again, despite this diversity, the empire was very long lasting. Most ofit was eonquered in the last two centuries BeE, with expansion being most rapid in the
period 70 BC E to 10 C E. That period was also marked by a series of civil wars
that ushered in the monarchical system described above. Despite a brief crisis in
the third century C E, the emperors ruled the entire Mediterranean basin tCll' five
hundred years, and parts of it {c)r much longer.
Rome was more than simply a typical early empire: in some senses it was an
archetypal one. The repeated use of Rome as a model of empire, fi'om the
Christian and Islamic middle ages, through the early modern period into more
recent times, is well known. Moreland and MacCormack treat some of these
issues in their chapters in this volume, and a fldl account of the afterlife of Rome
would extend well into the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, to include the
overtly Roman styles of Napoleonic, Victorian, and l<ascist imperialisms. This
manner in which successive powers have elaimed Imperial Rome as a model or
analogy or predecessor of their own dominions is very germane to my argument,
as will emerge. There is even a danger that some of the coherence of our notions
of what an empire is may be due to the way rulers of successive empires have consciously attempted to rc-create Rome, and to the way Rome has provided, as
MacCormack points out, a cognitive model with which to understand other
empires.
But if Rome appears to us as an archetype of empire, the same was not true
t()l' the Romans. Hitler's Third Reich and Palmerston's "civis Brital1nicus sum"
were expressive slogans precisely because they appealed to preexistent notions of
what empire was. The first Roman emperor called himself the princeps, the first
man or leading figure in Rome; used the title imperator, literally "commander"
and an honor armies sometimes awarded their generals after victories; and
created a new honorific title AllgltstllS, which conveyed a helpfully vague sense
of numinous dignity. His successors imitated him, and in addition appropriated
his family name, Caesar. Augustus' titulature is explicable partly as political tact
he was attempting to minimize the violence his accession did to traditional
teJl'I11S and institutions and partly as an elaborate way to avoid the (locally) negative associations of kingship. But it was also an attempt to describe a role felt
(01' claimed) to be historically uniq ue.
The lack of precedent affected more than the title of the ruler. Nothing on the
scale of the Roman empire had existed bct()['e in the Mediterranean world.
Leading Greek cities had occasionally exercised some hegemonic power over
smaller areas, such as southern Greece, the Aegean Sea, or the eastern parts of the
island of Sicily. They expressed their position either in terms of alliances and
leagues, or metaphorically as in the trope of the "tyrant city." Beyond the
Mediterranean, Achaemenid Persia, discussed by Kmht (this volume), might
have provided a model, but the Persians were regarded as barbarous and as the
predecessors of Rome's only real rival power, the Parthians. The closest analogies
to Roman rule were the states set up by Alexander and his generals after they had
conquered and dismembered Achaemenid Persia. But their imagery of power,
derived It'om a mixture of Macedonian kingship and Persian precedent, and consciously an idiom developed {c)r an international community of states, was only
partially suitable f<lr Rome. For these reasons, and maybe others, Romans seem
to have IClt that they had no model or precedent t<lr their position in the world.
Instead they set about f;lshioning an understanding of their power as without peer
or precedent. This chapter explores some of the ways this was done.
AN IMPERIAL PEOPLE
The lirst emperor began the account of his own lite which, as he had requested,
was inscribed on a monumental inscription outside his tomb in Rome, and also
published throughout the empire, with the f()llowing words. "These are the
deeds pert<lI'll1ed by the deified Augllstus, by which he subjected the entire world
to the power (i1ll peril/m) of the Roman people" (Res Gestae DiJli AlIgusti).
Imperill1t1, the word usually translated as "empire," has a semantic range running
from "a command," through "the power (with its attendant religious rights) of
a Roman magistrate or general" to "hegemonic power held over other peoples
and places." It acquired the additional sense of "territorial empire" only in
that period of maximum expansion, a generation bct()t'e that of Augustus
(Richardson 1991). But the main reason tClr quoting Augustus here is to pick
313
314
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out the idea of empire as the power of the Roman people, a phrase that recurs
several times in tius inscription and is ubiquitous in Roman writing in contexts
where we would write "the Roman state." Treason, for example, was defined as
a crime against tile maiestas populi Romani, tile dignity of tile Roman people.
Allies were "allies of tile Roman people" and so forth.
Roman writers and orators in tilis respect followed, as in much else, Greek
precedent. Where we write of Atilens' war witil the Peloponnesian League,
ancient writers wrote of tile war between tile Athenians and tile Peloponnesians.
Polybius, a Greek intellectual and statesman who spent many years in Rome as
a hostage and became a confidant of some leading Roman aristocrats, began his
great lustory of Rome's conquest of tile Mediterranean by announcing his
subject as the process by which "control of almost tile entire world has, in less
tilan fifty-three years, come under the sole power of tile Romans" (Polybius
1.1.5). Ratiler than seeing what we tilink of as imperialism as the mastery by one
state of otiler states (or tribal peoples), Greek commentators and their Roman
imitators thought of it as the power of one people over others .
The imperium of tile Roman people was not a mere metaphor or conventional
usage. Being a Roman citizen, however poor or of whatever status, conferred in the early imperial period - a whole series of privileges tilat were denied to the
richest and best-connected non-Roman subject. Rome certainly was a state, but
Romans tended to speak of themselves as a people first. It helped that Roman
ethnicity coincided closely with Roman citizenship. Citizens served in elite military units and were paid more for doing so; they had access to imperial law and
could hold office in the imperial administration; they could inherit from and
marry other citizens; they were spared the more arbitrary and brutal forms of
judicial investigation and punishment; and so on. Roman imperialism might be
glossed ethnic domination, a dominance exercised not through rank, class,
wealth, or gender but by virtue (and, as will emerge, Romans would have understood "virtue" literally here) of membership of a particular people.
It is not easy to know at what point Romans first came to think of themselves
as an "imperial" people. The earliest Latin literature was not produced until the
third century BC E, and the first su bstantial prose in the early second centl\l'y.
Equally, despite some passing references in earlier works, the first significant
account of Rome by an outsider was that of Polybius, composed in the early
second centl\l'y BC E. In other words, we know little of Roman attitudes before
Roman expansion beyond Italy was well underway.
It is not entirely a matter of chance that our first reliable evidence for Roman
imperialism coincides with the period when Roman expansion was at its height.
The attention of Greek writers was first drawn to Rome by the expansion of its
power. More importantly, Latin literature was in part created as a response to the
Greek literatl\l'es tllat the Romans encountered as their power expanded. Roman
ways of describing themselves underwent numerous transformations, but from
as early as we can hear their voices, Romans are declaring "We are not Greeks":
InJJenting empire in ancient Rome
for tile most part via media adopted from Greek sources. The invention of Latin
literature can be seen in this context. While writing was in widespread use in tile
polyglot world of the Mediterranean fi'om at least tile fifth century BC E, literatures were very rare, and most were written in Greek. Some early Roman
writing f.'llls into this category, but in tile tilird century B CE - at around tile
same time Rome was establishing herself as a Mediterranean power - a series of
works began to appear in Latin, some translations of Greek works, some loose
adaptations of tilem, and some original works, yet virtually all in genres developed by the Greeks and all showing extensive knowledge of Greek literature and
myth. Creating a literatl\l'e of their own - a literature that both invited comparison with that of the Greeks and simultaneously expressed its difference from it
- was one way in which Romans began to construct tilemselves as a world power.
The fullest representations of the imperial character of the Roman people were
created a little later. Under Augustus and his immediate successors an educational canon was established based on a selection of works composed in tile last
generation of the Republic by Cicero, Sallust, Caesar, and others, together with
some works produced under (and sometimes commissioned for) Augustus. This
too formed part of the development of a consciousness of empire. The "classicization" of Latin Iiteratl\l'e was a cultl\l'al project, to some extent consciously
directed to provide the Romans with a high cultl\l'e equal to that of the Greeks,
and appropriate to their new status as rulers of the world. Vergil's Aeneid and
Livy's History offered new formulations of Roman identity, of the Romans'
shared past, of their destiny, and of their special relationship to the gods and the
cosmic order.
It is easy for modems to dismiss literature as a relatively peripheral area of cultl\l'al activity, enabled by wider social and political changes and commenting on
them, and relatively lightweight in the hierarchy of causes as opposed to effects.
But there are good reasons to think that literatl\l'e was rather more central to
Roman cultlJl'e. Emperors and aristocrats patronized, and sometimes wrote, Iiteratll1'e. Literary representations of the past were closely related to those on
monuments and those dramatized in festivals. The study of literatlJl'e and practice of rhetoric were central to the educational canon. Finally "subversive" books
might, under the empire, be burned and their authors exiled or executed. The
centrality of literary activity in Roman cultlJl'e and Roman politics seems patent.
What sort of imperial ethnicity did Latin writers f.'lshion for the Roman people
at the turn of the millennium? Each formulation differed in details, even when
more or less authorized versions appeared in the Latin canon and in the inscriptions and other monuments of the capital. Any abbreviated account l'lIns the risk
of gross oversimplification, but a few central themes may be emphasized.
To begin, as has been mentioned, Latin accounts established for themselves a
complex relationship with their Greek models (Feeney 1998; Hinds 1998). The
Romans' collective story too was to be ancient, its origins set in the mythical age
with links to be established with the Fall of Troy, the travels of Herakles, the
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Greg Woolf
oracle of Delphi, and other central figures, narratives, and places of Greek myth.
These stories, together with the genres in which they were related, served to
orientate Latin literature and Roman sensibility on Greek models, and to establish Greekness as a point of reference against which Romanness was to be
defined.
Specifically Roman concerns and emphases established the difference as well
as the comparability of the Roman past. Greek foundation stories, for example,
stressed the common descent of a given people from demi-gods, founders,
heroes, and the like, an emphasis that sometimes led to the creation of elaborate
genealogies and fictive kinships. Divine ancestors (several) featured in Roman
myths too. But from Cato's Origines, written in the early second century B CE,
through to the versions that became canonical around the reign of Augustus,
more stress was placed on narratives of successive incorporation, of new arrivals
and additions to the Roman people. Trojan rehlgees married Italian princesses,
Romulus stocked his new city with wanderers from all Italy, women were kidnapped from the Sabines, noble families claimed Greek or Etruscan ancestors,
and so on. The story of Rome was told as the story of the emergence of a strong
martial, moral, pious character type from very mixed stock.
But in tension with these successive stories of recruitment were successive tales
of division and conflict (J. Henderson 1998): the wars the Trojans fought against
Italians when they arrived, the fratricidal murder of Remus by the city's founder
Romulus, the conflict between the patrician aristocracy and the plebeian
commons, the exiled Coriolanus leading enemies against Rome. If some stories
represent civil strife averted, others show the consequences of conflicts that are
not. The unity of Rome, repeatedly established and repeatedly placed in jeopardy, is a constant theme of accounts of Rome's origins and early history.
Roman ethnicity was unusual in the ancient Mediterranean world in the relative unimportance given to descent (Woolf 1998: 48-76). Descent from Romans
did confer membership of the Roman people, but citizenship was also liberally
awarded to former allies, subjects, and even some defeated enemies and exslaves. Romanness carried moral and cultural obligations, and conforming to
these was not easy even for emperors. Romans were also one of only a small
group of peoples who spoke Latin, and by stages annexed the wider Latin ethnicity until Latinitas denoted a limited form of citizenship. Roman identity also
had a religious component: Rome had its own gods and ritual system, controlled
by the Roman elite, who were carehll to naturalize any foreign cults permitted
to enter.
Finally, Roman ethnicity was closely linked to Roman citizenship. While
Greeks lived in hundreds of autonomous city-states, the Roman people was, and
always had been, a political as well as an ethnic community. Although the admission of citizens was as carehllly controlled as the admission of new gods and cults,
the f.1Ct that Roman ethnicity was thought of largely as a matter of custom, cult,
and language had important implications for the recruitment of individuals and
communities to the Roman people. Conversely, the close links between political
ImJenting empire in ancient Rome
unity, religious and cultural conformity, and Roman identity meant that cultural
change, religious dissent, and especially political division were particularly
threatening to Romans' collective sense of self. The two preoccupations I have
been picking out - the idea of Rome as a melting pot, and that of Rome as an
ever-threatened unity - are therefore easy to understand in the period in which
Romans were building an empire against the backdrop of constant civil war.
EMPIRE AS COSMIC DOMINION
By creating a new literature the Romans mobilized existing symbols to construct
a new tradition. A tradition was needed so that Roman achievements might
stand out as unique and unprecedented. Other examples of this mode of selffashioning might have been chosen for discussion. For instance, a number oflate
Republican generals and early imperial princes seem to have shared a f.1scination
with Alexander the Great. However unsuitable in some respects - as a king, as a
Greek (or barbarian Macedonian), as lacking in Roman dignity - the scale of his
conquests and the subsequent use of his image, titles, and so forth by successive
Hellenistic dynasties, made him an obvious standard against which Roman
generals might measure themselves (and be measured). Pompey adopted
Alexander's title "The Great" and also his hairstyle; Caesar was said to have wept
before a statue of Alexander, in shame at his own meager achievements; Antony
named one of his sons by Cleopatra after him; Augustus visited his tomb, while
Caligula raided it so he could wear Alexander's breastplate in a parade. A second
instance would be the effort expended by many of the same individuals to rebuild
Rome in a style comparable to (but of course more splendid than) the greatest
Greek cities of the eastern Mediterranean - above all Athens, Pergamon and
Alexandria. New porticoes, theaters, and huge Hellenistic piazzas transformed
Rome, in two generations, from a ramshackle urban sprawl with a few tu fa
temples in the center, to a city of huge vistas and planned monumental complexes, finished with marble and other imported stones, and adorned with
complex iconographic programs (Zanker 1987).
But in this section, I want to move the focus to a second - complementary strategy used by Romans to establish a sensibility of the empire. This strategy
involved relating Roman identity and history to a series of cosmological and
natural "constants" against which Roman power might be stabilized, justified,
explained, and understood.
Consider, for example, the relationship between the Roman empire and its
geographical environment, that world over which the power of the Roman
people extended. Passages in which Augustus and Polybius each claim that Rome
effectively ruled the entire world have already been quoted. The idea of world
rule is also expressed clearly in a series of images portraying Augustus holding a
globe. Vergil's Aeneid has Jupiter promise the Romans imperiwm sine fine
(Limitless power? An empire with no frontier? An empire with no end in time?).
It is easy to dismiss these claims as hyperbole, as gross exaggeration. But claims
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Greg Woolf
of this kind are very common in the way empires have portrayed themselves,
despite their obvious falsehood. Yates in this volume discusses the cosmological
claims of the Son of Heaven who ruled over the Middle Kingdom, outside of
which were only barbarians. The Thousand Year Reich and the Sun Never
Setting on the English Flag belong to the same mode of representing empire.
In the case of Rome, claims to have conquered the world first appeared in the
period of most rapid expansion, and continued to be proclaimed throughout
the imperial period (Brunt 1990). Successive conquests were accompanied by
the writing of new geographies, and of a closely allied genre, "universal" histories. Many of these were written, like that of Polybius, by Greek intellectuals
with close connections to Roman leaders (Momigliano 1975). Again there are
precedents in the work of intellectuals working in the wake of Alexander's conquests. In Rome this activity provided the basis for pageants, and for monumental displays like the huge map of the world set up by Augustus' lieutenant
Agrippa (Nicolet 1988). Outside the capital, triumphal arches represented
Romans defeating western and eastern barbarians alike. On monuments and in
monumental histories Romans celebrated the conquest of the Alps and the
Pyrenees, the crossing of the Ocean and mastery of great rivers like the Rhine,
the Danube, and the Euphrates. Augustus' Res Gestae (26) again provides a
good example.
Of all the provinces of the Roman people on the borders of which were peoples
who were not subject to our ;1I1pc,.iuw I extended the frontiers. The Gallic and
Spanish provinces, and German}' too, all that the Ocean encloses from Cadiz to
the mouth of the river Elbe, I pacified. The Alps, from the part next to the
Adriatic to that bordering the Tyrrhenian Sea, I made peaceful but waged unjust
war against no people in the process. My fleet sailed through the Ocean from
the mouth ofthe Rhine eastwards to the borders of the Cimbri lone of Rome's
ancestral enemies] where no Roman had gone before that time, neither by land
nor sea: the Cimbri and the Charydes, the Semnones and the other German
peoples of that region sent ambassadors to ask for my friendship and that of the
Roman people. At my order and under my auspices, two armies were led at virtually the same time into Ethiopia and into that part of Arabia known as Arabia
fclix and in each case a great mass of enemies were cut down in battle and many
of their fortresses were captured. In Ethiopia the army reached Nabata on the
borders of Meroc and in Arabia the army reached the frontier of the Sabaeans
and the town of Mariba.
The relationship between imperialism and geography is in all periods a complex
phenomenon. Conquests and military expeditions provided new information,
and the establishment of administrative infrastructure - roads, frontiers, provincial boundaries, and the like - depended on geographical research. It is not surprising that generals writing dispatches and orchestrating triumphal pageants
sought to magnify their achievements by representing themselves as having been
the first to cross such and such a boundary, or to have conquered the whole of
such and such a region. The physical world represented a fixed standard against
Inpenting empire in ancient Rome
which achievement could be measured. It is an easy step to see the exploration
and systematic description of the world as one way of mastering it.
Roman writers and leaders also appealed to other kinds of absolutes. One
explanation of Roman success was to see it as a result of the virtue and piety of
great Romans, both the heroic figures of the past stretching back to the mythical founders, and more recent leaders up to and including the emperors themselves. A series of statues of these summi piri, foremost men, formed part of the
monumental program of the new Forum of Augustus. Livy's history correlated
an account of Roman triumph, disaster, and recovery with a narrative of virtue,
decline, and moral rearmament. Political debate was suffused with a discourse of
morality (Edwards 1993), and the immorality of princes was felt to lie behind
many of the occasions on which the unity of the Roman people had been put in
jeopardy.
These ideas might be expressed in a religious idiom. Roman religion, like
other aspects of Roman culture, was defiantly "not-Greek." Like Roman etl1l1icity, it was closely intertwined with the political contours of the state (for an
account, see Beard et al. 1998). Augustus' Res Gestae and Aeneas' journey to
Rome are infused with their respective pie ties, and both men became gods after
their deaths. All Romans, in theory, worshipped the gods of Rome who were
worshipped in quite the right way and form by no other peoples. That exclusive
relationship makes it unsurprising that the rise of the Roman people to greatness
came to be represented as a result of divine favor, that the Roman people had a
mandate from heaven to rule the world: subject of course to the continued virtue
and piety of their leaders (Brunt 1978). Some traces of this view are already
apparent in the early second century BC E in the tone of inscriptions recording
dealings with other states (Ferrary 1988; North 1993), but the transition from
justilYing wars as individually just to regarding all wars as justified seems to have
occurred in the late Republic when both views can be attested in the writings of
Caesar and Cicero.
Closely cohering with these cosmological perspectives - by which Romans
were centered in relation to the world, to moral values, and to the gods - was a
developing sense that the Romans had a civilizing mission, again at heaven's
bidding, to preserve what had been invented but then lost by Greeks, and to disseminate it throughout the world (Woolf 1994, 1995). Romans' dealings with
various subject nations were strongly influenced by the role they assigned each
in a geography and history of the spread of civilization. Equally, metropolitan
culture, from literary polemics on the conduct of emperors to the games in the
arena, revolved around the patrolling of a set of norms conceived of as normative not just for Romans, but for all mankind.
Much more might be said on all these topics, and on other areas where
Romans expressed their position as unique in relation to some supposedly fixed,
absolute standard. The imperial cult is onc case in point (Price 1984); so too are
the development of a Roman notion of "barbarism," and the use of Stoic philosophy and of law to provide intellectual descriptions of the social order. But
319
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Greg Woolf
the general pattern is clear. Romans developed a sense of empire partly in relation to external frames of reference.
BELIEVING IN EMPIRE
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The previous sections have sketched out two sets of procedures by which
Romans made tlleir power and historical situation appear special: special in relation to (non- )precedent, and special in relation to eternal verities. Other procedures might be uncovered, just as other examples of the two I have discussed
might be found. But together these two suggest some preliminary answers to
tile question: how did Romans represent their power in ways tllat we recognize
as "imperial"?
The issue matters for the comparative student of empires in several ways. Most
obviously, despite Rome's creation of one archetype of empire, not every empire
was a successor to Rome. Something like this idea of empire has been invented
on several occasions in world history. Yates' chapter on China and Kuhrt's on
Persia (this volume), and some other cases, for example Egypt (see Kemp 1978),
suggest that my second stratagem - what might be called the cosmological naturalization of power, perhaps a variant on Weber's "theodicy of good fortune"
(Gordon 1990) - has been a widespread device. Empire seems often to have
been represented as part of the exclusive character of one polity or of a Chosen
People like MOl'eland's Franks (this volume). It is less easy to think of other
examples of the construction of empire by differentiation from supposedly nonimperial precedents: perhaps in this respect the Romans were unusual.
The nature of these claims and ideas is also important for the definition of
empire, an essential prerequisite of comparative analysis, and by no means an easy
first stage in this case. Many of the characteristics of empire sketched in the first
paragraph of this chapter are true of all states. The main exception, size, is a difficult one to operationalize, given the huge variations in our sample. The study
of imperial ideals provides an additional approach, and onc which makes use of
the perceptions of those who inhabited, lived, suffered, and dreamed empires.
How many of the latter did accept these ideas, and with what degree ofskepticism? Many subjects of the Roman empire may be presumed to have lived as
if the Roman order was in some senses natural and eternal, and in tunc with
cosmological verities. The image of empire Romans had fashioned was made
accessible through a variety of media. Perhaps the most complex formulations
were those presented in the Latin literature through which most of the e1ites of
the empire, and some others, were educated. The close connection between
education, social mobility, and acculturation suggests these representations
played a role similar to that envisaged by Brumfiel (this volume) for what she
terms Aztec ideology in creating an imperial elite by binding local elite groups
to the empire.
But we are not dealing simply with the beliefs of the elite. Most Roman subjects may have been illiterate, but images on statues, on architecture, on coins,
InpC1'lting empire in ancient Rome
and in many otller contexts presented versions of tile same ideas. Emperors were
represented as heroes, as conquerors in military costume, as benefactors in civic
dress; their images were associated with personifications of plenty, victory, and
peace and of course with portrayals of tile gods and of their predecessors - categories that overlapped in some cases. Those motifs recur on gemstones and in
private architecture, suggesting that some at least internalized tllat world-view.
Ideas of empire were also dramatized in festivals, for example the annual celebration, in every city and province and army camp of the empire, of tile imperial
cult, with its attendant gladiatorial combats in which deviants, criminals, and
aliens were slaughtered in a celebration of the repeated victory of cosmic order
over chaos. Those festivals were just some of the events marked on civic calendars, realigned since Augustus' reign on to imperial time, and punctuated by
imperial birtlldays and accessions. Civic coinages bore the emperor's image,
which was also ubiquitous in public spaces, in bath-houses, in temples, and in
the houses of the wealtllY.
While it is impossible to assess the degree of conviction with which Romans
and their subjects accepted these notions, it is clear that tile world tlley inhabited was shaped by these visions of empire. Empire was inscribed in the way time
was measured and dates and years calculated. It was imprinted on the coinage of
the empire; it structured the syllabus for those who went to school; it fixed the
holidays for everyone and shaped the built environment of the cities of the
empire in which celebrations took place. And through cult, empire was written
in the stars. Empire, personalized - as in China - in the bodies, lives, and figures
of individual emperors, was everywhere visible.
Most tellingly, what intellectual resistance existed reflected Roman images of
empire. Romans had created empire partly by differentiating themselves from
traditions, the prestige of which they thereby authorized. Those traditions mostly Greek - were as a result available as the basis for subversive and variant
accounts. Alcock's chapter (this volume) discusses in detail the reuse of the
Greek past in the Roman empire, but a few additional examples may be suggested here. Onc was the creation of a sequence of empires, evident for example
in the Panegyric of Rome composed in Greek by Aelius Aristides. The notion of
empire constructed by Rome was thus projected back in time to give a new status
to, for example, the power of Macedonians, Spartans, and Athenians, while
Rome's cosmological claims to eternal power were tacitly undermined by presenting Romans as (merely) the latest (but not necessarily the last) imperial
people.
If the Greeks were able to draw on a past authorized by Rome, the same was
not true of those subjects, mostly in the west of the empire, whom Roman views
of the world had relegated to, in Eric Wolf's famous (1982) phrase, "people
without history." Rather than authorize their pasts, Rome had offered westerners a reassuring place in the imperial and thus the cosmic order. If their ancestors had been barbarians, so too had been the ancestors of all Romans. If their
ancestors' barbarism explained (and justified) their conquest, the f.1Ct that they
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themselves were now civilized offered them a place in the divinely sanctioned
destiny of the Roman people, conquering those who were still barbarous, and
recruiting them to an empire in which they now had a share. As a result, there
is no sign of any distinctive intellectual resistance in the West, and something
similar may have applied to non-Greek traditions and identities in much of the
Roman Near East (Millar 1993b).
Challenges also emerged from within Roman culture, and again these traced
the contours of imperial myths and imagery. Greek cultural confidence continued to dent Roman cultural self-esteem, by resisting the claims of Latin literature to have surpassed and superseded Greek (Swain 1996). More dramatically,
the very tactic Roman writers of the Golden Age had turned against those Greeks
they constructed as their predecessors was turned against them by Latin writers
oflater periods. Lucan produced an epic poem closely modeled on Vergil's, but
based it on the fall of the Roman Republic, stripped out the gods, heroized the
opponents of Caesar, and so attacked the cultural foundations of the empire.
Similarly Juvenal's satires mobilized the literary and ethical bases of Roman selfdefinition to attack Romans as uncultured and immoral. As each generation of
L'ltin writers devoted their energy to rendering their predecessors obsolete, they
destabilized Roman understandings of their imperial identity.
Other challenges were aimed at Rome's cosmological pretensions. Florus
(1.1), for example, attributed the collapse of the Romans' conquest of the world
to the "laziness of the Caesars." When the emperors of the third century CE
failed to ensure the peace and prosperity of the empire against barbarian raids,
their prestige collapsed dramatically into fifty years of rebellions and assassinations, coups and counter-coups. That the Romans and their subjects shared these
cosmological perspectives is indication enough of the centrality of Roman imperial ideals in creating and sustaining the fact of empire and shaping the thoughtworld of its inhabitants.
13
The re configuration of tnemory in the
eastern Roman empire
Susan E. Alcock
Some very odd things happened in the Greek east under Roman rule. A 500year-old temple was carefully demolished, transported, and rebuilt in the center
of the city of Athens. Once every two weeks, a procession wound its way through
Ephesos, following a route designed to highlight the city's antique origins and
sacred history. A shrine dedicated to worship of the Roman emperor was placed
inside a Bronze Age tholos tomb some 2000 years old. Audiences packed theaters to hear rhetorical performances upon such topics as "Demosthenes swears
that he did not take the bribe of 50 talents" - this some four or five centuries
after Demosthenes was dead. Mythological tales, such as the voyage of the
Argonauts, were assigned precise topographical locations in the present-day
landscape, local priests and tour guides bitterly opposing any alternative suggestions. Visits were paid to the tomb of the fifth-century BC E Athenian leader
Pericles, and spectators watched revivified antique customs, for example a rite in
which young men were apparently whipped away from the altar of Artemis
Orthia in Sparta.
This list, which could be greatly extended, testifies to what has been called an
"obsession with the past" in the Greek provinces of the Roman empire (very
roughly, modern-day Greece and Turkey; Fig. 13.1). Long acknowledged, the
phenomenon has remained very poorly understood, most often being unsympathetically viewed as escapist nostalgia on the part ofa defeated people whose past
was bigger than their present. Only recently has this dismissive attitude been
challenged, and the "presence of the past in the present" been taken seriously as
an active clement in the Greek response to Roman imperial rule. This reevaluation of Greek cultural archaism, quite rightly, is taking many forms. Yet at heart
what is at stake here is a matter of collcctiJlc 'I'flc'I'flory: what to remember and to
celebrate, and what to forget. The Greeks of the Roman empire made certain
memorable choices, as do all peoples incorporated within imperial systems.
Considering the role and the power of social memory in imperial societies will
help to answer both particular questions (why bother to move an old marble
temple?) and more general ones (how does any society remember its past, as its
present and future are reshaped through the interventions of others?).
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SOCIAL MEMORY AND THE STUDY OF EMPIRES
Undcr discussion hcrc is social mcmory, thc I11cmory not of individuals but of
largcr groups such as f:lmilics, communitics, or nations, thc mcmory that "idcntifics a group, giving it a scnsc 0(' its past and defining its aspirations fc)r thc
lilturc" (Conncrton 1989; Assmann 1992; Fcntrcss and Wickham 1992: 25;
Gillis 1994). Intcrdisciplinary work in rcccnt dccadcs has radically transtclI'Illcd
prcvious conccptions of mcmory as a static rcscrvoir to bc visitcd and tappcd
whcn ncccssary (on ancicnt and mcdicval altitudcs to mcmory: F. A. Yatcs 1966;
Carruthcrs 1990; Coleman 1992; Small 1997). Instcad, social mcmory is now
charactcrizcd as dynamic, as multiple, and as powcrful. Acknowlcdging its volatility gocs back to thc carly theorist of collective memory, Maurice Halbwachs,
who argued in works such as I,cs Catircs sociall:>: dc /11 lt11:1II0il'c that people
remember (or fc)rget) their past according to the needs and stimuli of their
present (Halbwaehs 1975 [19251,1941,1950,1992; Button 1993: 73-90).
Halbwachs also established the multiple nature ofsocialmemOl'Y, the realization
that difh:rent groups posscss difkrent remembrances or remember the same
things in different ways; in other words, difkrent IIICIIIII1')' ClIlllltlllllitics everywhere exist (Burke 1989: 1(7). Sometimes variant versions of the past coexist
peacdillly; sometimes they come into conflict as counter-memories collide with
more dominant discourses (Foucault 1977; Appadumi 1981; Nora 1989;
Wickham 1994). Finally, social ml'mor)/ is perceived as a political tCH'Cl' to be
reckonl'd with. Patrick Gcary, in a study ofelevl'llth-century Europl', put it most
flatly: "Those who could control thl' past could direct the tilture" (Geary 1994:
6). Social memory offers an arena tc)r political contestation, with different agents
seeking to harness its inhercnt dynamism and multiplicities and to bend the past
to their own ends.
This combination of attributes fickle, multiple, persuasive, highly charged makes social memory a fascinating space to watch, and increasing numbers of
studies, notably in history, anthropology, and sociology, arc doing just that. So
far, most of these studies lie in the early modern or modern world, especially the
"invented traditions" of the nation-state, although studies of earlier periods also
exist (modern: e.g., Hobsbawm and Ranger 1983; Alonso 1988; B. Anderson
1991; Zerubavcl 1995; pre-modern: e.g., Geary 1994; Foxhall 1995; ]onker
1995; WoolI' 1996). All of these studies share two basic premises. First, groups
remcmber and fc)rget (or fc)rget and then remember, or "invent" and remember) in a dynamic and meaningfiIl f:lshion through time. And second, such fluctuations in memory inevitably and profclUndly shape our own understanding of
the past. I I' these premises arc accepted, then social memory becomes a central
and unavoidable issue: "\Ve swim in the past as fish do in water, and cannot
escape fh)m it. But our modes of living and moving in this mediulll require
analysis and discussion" (Hobsbawl11 1972: 17).
"Living and moving" in the fluid realm of social memory appears to me a
natural topic fc)r the analysis of premodern empires. Already manifest is a
growing interest in the consequences of imperial activity fc)r conquered or incorporated peoples, the challenges offered to their sense of local coherence, the
degree to which they offered some fCll'lll of group resistance (e.g., fc)r the Roman
world, Webster and Cooper 1996; Mattingly 1997; Van DOlllmclen 1998).
Disquiet along these lines quite obviously reflects the anxieties of scholars living
themselves in a postcolonial world. What so f~lI' has been less explicitly drawn is
the connection between such enquiries and the study of social memory, the academic vogue fc)r which is also unashamedly linked to contemporary concerns ([ ,e
Gof'/' 1988; Davis and Stam 1989; Thclen 1989; Vidal- Naquel 1992).
I f' social memory is never inert, reworking of the past is most pronounced in
periods ofdralllatic social transf()('Jllation. Empires, notably in their initial stages
of' creation and expansion, emerge as strong candidates fc)r thc manipulation of'
memories, both by core powers and by peripheral peoples. Empires also ofkr an
intriguing range of' possible agents fc)r such reslTuct lII'ing of the past, ft'om
emperors to imperial administrators, /i'om local clites to the silent majority of'the
population. That conquerors mess with people's minds is a standard trope of
imperial studies, although highly visible acts, such as the destruction of revered
monulllcnts or the snatching o/'sacred images, arc Illore often discussed in terms
of displaying power or disrupting loyalties, than of rewriting local memories.
Fewer attempts have been made to analyze the transmutations of memory,
including the generation of counter-memories, that emerged fi'om within incorporated societies themselves (Abercrombie 1998; on representations of altered
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Susan E. Alcock
memories, see A. G. Miller 1991; Kiichler 1993}. The diversity of empires is such
that no single trajectory for social memory should be expected; in fact, this is
another means by which contrasts, both between and within imperial systems,
can be mapped. What cannot be contested, however, is that empires, however
apparently distant or non-interventionist, will inevitably touch and transform the
collective memory of groups within tl1eir ambit.
How do societies remember?
To assess tl1e twists and turns that social memory may take following imperial
annexation, it is first necessary to have some sense of how societies remember.
Connerton has highlighted the role of commemorative rituals, such as observances at war memorials, in transmitting shared memories and in creating an
arena where tl1ey could be absorbed or argued; elsewhere emphasis has been
placed upon written records (notably archival traditions) and oral lore, as well as
upon personal autopsy of commemorative activities (Baker 1985; Blu·ke 1989;
Connerton 1989; Zerubavel 1995). Of tl1ese possibilities, premodern empires
often offer written histories and textual accounts of commemorative rituals, but
these will primarily, in some cases even exclusively, reflect a limited and elite point
of view. Recovering social memory - in at least some of its intricacy - in early
empires requires otl1er forms of investigation and other categories of evidence.
The material sphere, of course, also holds keys to the remembrance of the past.
It is almost a truism to say that places summon up (or discourage) certain memories, and that memories recall particular places. From poetry to psychological
experimentation, from Cicero to Proust, a range of approaches and authors converge to agree that memory is spatially contextualized (Bachelard 1964; Casey
1987: 181-215; Neisser 1989; Nora 1989; Coleman 1992: 39-59; Tilley 1994:
26-9; FalTell 1997). Halbwachs emphasized this spatial setting, for example
coining the term cadre materiel to describe traces of the past inherent in the
physical topography within which people live, move, and remember. In
Connerton's words, Halbwachs:
went on to show how no collective memo!"}' can exist without reH::rence to a
socially specific spatial framework. That is to say, our images of social spaces,
because of their relative stability, give us the illusion of not changing and of
rediscovering the past in the present. We conserve our recollections by referring
them to the material milieu that surrounds us. It is to our spaces - those which
we occupy, which we frequently retrace with our steps, where we always have
access, which at each moment we are capable of mentally reconstructing - that
we must turn our attention, if our memories are to reappear. Our memories are
located within the material and mental spaces of the group.
(Connerton 1989: 37)
Halbwachs, and those who followed, corrected, and further developed his ideas,
saw these material spaces as encompassing a broad spectrum: dwellings, streets,
Reconfiguration of memory in the eastern Roman empire
urban designs, monuments, ruins, landscapes (Halbwachs 1941; Jonker 1995:
16-22). All tl1ese, of course, are familiar territory to tl1e archaeologist.
In order to track tl1e locations of social memory, this material framework can
be broken into two rough categories for consideration. First come monumentsplaces, structures, or objects deliberately designed, or subsequently agreed, to
provoke memories and often to serve as the site of commemorative rituals
(Harvey 1979; Schwartz 1982; Lowenthal1985; Azaryahu 1993; Bradley 1993;
Rowlands 1993; Tatum 1995). What happens at these sites will be essential in
tracing discontinuities in remembrance: "by their very construction [monuments] are difficult to eliminate from human memory, but when tl1at does
happen it offers one of the most promising routes to the study of social change"
(Bradley 1993: 5).
Monuments are obvious things to consider, but when mapped against the full
range ofHalbwachs' cadre materiel, they form only part of the context of social
memory. The second category to monitor is the matrix within which monuments
are placed, the more general physical framework of people's lives: urban organization, settlement patterns, land divisions, the distribution of holy places, and
so on. For want of a better term, landscape, a heavily used but usefully capacious
concept, can be applied to this second domain (Morphy 1993). Such a scale
might appear unwieldy - what isn't part of a landscape? - but it would be a
mistake to leave such elements out of consideration, for they too were involved
in strategies of social power: "The analysis of any space brings us up against the
dialectical relationship between demand and command, along with all its
attendant questions: 'Who?', 'For whom?', 'By whose agency?', 'Why and
how?"'(Lefebvre 1991: 116}.
Monuments then might testify most immediately to changes in commemorative practices, in what was considered worthy to remember or wise to forget .
Stability or disruption in the landscape could point to conditions favorable for
either conservation or loss of memories, as normal patterns of transmission and
reinforcement were maintained or disturbed. Monuments, settlement patterns,
urban organization, sanctuaries: these are well-established subjects for archaeological investigation, providing standard evidence for analyzing economic,
social, and ritual dimensions of imperial control and provincial response. It
would seem that an archaeological contribution to the study of social memory
may require not so much new targets for fieldwork, as a reassessment and reuse
of data already in hand. Making a different argument about "sites of memory,"
Nora sensed the same thing: "This is what makes the history of lieux de memoire
at once banal and extraordinary. Obvious topics, classic material, sources ready
at hand, the least sophisticated methods: one would think we were returning to
long outmoded historical methods. But such is not the case" (Nom 1989: 24).
The aim now is not only to chart how particular places and spaces were used and
transformed through time, but to ponder the impact such transformations may
have had upon the memories accommodated within them.
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Digging for memory
It is important to understand what archaeological investigations into social
memory can and cannot do. For example, while the scrutiny of places and monuments extends and amplifies the "visible spectrum" of remembrance, many
memories and memory communities will have left no recoverable traces. Nor are
the messages transmitted by monuments easily interpreted, an elusiveness which
abets their part in contestations over memory. "A monumental work ... has a
horizon of meanings: a specific or indefinite multiplicity of meanings, a shifting
hierarchy in which now one, now another meaning comes momentarily to the
fore, by means of - and for the sake of - a particular action" (Lefebvre 1991:
222 [original emphasis]; Lowenthal 1985: 243; Bradley 1987, 1993; Barrett
et al. 1991: 6-8). Exact interpretations of any monument must give way to a
range of readings, the precise content of the memories evoked to a spectrum of
possibilities - albeit a spectrum controlled by available textual and iconographic
sources. Analyses of diachronic human landscapes are, of course, no less
involved. This endeavor is not one for the faint of heart or for those fond of clearcut answers; it can be likened to mapping a dynamic and complicated terrain with
elaborate but often refractory instruments which on occasion break down completely. But the subject is too important to ignore.
What must, above all, be accepted is that the goal here is not to "retrieve past
minds" or to "remember for the forgotten" - resounding as such phrases
undoubtedly are, Commenting on the relationship of history and memory,
Patrick Hutton has remarked:
We cannot rethink what historical actors once thought. Even when memory
remains alive ... it has been endlessly revised, for living memor}' continually
updates the past to reflect present preoccupations. It is too malleable, therefore,
to be a reliable guide to the past. Commemorative representations, by contrast,
fix the past in images that historians may consider more objectively. Like watercourses that have run dry, these emptied forms provide testimony of the channels through which living memory once coursed, and so serve as our most
reliable means for reconstructing the traditions they have hewed out of the past.
History is commemorative, not because it resurrects living memory, but rather
because it is constructed out of these ruins of the imagination. (1994: 96-7)
What archaeology, through monuments and landscape, can contribute is a
reconstruction of those dry channels "through which living memory once
coursed," a reconstruction of the frameworks that guided memory and the constraints placed upon it, observing what was remembered and what consigned to
oblivion as societies were transformed in the process of imperial expansion.
GREEKS AND ROMANS
From this assessment of the vitality of social memory and the potential ofarchaeology for its investigation, we can return to the obsessed Greeks and their Roman
Reconfigttration of memory in the eastern Roman empire
rulers. For a long time, the relationship of Greeks to Romans was taken to be an
unusual case of reverse imperialism, of vanquished conquering victor: in the
words of the Roman poet Horace: "Greece, the captive, took her savage victor
captive, and brought the arts to rustic Latium" (Epistles 2.1.156). The profound
influence of Greek, or Hellenic, culture upon that of Rome, discussed by Woolf
(this volume), has tended to deflect analysis of Rome's impact upon Greek
society.
What instead attracted comment was the clear fascination their own past held
for Greeks in the early imperial period (first to third centuries CE), the centuries following the final consolidation of Roman rule in this area (usually associated with Augustus' defeat of Antony and Cleopatra at the Battle of Actium in
31 B CE). The past primarily, but not exclusively, celebrated was the "classical"
age of the fifth and fourth centuries BeE, an age of multiple and politically independent city-states and peoples. The term "Second Sophistic" has been loosely
applied to the literary and rhetorical output of the early imperial east; the name
derives from the author Philostratus (jl. c. 200 CE) who explicitly related the
sophists (prominent and often influential rhetoricians and educators) of his own
age with their "predecessors" - the first Sophistic of the classical era
(Philostratus, Lilies of the Sophists 1.481). In public performances, such men
spoke for Demosthenes or exhorted the Athenians to return to their villages after
the Peloponnesian War battle of Aegospotami - which occurred in 405 BeE.
Fascination with the past took on a variety of manifestations, ranging from such
sophistic displays on antique topics, to the use of a pure form of Attic Greek
based on classical models, to the giving of hallowed names such as Achilles or
Theseus, to the employment of archaic systems of dating or measurement, to the
use of old-fashioned styles in inscriptions, to the writing of "guidebooks" (such
as Pausanias' Description of Greece) which lingered on antiquities, while frequently disregarding more recent monuments (Howic 1974). While remembrance and glorification of previous epochs had been a pronounced feature in
Greek self-presentation before the Roman conquest, obsession seems not too
strong a word for this investment in the past on the part of a provincial people.
The world of the Second Sophistic
As already observed, the world of the Second Sophistic long dismayed classicists,
who found it a sad come-down from the truly memorable Hellenic past, that
classical history of independence, action, and glory (to quote just one example,
in the Second Sophistic: "one is not transported into a real world, but into a
sham one, a museum of fossils"; Van Groningen 1965: 52; also Reardon 1984;
Gleason 1995: xvii-xx). This assumption of decline, which runs in parallel to the
notion of reverse imperialism, helped to shape later assessments of the Greeks
under Roman rule, not least a relative lack of interest in the subject. Celebration
of periods of freedom, oblivion for periods of conquest: this is hardly an unusual
pattern in scholarship, and it was here compounded by the embarrassment of
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recognizing Greeks (perceived founders of western cultural achievement) as
powerless subjects, seemingly happy to harp nostalgically, and repetitively, on the
glories of their own history.
That sour dismissal - of obsession with the past, of the Greeks under Roman
rule - has not worn well. Objections have arisen on a number of levels. First,
other snldies, especially archaeological analyses, point to significant restructuring in many important spheres (not least urban landscapes and the rural sector):
this is not a region drifting into either stagnant passivity or terminal decline.
Second, in other contexts the phenomenon of cultural archaism has been recognized, not as mere "flight" from an unpleasant present, but as a deliberate
response to that present, a form of vital self-representation and prideful selfassertion (e.g., Pocock 1962; A. Cohen 1969; Eisenstadt 1969, 1973; Scott
1985: 178-9; A. P. Cohen 1989). Finally, most of the evidence so far adduced
has been drawn very much from the elite stratum of life in the Greek provinces.
One result of Roman rule, as so often in imperial settings and as documented
throughout this volume, was the promotion oflocal wealthy and well-born families, to carry the administrative burden for a remarkably understaffed imperial
bureaucracy. Elite families came to underwrite, and dominate, all aspects of provinciallife, and traces of their behavior inevitably are most obvious to us. But
they form only part of the picture.
What was essentially at issue among the Greeks of the early empire, of course,
was the selection and celebration of memory. The questions then become, to use
Peter Burke's formulation: "Who wants whom to remember what, and why?
Whose version of the past is recorded and preserved?" (1989: 107; cf. Davis and
Starn 1989: 2). More sophisticated attempts at addressing such questions have
begun to be made (Woolf 1994; Gleason 1995; Swain 1996; see also Millar
1969; G. Anderson 1993). For example, Simon Swain argues that the male
Greek elite were at work defining themselves both in relation to the Roman presence and in relation to those of lower political and economic status within their
own communities. For Swain, the turn to the past was no epiphenomenal cultural development, but "a feeling of great political importance touching on the
sources of power and rights to exercise it. We are concerned, in short, with the
culture-political identity the Greek elite now adopted." Links to the past gave
these men a "special confidence ... due to their perceived closeness to the classical Greeks" (Swain 1996: 6; also Glcason 1995: xxi, on rhetorical displays dramatizing the gap between educated and uneducated as "in no way arbitrary but
the result of a nearly biological superiority").
The attitudes of the imperial center have also come in for examination, for it
is clear that Roman respect, even veneration, for the Hellenic heritage aided in
converting that particular past into a "channel of communication" between conqueror and conquered, and into a potent resource for the latter (Woolf 1994;
Swain 1996: 78). In a frequently quoted letter, Pliny - himself a provincial
administrator in the east - wrote to a colleague who was on his way to serve as
Reconfigttration of memory in the eastern Roman empire
overseer to the free cities of the province of Achaia (mainland Greece and the
Cycladic islands):
Remember that you are sent to the province of Achaia, to the true and pure
Greece, where civilization and literature, and even agriculture are believed to
have originated ... Pay regard to their antiquity, their heroic deeds, and the
legends of their past. Do not detract from anyone's dignity, independence, or
even pride, but always bear in mind that this is the land which provided us with
justice and gave liS laws, not after conquering liS but at our own request. It is to
Athens you go and over Lacedaemon that you will rule, and to deprive them of
that last shadow and trace offreedom which is all that their title is, would be tile
harsh and wild act of a barbarian.
(Pliny, Epistles 8.24)
The letter's emphasis - on the past glories of the Greeks as their chief current
claim to respect - is very typical. The fate of a community, in terms of imperial
recognition and favor, was frequently linked to its mythic genealogy and history;
the undistinguished Arcadian village of Pall ante ion, for example, was made a free
and tax-free city on the grounds that Evander, a legendary settler of Rome, originally hailed from there (Pausanias 8.43.1-2). Examples of this type of pro motion-by-pedigree can be multiplied across the Greek east and over time; civic
genealogies, and t1ll1S civic ancestral memories, were reorganized to garner such
benefits (e.g., Spawforth and Walker 1986). Lest this center-periphery relationship sound serenely amicable, it should also be noted that apparently genuine
admiration for Greek achievements in the past could mingle effortlessly with
apparently genuine contempt for the Graccttli ("Greeklings") of the present.
If a handful of recent revisionist studies, placing the nostalgia of the Second
Sophistic in social and political context, has undoubtedly gone f.1r towards
problematizing the phenomenon, not all avenues have been explored. So far, for
instance, most work done in this area remains concentrated on literary and rhetorical texts for the period, thus maintaining a focus on central and elite behavior and more or less losing sight of the "ordinary people" who lie beyond the
scope of such sources (Swain 1996: 65,72,418). Nor have any of these studies
explicitly addressed in detail the topic of social memory in the Greek east,
although many of their observations and conclusions are highly pertinent to that
subject. What can be added at this point is a consideration of archaeological evidence, specifically the categories of landscape and of monuments, to broaden
reinvestigation of this turn to the past. In this necessarily bricfreview, four arguments will be put forward: first, that attachment to the past, across the spectrum
of Greek society, was more profoundly challenged by Roman annexation tllan
has previously been accepted; second, that memory theaters emerged to offset
this potential insecurity; third, that memories of the past, far from being isolated
or "frozen" in time, were incorporated and synthesized with emblems of the
present, creating entirely new conceptions of just what was memorable; and
fourth, that alternative memory communities can be discerned within this imperial society.
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Susan E. Alcocll
Landscape studies
What is most ironic about considering the Greek east as lands quietly musing on
past glories is the fact that the period witnessed radical transformations in certain
key areas. For the purposes of this chapter, these changes can be traced most
clearly in Achaia, or "Old Greece" itself, where substantial amounts of regional
survey work have been done (investigations elsewhere in the eastern provinces
are only patchily available, but equally fail to suggest an unchanged landscape).
One place to begin is with episodes of imperial interference in the landscape.
Several foundations of new cities and colonies took place, the extensive hinterlands for which were provided through the forced restructuring of previous territorial boundaries, and the populations for which were at least partially acquired
by forced resettlement from surrounding communities. In some cases, tllese displacements were accompanied by the destruction of city walls, or the removal of
cult images to the favored population celHers, Traces of land divisions in the
vicinity of the new foundations reveal fresh allocations of the land (for a review
of these developments see Alcock 1993: 129-71).
Such vigorous interventions in Greece are localized in both time and space.
They mainly occurred in the early years of imperial control (Julius Caesar and
Augustus are primarily responsible). They are chiefly to be found on the westel'l1
side of the peninsula, such as the colony at Pau'as or the "Victory City"
(Nikopolis) built by Augustus to commemorate Actium, or at important transit
points such as Corinth on the isthmus connecting central and southel'l1 Greece.
These foundations are usually considered as playing a part in stabilizing, consolidating, and economically encouraging those parts of Greece which, for various
reasons, were thought to be in particular need of imperial support. All true: but
they also significantly reconstructed the landscapes, topographic and symbolic,
that framed the memories oflocal peoples, and indeed of communities elsewhere
in Greece. Such dramatic changes were echoed in other parts of the peninsula
that served as battlegrounds for the Roman civil wars of the last centmy 13 C E:
vulnerable regions (such as Boeotia) saw several cities destroyed; Athens itself
was sacked. Again, these events are usually assessed in terms of economic or demographic consequences, but another dimension is their fundamental reworking
of community and cultic structmes, the social ft'amework of people's lives.
Moreover, Roman intervention signaled the introduction into the region of new
residents, and thus new memory communities: groups of foreign businessmen,
or the imported residents of foundations such as Corinth and Nikopolis, or the
"Romans who live in Patt'as" (e.g., Strabo 10.2.21; Rizakis 1997; C. K. Williams
1987).
Other changes in the landscape can be linked, more indirectly, to the imposition of Roman control. Around this time occmred one of the most radical alterations ever observed in Greek settlement patterns: the emptying out of the rmal
landscape as settlements, chiefly small-scale sites (farmsteads or hamlets), disappeared. The dating of this phenomenon is loose, in most smveys attributable
Reconfiguration of memory in the eastern Roman empire
only to the Hellenistic and Early Roman periods (c. fourth century BC E to third
century CE), although indications ti'om some regions place its beginning in tlle
late Hellenistic period (second to first century B C E, or the period when Roman
intervention, if not formal control, begins in Greece). How gradual, or abrupt,
this process may have been is difficult to discern, and survey's chronological
imprecision does not allow it to be associated solely with Roman activity
(although I would emphasize that link). The changes observed bespeak significant developments. First, a measure of decline in regional population numbers
is reflected, a trend lamented over (and undoubtedly exaggerated) in Greek and
Roman literary somces for the period. Second, a centuries-old custom of living
on the land, if only by a minority of the chiefly mban-dwelling Greek population, appears largely to have come to an end. And third, land holding patterns
arguably shift in favor of fewer and larger elite-owned properties, sometimes
marked by ostentatious villas or grandiose tombs which now, almost for the first
time, appear in the rural countryside.
If the human countryside was in a process of transformation so, it would
appear, was the sacred landscape. Archaeological evidence is of somewhat less
direct help here, but the testimony of the traveler Pausanias suggests that, while
many rural sanctuaries did endure, many were reported "in ruins" in his time
(second century CE). Again, the time-scale involved in this process is often
unclear, but some degree of correlation between human and divine abandonment of the countryside must be accepted. Elite financing of the major festivals
that did continue suggests that, to a great extent, they were in a position to
decide which cults survived and which did not (Spawforth 1989; Alcock 1993:
210-12; 1994).
These are complex developments, pieced together fi'om difficult and patchy
data; all are interrelated and, I would argue, all should be linked to changes
resulting fi'om, first the Roman presence in this area, and then its incorporation
into empire. The point here is not so much to explain the hows and whys of these
changes in "Old Greece," as to note what they left behind - which was a very
different countryside, in both the human and the sacred spheres.
Put all this evidence together, and the early imperial period in Greece emerges
not as a "museum," if by that is meant a ft'ozen, f()ssilized version of its former
self~ but as a very dynamic landscape. Obviously, not all these changes occurred
simultaneously, and it might be argued that some took place so gradually that
they would not be noticed, or seen as threatening, at all. While it is true that
massive changes can be routinely absorbed and assimilated, it must be remembered that the transformation witnessed here would also have been coupled with
other markers of an imperial presence - be it armies, tax demands, new types of
coinage, or the imperial cult. Literary testimonia do evince awareness and
concern about such issues as rural depopulation or the abandonment of sanctuaries, although these texts should be read as reflections of elite anxieties and not
as mirrors of what actually happened (e.g., Plutarch, The Obsolescence of Oracles;
Dio Chrysostom, Euboean Discourse [01" 7]). As fur the reactions of the mass of
333
334
SlIsall E. Alcod?
the population, we catch occasional glimpses in anecdotal f(ml1, such as the story
of the Aetolians who, when told to move to Augustus' fc)Undation at Nikopolis,
fled instead to join fellow Aetolians in the town of Amp hiss a (Pausanias 10.38.4).
vVhile wc remain uninf(Jt'med about how most inhabitants of the province saw
their changed world, it seems unlikely that they were indifferent to it or remained
passive within it.
From the perspective of theorists in social memory, the situation seems clear.
Unf:lIniliar landscapes would challenge people's ability, or desire, to preserve
memories of the past unchanged; rethinking and reordering of what was thought
memorable is onc predictable result of these transfe)f'(nations. Despite the reverence often shown to them, Greeks did not possess an essentialized, "genetic"
sense of identity, one impervious to threat or alteration (Browning 1989).
Instead, at this point around the turn of the millennium, many different trajectories could have been fdlowed - the most extreme of which might have been
the "tc)rgetfulness" argued as characteristic of the western Roman provinces,
where indigenous peoples appear to have relinquished elements of their past,
including their own preconquest history (WoolI' 1996, and this volume, pp.
321-2). Obviollsly, that path was rejected in t:wor of a continuing sense of
Hellenic identity rooted in myth and history. Against the backdrop provided by
the landscape studies reviewed here, however, that "remembrance of things
past" can no longer be taken {CH' granted.
RCCOllfi!Jllmtioll of memo]'y ill the cflstel'll Roman
335
AGOPA
II
CENT.
A.D.
~
i~
;'
.
-.
r]TE!.l?tE Of MES
(I
--
G
Mernory theaters
Given that the cadrc mtltcricl of Old Greece, and quite likely elsewhere in the
Greek provinces, was prot(HlIldly affected ill early imperial times, how were
severe disjullctlll'es between past and present avoidedr Some of the steps taken
at the elite level have already been touched upon (classicism in education, inlanguage, etc.), as has a powerfi.JI elite motivation fc)r preventing such a split: the
past was too powerful a resource to lose. But another medium and another motivation may now be emerging, one that moved beyond that defined elite domain.
More general promotion of a select past would help to bridge the perceptible
dislocations in Greek lifC, and to act as a reminder of a common Hellenic identity more threatened than has been realized.
While a full exploration of commemorative practices within Greek communities would embrace a range of media (civic fCstivals, oral traditions, artistic and
numismatic imagery, displays of dedicatory inscriptions), at this point wc can
turn fl'om the evidence of landscape to that of l1lonuments and monumental
spaces. If the "masses" barred ft'om the educational regimens of the wealthy,
speaking now a "tainted" !eml1 of Greek never fully participated in the cultural refinements and archaisl1ls of the age, neither did they dwell in a vacuum isolated !l'om these developments. Rather they lived in a world where l1lemorials
and hallowed places provided them with a sense of their past. This was not an
unimportant or accidental development. ~ar ft'om it: the early imperial period
witnessed the fCll'Illation of' lIICIIIII1,)' tllcatCI'J spaces which conjured up specific
and controlled memories of'the past through the use ofmolluments, images, and
symbols, spaces which served to remind communities at large of' just who they
were by drawing on who they had been.
The most eye-opelling theatrical example took place in the Athenian agora or
marketplace, the time-honored heart of' Athens and a central hub fe)r religious,
social, economic, political, and cOl11l11unicative activities (Figs. 13.2 and 13.3).
This urban space underwent continual renovation and modification over the
centuries, blll probably its Illost dramatic trans/(H'lllation took place during the
early stages of'imperial control (roughly the Augustan/J ulio-Claudian era Icnd
first century BeE/first century C El). Quite a bit of building and renewal
13.2 '1hc AtlJCllilT1I
"!Tom in tllC Jccolld
cmt"I'), CE. Notc
jllIl'tiw/llrl)' t/Jf
'li:Illj1/c 1!/,Al'cJ, tbe
()drion Id'A,WiNO,
tbc A/till' I!/,~tl/J
A!TOl'llioJ (?), IInd thi'
')OIlt/JJPCJt IIl1d
SOlltbmJt'li:mjl/cJ.
336
Sits/m E. Alcoc/l
13.3 Reco1JJtl'1lctioll
(!f'the Athell in 11 ngol'll
ill the second cwtlt!')'
CB.
occurred at this time, but most remarkable was the movement into this space of
classical architectural elements taken !I'om various points in the surrounding
Attic countryside. Onc entire fifth-century BC E temple was transplanted (the
Temple of Arcs), and portions of other fifth-century structures were incorporated within two other temples of uncertain dedication (the SW and SE Temples
of Fig. \3.2). Altars were transplanted as well, including onc (probably dedicated
to Zeus Agoraios) fi'om the Pnyx, the democratic meeting ground of classical
Athens. Various other "old bits" of buildings were discovered in the agma excavations, although their origin or place of reuse remains unclear. Apart ft'om such
movable elements, ill situ ancient monuments were also cherished; I(Jr example,
an altar to Aphrodite, dating originally to c. 500 BC E, was preserved and set off
by a new precinct and temple some five centuries later, in the first century C E.
The debate over this extraordinary reuse and highlighting of classical material
has had a long, and ongoing, history. The "imperial" in/illing (dominated by the
construction of a majestic Ode ion associated wi th Augustus' general Agrippa) of
what was l(ll'Illeriy a largely open, "democratic" space has been much remarked
(f()I' a reconstruction of the visual impression made by the Odcion, see Fig.
13.3). The itinerant temples have been acclaimed as the nearest architectural
equivalent to the classicism of the Second Sophistic. The agora's reconfiguration
has also been interpreted as stemming li'om a desire to present the revered past
in a kind of "sacred museum of religious art and architecture" (Walker 1997:
72); to preserve it as well, since it is usually (not necessarily correctly) assumed
that many of these elements were being saved (i'om dilapidation and ruin in an
Rccrmjigltl'llti(J1/ of m ClII o)'y in the eastern Roman empire
abandoned countryside (in general on this phenomenon: Thompson and
Wycherley 1972: 160-8; Shear 1981; Camp 1986: 181-7).
A related, but slightly different, way of conceiving of this space is as a
"memory theater." Obviously the agora (the product of centuries of monumental accretion and often undirected growth) was not constructed de r/OjJO to serve
as a "direct aid te)r the recall of the past" (in Yates' definition); nor can it be
thought of in the sense of the highly ornate Renaissance conceptions of Giulio
Camillo and others (F. A. Yates 1966: 129-72, 320-67; sce also Bergmann
1994). The use of the term here is perhaps more evocative than technically
correct, but it does effectively convey onc role this public space would now work
to serve. To enter the agora during imperial times would be to confront a space
newly con figured and charged with monuments, statues, and structures, all carrying with them a burden of memory.
That is not to say that the same burden would be felt by everyone in the cosmopolitan mix of people passing through on the ancient Street of the
Panathenaia. One obvious question to ask is just who was responsible f(H' the
agot'a renovations, but this cannot be directly answered. An argument for a
Roman impetus, if not total responsibility, le)r the project has been made on
various grounds, among them the honoring of Ares, a god less popular among
the Greeks than his counterpart Mars among the Romans (Spawfe)l·th 1997:
186-7; Walker 1997: 71-2). It might be tempting to sce the agora, therd()I'e,
as a carefully crafted museum catering to central imperial tastes, tastes which conceived of the Hellenic past in a 1:1shion different from local inhabitants (sec
below, pp. 344-8). And in the "horizon of meanings" that monllments express,
the agora no doubt accommodated such a purpose. But other experiences and
melllories were contained within this space; the Greek response - in itself a variable thing must also be considered.
From that perspective, we can look more closely at just what was celebrated
in this memory theater. The classical date of'the materials transplanted points to
the major epoch recalled, a period already selected I(:>r particular Greek attention. It should also be noted that the agora housed numerous memorials of the
Persian War, the fifth -century BC E struggles between Greek peoples and the
power of the Persian empire, a conflict marked by 1:lI110US battles sllch as
Thermopylai, Marathon, and Plataea. This archetypal conflict - of Hellenes
versus barbarians - continued le)r centuries to pattel'l1 Greek thinking about
contact with non- Hellenes. Specifically Athenian memories were also celebrated
in this space, with Attic cults rehoused, Attic political structures renewed, and
Attic heroes represented: in close proximity to the Temple of Arcs, Pausanias
( 1.8.4) tells us, stood a statlle of the quintessentially Athenian hero Theseus and
of the 1:1IllOUS Tyrannicides, early liberators of the city.
The Athenian agot'a may be unmatched in the drama ofits reorganization, but
other spaces too were newly designed to highlight past civic achievements and
origins. City centers and sanctuaries throughout the cast were made over to
337
338
SIIJ(Hl E. Alcod?
Rcc01~fig1tmtioll
of mClIIory ill the ctlstcm Roman empire
339
accommodate new or renewed monuments and memorials to mythic heroes,
civic founders, famous men. This devdopment can be traced archaeologically in
places such as Argos, Sparta, Ephesos, and Cyrene; Pausanias, passing through
cities and shrines large and small in the second century C E, also testifies to this
public presentation of memory (e.g., Habicht 1985; Cartledge and Spawf()rth
1989: 127-36; Picrart and TOllchais 1996; Walker 1997).
Old JPine in new hottles?
The most paradoxical thing about the "museum" of the agora is just how radically diftercnt it was from what came bd()l·e. Thinking about these spaces in
terms of a memory thcater hdps to sce that they were not about preservation frecze tI'aming the classical past but about the creation and presentation of
something entirdy new. Discussing the afterlife Nf monuments in a European
context, Richard Bradley (1993: 129) remarked:
monuments fCed off the associations, not only of'places, but also oj'other monumcnts. Monumcnts arc enhanccd and rebuilt; they arc reinterpreted and
changed; and new constructions arc created around old ones. "Vc tend to lose
that dimension of the archacological rccord as wc bccomc imlllersed in chronological analysis.
His point is equally valid in the imperial cast, wherc analyses often tend to dissociate "new" mOlHlments f"om the context in which they were embedded
(though sce Spawf()l·tb 1994: 234). Phenol11ena such as the itinerant temples
cannot be studied in isolation, losing sight of the f:lct that cheek-by-jowl with
Theseus and the Tyrannicides stood emblems of empire: stallles ofthe emperor,
his f:ll11ily or other Roman magnates, as well as monuments and inscriptions in
their honor (Fig. 13.4). Festivals and shrines of'the imperial cult, in some
instances sponsored by Romans but more fl'Cquently by members of the Greek
elite themselves, would have been ubiquitous within these memory theaters
(Bowersock 1984; Alcock 1993: 191-6; MiliaI' 1993a: 245-6). Presentatioll of
the Hellenic past did not seck to escape the imperial present, but was continually and deliberately admixed with it, litting Roman elements into a Greek
matrix, establishing a new amalgam of what was memorable in Greek eyes.
Recollection of the past involved the synthesis and recreation, not the isolation
and protection, of mcmories.
In Asia, a well-known architectural complex and a bmous civic ritual - the
Sebasteion at Aphrodisias and the Salutaris f(llllldation in Ephesos (both cities in
thc province of Asia) also served as memory theatcrs, and likewise demonstrated how thc past was by no means quarantined /I'om the present. In the first
century C E, a Sebasteion, an imperial cult center, was erected by two wealthy
Aphrodisian f:lll1ilies f()lIowing a plan evincing distinct signs of Roman architectural influence, not least that of the imperial f()ra of Rome itself (Fig. 13.5). [n
13.4 'iliI'JO (la !rl/lfC
mllrblc stMllc (!f'the
cmperor Hlldl'ian
(117-138 CE)/iJ/llld
in the c.\·Ct1l'ntiol/J (!f'
tJJt: Athenilln 1I11111'll.
Oil his Im:lIstplntc, thc
lloddcJJ At/mw,
jllltl'OIlCSS 1!f'Athcns,
stllnds IIbol'c thc Wol/
a/Rolllc, sllcldillll
RamI/IllS 11 lid RmIIlS.
340
SI/san E. A/cocl?
13.5 i{ecoIIStl'llcted
I'ielJl o/tllt: Sc/lI1steioll
at Apbl'odisillS.
13.6 SClllpted pfltld
./1'11111 the SC/lI1stcioll at
Aphl'odisias: tile
cmpcrol' ClalldillS
JltbdllCS the /n'ol'i1lce Id'
ilritan1lia.
onc of the side porticoes, a line of sculpted relief panels depicting well-known
Greek myths supported - architecturally and metaphorically - another tier of
imperial images, including a heroically nude Augustus and emperors triumphant
over defeated peoples (such as Claudius over Britannia, or Nero over Armenia;
Fig. 13.6). The Sebastcion is, on the t:lce of it, a rather startling monument to
find in an imperial province, paid for by provincial t:lI11ilies, not least because of
its apparent glorification of the submission of conquered peoples. Yet these representations of imperial power were carefully located within a Greek frame ofref~
erence, with emperors contextualized by Greek myths and memories (R. R. R.
Smith 1987, 1988; Alcock 20(0).
Recollfi.1l1l1·atio1t of mell/ory i1l the caste I'll Roman empire
341
342
Swan E. Aleael<
The monuments and monumental spaces so far discussed, it must be remembered, would have been the f()Cus f()r ritual practices (feasting, processions, sacrifices) - activities vital in the reinforcement of prescribed memory. Among our
most detailed descriptions of such rituals is the /(mndation (in 104 C E) of C.
Vibius Salutaris, an Ephesian citizen and Roman equestrian official. Among
other practices, Salutaris instituted a procession through the cityscape of
Ephesos, a ceremony intended to serve as a recapitulation of foundation events
in the civic past. As part of this remarkable "walk down memory lane," gold and
silver images were carried through the streets, /()"owing a set route, on a regular
basis (Fig. 13.7). These statues represented not only Artemis, the city's great
patron goddess, and other mythic and historic /()Unders ofEphesos and Ephesian
tribes, but also the emperor Trajan, his wite, and various Roman institutions (the
Senate, the Roman People, the Equestrian Order to which Salutaris belonged).
Guy Rogers has argued that these rituals, which involved practically the entire
t1'ee male population of the city, worked to delineate proper civic order, while
also maintaining the city's sacred identity against a "pervasive and persistent"
Roma!) presence. At the same time, however, that very presence was integrated
within the ritual, with Rome implicitly recognized as another /()Under in the
city's history. Memories of the past were again recontextualized and redisplayed,
with Artemis of the Ephesians carried in company with Trajan and the Roman
Senate (Rogers 1991). The unease sometimes expressed at such a combination
seems principally a modern problem.
Moving the discussion to a more general level, it has been noted bcf()re that
no stubborn archaism marks the architectural styles of the Greek cast; public
buildings, including temples, were constructed 1()llowing Roman designs, and
public spaces besides the Sebasteion show the distinct influence of Rome and its
/()ra (Macready and Thompson 1987; WoolI' 1994: 125-30). Extant monuments
too could be radically revised in their meanings, with standing structures or
statues given new dedicatees, including Roman generals and emperors (Alcock
1993: 196-8; e.g., Pausanias 8.9.9-10). Antique sanctuaries received new imperial inmates, with statues of emperors and their t~lmilies joining the traditional
Olympian pantheon (Price 1984: 146-62). Even a cult place as bound up with
the high classical epoch as the Parthenon on the Athenian acropolis was not
untouched, but received a bronze inscription honoring New on its cast architrave, a statue of Hadrian within, and a small round temple to Roma and
Augustus bcfixe its chief entrance (J:lig. l3 .8; Spaw/()rth 1994: 234-7; Pausanias
1.24.7). To ossify urban or sanctuary spaces in some preconquest state was not,
it would seem, a priority.
On onc level, these arguments would appear to fly in the I~lce of another
marked trend observed f()r the period. This is the prcicrential treatment received
by cults or monuments perceived to be of particular antiquity, often recorded
by Pausanias as the recipient of much attention and veneration. Attachment to
sllch places can no longer be viewed, however, as a matter of simple continuity
or of "business as usual" without close examination of their new symbolic and
RCCOllfilllt],rltirJII rlmeNlol'Y ill the eastern Romall empire
343
13.7 A "iell'l!fto1tl'i.l't
t/'{/jjic in modem-day
Ephcsos.
social environment. To cite just onc example, Pausanias' stress on border
markers in the Greek countryside, of't:en taken as echoing long-term Greek
concern with boundaries, should instead be understood in its Roman provincial
context, a context in which smaller cities often had to struggle to survive and to
protect their territorial integrity (Alcock 1993: 118-20). The memorial landscape, then, was not so much concerned to preserve the past as to redeploy it -
344
Swrl1l E. Alcock
13.8 Rcc(l1Istl'llctirm
(!{ thc 1/ol'thenst comcl'
(!t'tbc I'll I' thc 11 (Ill ill
ROII/1I11 times. '11h'
.l"Ifllllll'oll1ld tcmjilc
jl/Jt beyolld the
I'lll'thc1/o1/ 's mst sidc
is tbe TClfljJlt: (!f'RolI/lI
IIl1d AI(-'Tllstlls.
even reeonstruet it - to negotiate present contingencies. In this sense, with
apparent "continuities" hiding significant change, these monuments and mOl1ull1enlal spaces match developments seen elsewhere in the Greek provinces lix
exampk, in reforms of ritual practices or of institutional organization (Cartkdge
and Spawf()rth 1989: 143-59; WoolI' 1994: 123-5; Swain 1996: 420;
Philostratus, L~f'c o/Apo/lolliIlJ 1.2, 16; 4.27).
Whose past?
Who was responsibk fc)r the creation of these memory theaters? The uncertainty
about the Athenian agora aside, most epigraphic or literary testimony makes
(:lirly clear that the usual decision-makers hne were local elite f:1I11ilies who, with
their firm hold on purse strings and on political networks, now had charge of
civic memory. The monumental sphere joins the other dimensions already discussed in which these individuals relied upon the past as a source of personal or
ReclII~fig1tl'atioll
of melllory iJ/ the eastcm Romall
class empowerment. Yet these are vny public declarative statements, suggesting
that a wider audience was sought, and taught, through the careful selection and
central rehousing of memories.
No singk motivation can explain these public uses of the past, the links
between the elite who paid f(lr the buildings and the many who walked past them
daily. Obviously, control of memory, establishing an admired "past in the
present," brought with it a 1(>1'111 of consensus and accepted order; as Swain
notes, the "major beneficiary of the general respect Ic)!' tradition was again the
mak establishment class" (1996: (5). Keeping authority in onc's own hands very
clearly meant keeping good order in the cities; unrest quickly led to Roman intervention and Greek elite embarrassment. Yet because of the nature of the past
employed, othn consequences of this strategy must be recognized, including the
maintenance of allegiances shared by Greeks across the social spectrum and distinct from those of Rome. I have argued in another context that regional evidenee ft'om Achaia may well suggest that powerful families hesitated ft'om
undertaking certain acts of social engineering potentially advantageous to themselves but deleterious to the population at large a decision pointing, as does
other evidence, to continued local loyalties (Alcock 1997). Uses of the past, in
other words, appear to have allowed sharp social polarities and asymmetries of
power to exist side by side with the conviction that Greeks had mOl'e in coml11on
with each other than they had with Romans a paradox that will not surprise
other students of imperialism.
This train of thought reminds us that memory in the Greek provinces - or
indeed anywhere - cannot be reduced to a single unitary strand, but is better
seen as, to borrow Said's phrase, "contrapuntal ensembles" (1993: 52). Hellenic
identity always possessed multipk kvels: II'om a panhellenic consciousness
(H elknes versus barbarians), to local civic-orientated patriotism (Athenian
versus .spartan), to intra-city loyalties (diffCrent tribes, dif'lcrent social classes).
The coming of Rome, of course, added an additional element, with subjects
identif)'ing with the new ruling power. Despite signs of a developing supra-local
aristocracy, as seen in other empires with affluent individuals traveling, owning
land, and making religious dedications in a variety oflocales (including thc imperial capital) strong home town allegiances also endured. Prominent men can
be observed adopting in turn a variety of identities: as Greeks, as citizens of a
particular city, as members of a particular social group, in some cases as Roman
citizens, and so on (Swain 1996: 68-71). Salutaris, the donor behind the
Ephesian rituals described above, is just onc exampk of such polyphonic
identities.
That flexibility should also be read into l110numents and lllonumentalized
spaces, already characterized as embodying "horizons of meaning." In the case
of the Athenian agora, (II' example, specifically Athenian myths and memories
were incorporated side-by-side with more all-encompassing ones. Indeed, the
l110st successful commemorative narratives operated on more than one level.
345
346
r"
;,<, ••
r: :
.......
'.
"
"',
If, ,
Susan E. Alcock
Remembrance of the Persian Wars, for example, could simultaneously embrace
both individual civic victories (Athenians at Marathon) and glorious defeats
(Spartans at Thermopylai), as well as a more communal sense of Hellenic
triumph over barbarian invaders. This elasticity of identity, its ability to zoom
in and out, as it were, underlay in part the long-term success of Hellenism as
an integrating force, a force outlasting tile Roman empire itself (Bowersock
1990).
As flexible as tile dominant version of tile Hellenic past, embodied in memory
tlleaters, may have been, it is nonetlleless possible to identifY distinctly alternative counter-narratives. Persian War traditions and memorials, for example, may
have allowed pride in Hellenic achievement and pride in civic achievement; even
Romans "remembered" and employed tllese conflicts as a way of modeling and
celebrating their own rejection of an eastern (Partllian) threat (Spawforth 1994).
Yet otller potential lessons to be learned from recollecting tile glory days - when
Greeks rejected tile barbarian - came in for comment too: "Maratl1On,
Eurymedon and Plataea, and all other examples that make tile many swell and
snort witll false pride - tllese we leave in the schools of the sophists" (Plutarch,
Political Advice 814a-c). The teacher and sage Apollonius of Tyana is said to
have almost embraced tile grave marker of Leonidas, the Spartan leader at
Thermopylai, before climbing tile Spartan burial mound and declaring it to be
tile highest point in Greece: "for those who fell here for freedom (eleutheria)
made it as high as Oeta, and exalted it above many an Olympus" (Philostratus,
Life ofApollonius4.23). Remembering such deeds, with memories prompted by
ancient monuments and battlefields, potentially possessed a "subversive resonance" out of keeping with narratives of accommodation and synthesis
(Spawforth 1994: 246; Alcock 1996).
Roman holidays and the people of Acharnai
Other significant, alternative memory communities in the eastern empire were,
of course, those of Romans themselves: emperors, administrators, soldiers, colonists, tourists, admirers. Educated and philhellenic individuals had their own
particular expectations of what they would and wanted to find; they traveled to
Greece "not to admire what they found there passively and uncritically, but to
shape it according to their pre-existing idea of what Greece was" (Eisner 1991;
Alcock 1993: 224-30; Swain 1996: 66). A corollary to this would be the
requirement of a different version of the past, a version with memories more
firmly fixed in time, a past to be visited in isolation from the concerns and pressures of the present. The reported conversation of young aristocratic Romans,
as they strolled through Plato's Academy, illustrates this desire:
Then Piso said: "Are we prompted, I wonder, by naUII'e or by f.1ntasy when, on
seeing places which we know to have been the fm'orite haunts of distinguished
men, we are more moved than when we hear of their deeds or read something
Reconfiguration of memory in the eastern Roman empire
that they have written? Such is the emotion I now feel. For Plato comes before
my mind - tradition says it was here he used to debate."
(Cicero, About the ElIds of Goods and Evils 5.2)
Other memorable Athenian locales are canvassed: Plato's garden is close at hand
and seems "to bring the aculal man before my eyes"; tile nearby village of
Colon us summoned up its most famous inhabitant, Sophocles, and even a
memory of Oedipus, who was buried tllere. Witll a blush, one young man confesses making a pilgrimage to the Bay of Phaleron, where Demostllenes
declaimed above the waves, and to visiting the tomb of Pericles, before stating
"in fact tllere is no end to it in tllis city; wherever you go you tread historic
ground" (5.5).
The very place-based character of the Roman "art of memory" is on display
here (Vasaly 1993; Edwards 1996: 27-43), but so too is the nature of tile cultural tourism targeting Athens and other cities in the east (another case is Sparta
with its revived ancestral institutions, including tile "contest of endurance"
where youtlls and whips played a part in the festival of Artemis Orthia; Cartledge
and Spawforth 1989: 190-211). As far as Roman visitors chose to remember a
distant past, one uninhabited by tile less desirable modern residents of tllese
lands, they essentially divorced past from present. Such a strategy reinforced their
attitude of innate superiority to the people ruled, while at the same time allowing them to draw legitimacy from antique cultural traditions. Such a strategy,
obviously, was very different from internal Hellenic attempts to harness past and
present as a source of power and identity. Inevitably, such mismatches in memory
generated tensions, not only in how individual monuments or spaces were
viewed, but in the cultural and political relationship of Romans and Greeks, a
relationship which would undergo constant contestation and reinterpretation as
long as the empire lasted, and even beyond.
While the compulsions of modern tourism (with its quest for "authentic experience" and its commoditization of the past) are not fully appropriate to the
Roman east, modern comparisons do suggest possible sentimental consequences
for native dwellers. Michael Herzfeld, in a study of a modern Greek community
"famous for its past," remarked:
Rethemnos is a lived place, and its people must deal with the realities of social
existence. It is also a real topos, both in literature and in architectural history.
The cultural topology imposes strains on the experience of physical and social
place that a less visible and ideologically less interesting cultural conjuncture
might have escaped. The residents of this ancient town certainly exploit the benefits of tourism, boast of their heritage and their monuments, and pride themselves on the literary attention that today exposes them to some, at least, of the
pressure they encounter. Conversely, however, they want to get on with the
comforting ordinariness of their everyday lives ... No attempt to monumentalize these histories in a single past can do justice to the complexities of its citizens' struggles for recognition.
(1991: 258,259)
347
348
1:: :
-...:
[
~'"
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,~:
;
Susan E. Alcock
Some of these same self-contradictory impulses and tensions could well have
existed in Athens or other Greek tourist sites, requiring from us, as Herzfeld
demands, the recognition of multiple histories within these communities.
Without the kind of ethnographic witness available for Rethemnos, it is bitterly hard to recover this kind of complexity and heterogeneity of response. For
a long time it was believed that the transplanted Temple of Ares had been
removed from the Attic village of Acharnai, some 12 km outside Athens; this
provenance is now contested, and the identity of the temple's original home
remains uncertain. Whoever they were, missing from the story so far is the reaction of this community, and of any others so deprived of monuments and memories, to their losses. The "Acharnians" can represent the multiplicity of less
"memorable" memory communities, those of smaller villages or less powerful
cities. Elements of this diversity can occasionally be glimpsed, for example in the
numerous civic rivalries for status and recognition, in which claims were based
on local histories and were defended with verbal, textual, and monumental
weapons (Robert 1977; S. Mitchell 1984; Millar 1993a). The existence of
variant versions of the past can also be traced as "phantoms of memory" (to use
Geary's phrase) in Pausanias' Description of Greece. Frequently, the traveler
records accounts of mythic or historical events offered by local priests or guides.
Sometimes these claims involved a clear practical advantage (establishing favorable boundaries, for example), but more often they asserted the local occurrence
of memorable happenings, such as the birth of a god or a hero. Pausanias mentions these local tales sometimes only to dismiss, even snub them in f.1Vor of a
better truth. The birth of a dominant commemorative narrative can be seen here,
for Pausanias, the most comprehensive surviving textual source to deal with such
matters, forms the principal memorial tradition on which we have relied (A1cock
1996: 260-7).
The inadequacy of such reliance becomes even more apparent if we expand
the time span under consideration. While the Hellenic past undoubtedly possessed great staying power, the world of the Second Sophistic nonetheless came
to an end marked by great political, economic, and religious changes - not least
the ultimate success of Christianity. Many factors have been canvassed to account
for that new religion's expansion through the eastern empire in the first centuries CE, including the possible failure of memory to work its integrating magic:
"we should at least note in the Greek world the likely appeal of a very different
set of priorities and paradigms to those who had no secure or direct interest in
the Greek past and who were excluded from its benefits" (Swain 1996: 422).
This argument goes hand-in-hand with the suggestion that Roman interference
in eastern landscapes and communities, shaking people out of their traditional
social and spatial frameworks, also contributed to creating a more receptive audience for new messages (Silberman 1996; Horsley and Silberman 1997). Again,
different trajectories of social memory are at issue here, as they shaped major
transformations in "priorities and paradigms."
Reconfiguration of memory in the eastern Roman empire
CONCLUSION
In conclusion, we can turn from tlle specifics of the Greek provinces of tlle
Roman empire to a wider and more fundamental question for tlllS volume: is
social memory a helpful topic for analysts of empire? If attitudes to tlle past what was remembered and what forgotten, who participated in memory communities, who was excluded - help to define the parameters of other social, economic, and political undertakings, then it would follow that to ignore tlle
workings of memory would be to ignore a paramount factor behind the past
decisions and processes that we set ourselves to understand. Chapters in tllis
volume testif)' to this realization, and several have attempted to engage Witll
"imperial memories" in a variety of guises: from the inscribing of new or altered
memories upon the minds, bodies, and landscapes of imperial subjects (e.g.,
Yates, this volume), to the use and reuse of select memories of past empires - in
many cases, that of Rome - as models and as cognitive categories by later imperial structures (e.g., MacCormack, Moreland, Sinopoli, and Woolf, tlllS volume),
to legends about the past and their explanation of imperial collapse and loss (e.g.,
Liverani, this volume).
Throughout these studies, a wide range of sources are employed, but perhaps
a special stress can be laid upon the potential, and often unique value, of archaeology (including art history) to tllis type of analysis. Any archaeological approach
to social memory, for example through my own lens oflandscape and of monuments, will prove no easy matter, and it may often seem wiser to turn such evidence on other, more traditional and more straightforward problems. Yet much
would be lost if that cautious policy was adopted. The assertions set forth in this
chapter concerning the relationship of Greeks to their past, and the complexity
of that relationship, are all heavily dependent upon archaeological evidence.
Given the materiality of the framework that makes, and breaks, what people can
remember, social memory becomes an issue archaeologists of empire will find
increasingly difficult to avoid.
There is also an issue of responsibility. In the particular case examined in this
chapter, failure to integrate the Greeks' "obsession" with their past with the
study of their centuries under Roman rule both distorted our understanding and
did them an injustice.
Groups negotiating their identity in contexts of domination and exchange
persist, patch themselves together in ways different from a living organism ...
Metaphors of continuilY and "survival" do not account for complex historical
processes of appropriation, compromise, subversion, masking, invention and
revival. These processes intorm the activity of a people not living alone but
"reckoning itself among the nations."
(Clifford 1988: 338)
Maintenance, modification, or abandonment of a shared past and shared
identities dictated the conditions under which peoples of all empires reckoned
349
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Susan E. Alcock
themselves "among the nations." From that perspective too, memory is a matter
archaeologists of empire cannot forget.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For comments and help with this chapter, I would like to thank all the participants in the Mijas conference, in particular Liz Brumfiel, and audiences at the
University of Chicago and Trinity College, Dublin who also listened to bits and
pieces of it. Other wise voices included John F. Cherry and Antony J. S.
Spawforth.
14
Cosmos, central authority, and
communities in the early Chinese empire
Robin D. S. Yates
'1
I
INTRODUCTION: THE MYTH OF EMPIRE AND
CULTURAL MEMORY
lOt'"
•.
I:
I'
,
That there was from time immemorial such an entity as the "Chinese people,"
an ethnically, linguistically, and culturally homogeneous group dwelling in the
East Asian subcontinent, has been one of the abiding myths of the Chinese from
ancient times. Similarly, that this people's natural disposition was to live in
harmony together within a single unified bureaucratic empire presided over by
a single emperor, the "Son of Heaven," is likewise taken as an indisputable fact.
Dynasties rose, flourished, declined, revived, then collapsed, in continual succession, like the seasonal rhythms of nature: the "dynastic cycle." Yet these views
are just that - myths. Ethnicity was constantly negotiated by different groups
that came into contact with the dominant culture, and that culture changed
markedly over time as it absorbed and modified new external influences (for
example, Buddhism, the customs of southern and western minorities, cf. M.
Wang 1992). There was no essential, pristine "Chinese culture" lasting thousands of years from the mists of the prehistoric past down to our own times.
This chapter will discuss how this "imperial myth" was formed in the course
of the creation of the first Chinese empire, the Qin, the state that unified China,
conquering its rival regional city-state systems in 221 BC E.l It collapsed shortly
after the first emperor's death in 210 BCE, but its successor empire, the Han,
lasted (with a short interregnum at its mid-point) to 220 CE, parallel with the
Roman empire in the west (Fig. 14.1). In addition, I will argue that ritual performance and cosmography or cosmology lay at the heart of the Chinese imperial enterprise and of Chinese imperial design, despite their remarkable
achievements in military art and technology, blJl'eaucratic organization, and legal
systematization.
"EMPIRE" IN CHINA
When focusing specifically on the issue of the Chinese "empire," it should
be remembered, first and foremost, that the Chinese identified it not with a
351
Robin D. S. Yates
352
COSH/OS and ce1ltml Cllttbo/'i(v ill the early CIJi1lCse empire
Extent of Qin empire
El
Qin capital city
•
Other important centers
?
Projected locations
~
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G(ee.\ Wall
• Yunzhong
Shanggu ~uyang,
•
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Yanmen Daijun
• Guangyang
.unZif..JiaO ong
• Jibei
Handan.
Sha~gdang
Hegong
D~un
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•
Chenjun
•Nanyang
o
.
•
Xuejun
Dangjun
• Langye
• Donghai
\.
.Sishui
353
sociopolitical system established by a legally defined conquering people (e.g., the
Roman citizens), the basis of whose claim to rule rested on the concept of sovereignty (cf. Doyle 1986; Woolt~ this volume), but rather with the person of the
emperor, his activities, and his patrilineal ancestral line. Traditional scholars often
had violent disagreements as to who should be reckoned to be the true "Son of
Heaven," or which dynasty should be honored as continuing the legitimate
"correct line" (ZbC1lgt(lIIg) of rulership, and which left out. ~rom the eleventh
century C E, the orthodox "nco-Confucian" view was that the state that f(mnded
the imperial order in 221 BC E - the Qin - was not to be counted as legitimate
(cr Trauzettel 1967). The reason was that the Qin chose not to abide by the precepts of Confucian morality, but, it was claimed, rather oppressed the people
unmercifully, even going so far, in 213 BC E, as to burn the sacred texts that transmitted Confucian doctrine and the historical records of all the states that Qin had
conquered, an inf:lmous and eternally unforgivable act proposed by the prime
minister Li Si (Bodde 1967).2 Confucian doctrine was only adopted as the state
orthodoxy under the Han seventy years after the Qin 's collapse:~
Second, ft'om the ethnic point of view, between the fCllll1ding of the Chinese
empire in 221 BC E and its demise in 191 1, the unified Chinese empire was ruled
over by racially pure native Chinese emperors only half the time (Holmgren
1991). Yet this f()l'Cign dominance was not seen to be incompatible with legitimate imperial rule. What mattered was that the new rulers accepted Confucian
morality, per/(:lI'll1ed the correct rituals in which they embodied and ensured the
harmony of the cosmos (Zito 1997), and acted in accordance with the "Mandate
of Heaven" (til1mllilllT). In other words, they were perceived to have been
entrusted with the overlordship by Heaven and to have demonstrated the legitimacy of their stewardship of the "all under heaven" by caring f()r the welf:lI'e of
the people (l'clImill) and by per/()f'flling the sacrificial rituals to Heaven and the
spirit world that were considered appropriate to the status and position of
"emperor." No matter how tense the relations between the conquering elite and
the subject Chinese were in real life, provided that their rulers conf()I'I11ed to the
ritually sanctioned precepts, domination of the polity by a minority ethnic group
(at least on the ideological level) was not of substantive concern to the Chinese.
Third, the expansion of the Chinese empire was conceived of as a "civilizing
project" in Harrell's terms (1995), in which the emperor through his civil
bureaucrats presented himself as "rcf()rming the customs" of recalcitrant subjects and benighted "peripheral" peoples. He possessed the moral authority to
educate them and lead them to a higher stage of social practice and to a greater
unij(H'lnity with the rites of the center in short to "signify' them (cf. Ho
1998).4
More generally, a unified "empire" was seen to be the natlll'al sociopolitical
l<H'lllation of the East Asian subcontinent, both by the traditional Chinese them14.1 'l7JC Qj1l empirc.
selves and by external observers. Many different explanations j()r this seeming 'l7JC dmhed lillc
"natural" state ofaf'f:\irs have been put /()J'ward over the centuries. In the several i1ldicll/cs thc cxtfllt (!f'
hundred years preceding the establishment of the empire by the Qin, it was the cmpi/,(:.
354
Robin D. S. Yates
believed that the entire area of the known world was ruled in the distant past,
from the beginnings of time itselC by sage kings. In more recent history, the
three dynasties - Xia, Shang, and Zhou - had governed what they termed the
"all-under-Heaven." Unf()l"tunately, the Zhou dynasty had decayed morally and
spiritually, and, even though there still was a Zhou king on the throne, he was
in actual control only of a very small parcel of territory surrounding his capital
located in what is now known as Luoyang, just south of the Yellow River in
Henan in the North China Plain. Ever since 770 BC E, the Zhou kings had lost
all political and military control. They only maintained ritual supremacy over
their former subordinates, those rulers of independent city-states who ()light
with each other, generation after generation, trying to extend their authority
over their neighbors, and absorbing larger and larger tracts of land. These rulers
were the chiefs of aristocratic patrilineages who intermarried with each other.
Theoretically, they presented their special regional products to the Zhou king f()I'
his use in the sacrifices to Heavell and to his ancestors, and they reported to the
king important ritual events, such as the death of a ruler, the marriage of an heir
apparent, a military victory, and so on. By these acts, they symbolized their participation in the religious system of the Zhou, and demollstrated their subordination. Needless to say, once the Zhou kings' practical power was seen to be less
than effective in keeping their nominal subordinates in line, such ritual prestations and such reports were often conveniently ()rgotten (c. A. Cook 1997).
In actual bct, it is quite unlikely that the Zhou kings or their predecessors, the
Shang who had been supplanted in approximately 1045 BC E, ever exerted
authority over the entire East Asian subcontinent, as was later believed. Rather,
they had control of rather limited tracts of land located only in the Yellow River
valley. However, they certainly did claim to be the sole mediators between
Heaven above and Earth below: both dle Zhou and the Shang kings called themselves "the Onc Man" entitled to present offerings to the supreme deity. [t was
this legendary overarching authority that the rulers of the independent citystates of the late Zhou dynasty were fighting to claim f()r themselves. The eventual establishment of the empire under the Qin was, theref()re, seen as a
restoration of a previously existing order, rather than as a completely new political f()l'Jllation.
As tar as western perceptions of the Chinese empire arc concerned, they f()cus
on the economic rather than the ritual or the religious elements privileged by
traditional Chinese. In the nineteenth century Kad Marx proposed a special category f()r Asian conditions, the Asiatic Mode of Production. This was refined f()r
the Chinese case by his ()lIower Karl Wittfogel into "Oriental Despotism," a
label which he in turn extended to many diftCrent politics in different ecological systems and historical circumstances (Wittf()gel 1957; P. Anderson 1974).
The Asiatic Mode of Production was and is, however, a serious theoretical
problem f()r Chinese Marxists, f()r acceptance of the concept's appropriate application to China implies that China had always stagnated, had always been a
"nation without history" (cf. Wolf 1982; Brook 1989). This they have a hard
Cosmos 1111d cC1ltI'l1111I1tho)'ity in the mr/y Chinese empire
time accepting as loyal Chinese. Rather, they presume that China had more or
less passed through the same historical modes of production as the West: the
slave, the feudal, the capitalist, and the socialist. The establishment of the empire
by the Qin was, f()r them, evidence f()r the appearance of the tCudal mode of production, supplanting the previous slave mode (Guo Moruo 1972); this feudal
mode lasted throughout the imperial period, with "capitalist sprouts" only
appearing in the late Ming dynasty in the sixteenth century. 5
Reasoning along similar economic lines, other non-Marxist western scholars
have claimed that the Chinese empire, and Chineseness, is coextensive with a
particular tC)f'(ll of intensive Ileld agriculture: as environmental conditions
changed in the northern intermediate borderlands, permitting the practice either
of animal husbandry or of the growing of grain and vegetables, so Chinese
control ebbed and flowed (Lattimore 1940; cf. Barfield, this volume; Waldron
1990). Although the Chinese evidently opposed violently the predatory attacks
of the steppe nomads, both accepted the validity of the system of ritual prestations that operated internally within their respective cultural spheres and externally between their two peoples. Warfare was redistribution of resources in
another guise, with force a partner of diplomacy. In China, this system of giH:giving continues to this day (M. M. Yang 1994).
Yet other scholars have emphasized, to explain the millennial continuity of the
Chinese sociopolitical order, the unif)'ing features of the Chinese writing system
(sec below, p. 366); and others, such as the anthropologist lames vVatson
( 1992), have emphasized popular culture and customs. To be Chinese in his
analysis is to /()lIow a particular set of fCll'IllS and procedures in funerary ritual
(Watson 1992). Finally, modern Chinese scholars find it especially hard to conceive that there arc serious disjunctions between the past and the present. For
them there were no Foucauldian ruptures. For them, Chinese culture and civilization emerged out of Palaeolithic (Peking, Lantian, and other Men) and
Mesolithic beginnings; coalesced !I'om disparate Neolithic cultures especially
based in the Yellow and Changjiang (Yangtse [Yangzi /) River valleys into a
"Longshan interaction sphere" in the late second millennium BC E (Chang
1986); concentrated Illrther into regional systems with cultural variations during
the Zhou dynasty (c. 1050-256 BC E) (cf. R. D. S. Yates 1997a); and met their
natural destiny in unity under the Qin (221-206 BCE) and Han (206 BC
E-220 CE) a unity that continues to this day (Zhu Ruikai 1993).
It is on the basis of such notions of continuity that Chinese today deny the
aspirations fCll' political independence of a number of minority peoples, claiming
that all within the current borders of the People's Republic of China was - from
time immemorial inalienable territory or the Chinese t;ltherland. The notion
of such historical continuity must be challenged. For example, suzerainty and
control over the vast expanses of Central Asia and Tibet were only achieved
under the non-Chinese Manchu dynasty two hundred years ago, and the (Cll'IllS
of the relations between the elites, religiolls leaders, and ordinary people of the
steppe, desert, and mountain Clstnesses, between the outer regions (JPl1i) and the
355
356
Rouin D. S. Yl1tes
emperors in Reijing, were very different from those that held between the
emperors and the officials, local elites, and subordinate masses within (llei) China
proper (cf. Hevia 1995; Millward 1996).
I would like to suggest, then, that the process during which the Chinese
empire was established by the Qin, a state located on the northwestern margins
of what had been traditionally known as the "Central States," eliminated the previous cultural plurality of the Warring States period. The Qin attempted to
enfcJ)'ce cultural ullif(lI'Inity upon the peoples that they conquered, in the ten'itories where their armies marched, and where they set up their administrative
hierarchy. In tact, the belief in the appropriateness and validity of the notion of
cultural unit(mnity came to be embedded in the cultural memory of the Chinese
people, proving to be much more long lasting than the specific sociopolitical
system that the Qin attempted to set up by rigid rules and regulations.
The reason t(lr the ultimate success of the Qin project in establishing the myth
ofculturalunifcH'luity, of Chinese ness, was that they centered their claim to hegemony on a powerful cosmology and cosmography built into the structure of
the political and social system, and inscribed on the bodies of their subjects. It is
on this aspect that I will concentrate in the present chapter.
TRADITIONAL VIEWS ON THE QIN STATE AND
EMPIRE
The general process by which the Qin unifled their empire ovel'l'unning their
competitors of the immediately preceding period, the Warring States (the latter
part of the Zhou dynasty) has been known throughout Chinese history thanks
to the relatively complete records preserved by Sima Qian, the Grand
Historiographer of the Han Emperor Wlldi (Ssu-ma 1993; Nienhauser 1996).
This brilliant stylist and chief astrologer composed his history of the world fi'om
the beginnings of time, starting with the Yellow Emperor, down to his own day
in the late second and first centuries BC F.e. However, Sima was severely handicapped in considering anything other than the Qin version of the establishment
of the empire. As already mentioned, in 213 BC E the First Emperor ordered
the destruction of all t he historical annals of'dekated states, as well as of all philosophical treatises not in accord with the "legalist" principles espoused by his
prime minister, Li Si. Sima mentions the main events in his annals and in the
biographies of the leading generals and political flgures. He was, however, not
especially interested in the actual movements of Qin troops as they campaigned
against one state alter another, and even less concel'l1ed with describing the
actual battles themselves. But he does preserve a tripartite essay by Jia Yi, an early
Ban Confucian scholar, called "On The Faults of Qin," in which the latter anaIyzes the reasons fClr Qin's success in conquering its rivals and fClr its ultimate
bilure in preserving its hold on the imperial throne. Jia's analysis remained the
ICllll1dation stone of all later traditional interpretations.
Jia's first contention was that it was the geographical location of Qin that gave
COSlIIOS 11 JIlt
cclttml
lITlHI1"lTV
ill the
it a distinct advantage over the other states. It was situated on the northwestern
periphery of the more civilized "central states," protected by high mountains
and narrow passes. Its capital, Xianyang, was constructed on the northern bank
of the Wei River which flows cast into the Yellow River just bdc)re it makes its
right-angle turn through the gorges and debouehes on to the North China Plain
(Fig. 14.1). Qin could attack its rivals with impunity, while they in turn had great
difficulty in penetrating Qin ddcnses. The second major reason Ha gives t()1'
Qin's triumph was the physical vigor of its rulers, a product of the region in
which they lived. This line of reasoning seems to have derived ft'om earlier arguments among philosophers who, rather in the fashion of Montesquieu, correlated certain cultural, psychological, and physical traits of a populace with the
physical conditions of their environments. The third reason Jia suggests was the
lack of coordination among its opponents: they were only interested in their own
individual advantage and t:liled to generate support among their own people and
officers to resist Qin's advance.
Jia places Qin's failure squarely at the door of their rulers. The First Emperor
was ruthless, and multiplied the laws by which the populace was tClt'ced to abide.
The entire population, male and fcmale, was tClrced to engage in huge construction projects, such as the Great Wall, the emperor's mausoleulll, a network of
roads, a canal linking north and south China, and giant palaces in the capital area.
Tens of thousands died in these endeavors; myriad others were enslaved and sold
in pens like cattle. The emperor was smug, bscinated with his desire to achieve
physical immortality by ingesting potent drugs, and he failed to listen to good
advice delivered by loyal ministers. Critics were killed, leaving concealed the real
conditions among the people; rampant disaf'fCetion was not reported to the
throne. Finally, the chief eunuch was able to usurp the throne on the Second
Emperor's demise. Jia's analysis, endorsed by Sima Qian, undoubtedly has a
good measure of truth to it. But it is by no means the whole story.
Since 1975, a wealth of new evidence has been discovered by archaeologists
that provides not only original raw data with which to evaluate the conclusions
of Jia Yi and Sima Qian, but also material concerning the actual administrative
and legal system that existed in the years immediately preceding and succeeding
the establishment of the empire. Among these are the discoveries of the worldf:1I110US pollery army guarding the First Emperor's mausoleum at Lishan, and of
the chief palaces ofthe capital, Xianyang, across the Wei River to the northwest
of the present city of Xian, as well as the excavations along the Great Wall and
the Straight Road running north li'om Xianyang up to the Great Wall, both of
which were created by the Qin general Meng Tian out of previous constructions
0(' the Warring States period (cL l-luang Linshu 1992; Zhongguo Changcheng
xuehui 1995).
J\tlore il11portant l(lr the historian, though less well known in the west, were
the discoveries of large portions of the Qin law code and almanac texts discovernl at Shuihudi, Yunl11eng, [-luhei province, in 1975, and other similar finds,
buried in the tombs of low-ranking Qin off1cials (Shuihudi Qinl11u zhujian
357
358
Robin D. S. Yates
zhengli xiaozu 1978; Shuihudi Qinmu zhujian bianxie zu 1980; McLeod and
Yates 1981; Zhonghua shuju bianjibu 1981; Hulsewc 1985a; Kalinowski 1986;
Loewe 1988; Xu 1993; Liu 1994 ).7 These documents provide evidence whereby
it is now possible to determine the extent to which the recommendations of Lord
Slung and Han Feizi, two legalist advisors to Qin rulers (see below, pp. 366-7),
were actually put into effect in the state and empire of Qin (Hulsewc 1985b;
Bmlde 1986).
Unfortunately, there is not space here to review all this new evidence on the
dynamics of the Qin's empire-building. Rather, I will concentrate on a few
aspects which, I believe, arc crucial [eJ[' understanding how the Qin perceived
their uni/)ring project: in my view they were aiming to recreate on this earth the
unity and harmony that existed at the beginning of time. x Thus their intentions
were essentially cosmologic and cosmographic in design.
This is not to denigrate other f;lctors that may well have been of great importance to their ultimate success, but which wc canllot - at present - evaluate
precisely. For example, beginning in 316 BeE, the Qin began to incorporate
into its domain the vast region to its southwest across the Qinling mountains
(now modern Sichuan) which was occupied by the culturally distinct peoples
known as the Ba and Shu (Sage 1992). Eventually, at a point early in the third
centlll'Y, the Qin incorporated this territory, which was rich in natural resources
such as iron, coal, and salt, into its administrative system, and sent large
numbers of convicts to occupy strategic sites and to exploit the agricultural
potential of the Sichuan basin.') It can only be presumed that this permitted the
Qin to accumulate greater agricultlll'al surpluses and to produce 1110re cast iron
agricultural implements and weapons. It has not, however, been proven that
the Qin's weapons technology was superior to that of its rivals. In i;lCt, states
such as Han and Yan seem to have possessed more advanced iron manuf;lcturing capabilities (Wagner 1993). The Qin seem to have persisted in using
bronze weapons, although the meter-long bronze swords excavated r"om the
pottery warrior pits reveal that they had perfected the technology of treating
the slll'f;lCes of the blades with chrome, permitting the blades to retain their
sharpness and slll'r:lCe color over 20()() years (cr. Keightley 1976; Trousdale
1977; Barnard 1978-9).10
NOTIONS OJ:< IDENTITY PRIOR TO THE QIN
EMPIRE
I stated above that there was no concept of "Chinese ne ss" in the period leading
up to the establishment of the empire. People seem to have identified themselves as belonging to the different states, such as Chu, Qi, Yan, Han, Wei,
Zhao, and Qin. There were recognized diflerences between people {i'om these
states, both in what wc would call psychological disposition and in physical
traits." In the case of Chu, a very large state based in the middle Yangzi River
valley (modern Hubci and Hunan provinces), much of the population spoke a
COS1ll0S alld ce7ltml allthori~)' ill the early Chinese empire
different language fI'om the Central States in the north China Plain. This is also
true of other peripheral peoples, such as the Ba and Shu groups in Sichuan, and
the Hundred Yue tribes living in broad swaths of territory from the lower
Yangzi valley all across the coastal and inland regions to modern-day
Guangdong province and Vietnam. 12 Recent archaeological excavations hav~
also demonstrated that the various states had different traditions with respect to
funeral customs and that the organization of space within and outside their
capital cities was also diffCrent. For example, Qin graves in the region of the
Yangzi valley, overrun by the Qin in the early third century BC E who conquered what had up to then been the Chu heartland, contain vessels of everyday use, such as onion-headed ewers; the tombs of original Chu residents are
filled with objects associated more with their religious beliefs, such as apotropaic lacquered wooden statues of animals.'3
However, the ruling houses of the various states, as well as the locally powerful aristocratic lineages, were united in tracing their descent fI'om culture-heroes,
historicized gods, and {<Hlnding sages. The original charisma or de ("virtue") of
these lineages was conceived of as being passed down through the patrilineal
blood-line; the closer onc was to the direct line of transmission fI'om father to
son, the more de it was believed onc possessed (Chun 1990). These elite lineages
participated in the ritual system centered on the Zhou kings alluded to above
(p. 354; cr. Hsu 1965).
In the tomb of onc local Qin of'iicial (blll'ied in 217 BC E in what is now
Shuihudi, Yunmeng, Hubei province), a huge hoard of legal and almanac texts
was discovered. Among them were included divination calendars of Qin and of
Chu, suggesting that, even aH~er sixty years of occupation, the indigenous population still maintained its traditional system of time reckoning, and thus had not
completely recognized and accepted that of the occupying «ll'ce (cC KaIinowski
1986; Loewe 1988; Poo 1998). Thus they probably maintained their own
rhythms of social life in defiance of the regulations of'the new imperial state. A
hundred years later, there is no evidence fl)r any other system than that of the
Qin, which had been adopted by the succeeding dynasty, the I-ran. Such a phenomenon is most suggestive of the ways in which an imperial state could, in its
conquered territories, restructure notions of time fundamental fl)r the activities
of daily life among all classes of the population: agricuitlll'al work, travel, and sacrifices, as well as celebrations of rites of passage such as births, marriages, funerals, and the bringing in of new members to the household.'4
REFORMS IN QIN PRIOR TO THE UNIFICATION
Needless to say, belief in the commensurability of sibling inheritance of the original charisma of a lineage's f<Hlnder increased the probability of much competition within a royal f:unily i<)r supreme authority. The historical records arc replete
with cases of usurpations in onc state or another, or of junior or secondary sons
inheriting the throne in place of the eldest son and heir apparent. It was to avoid
359
360
Robin D. S. YateJ
such a potentially dangerous situation that Lord Shang, in his reform of the Qin
laws in the mid-tc)Urrh century, instituted a system whereby the state would only
recognize status that was contCrred by the state itself. The system integrated all
male members of the state into a vertical cosmic hierarchy of seventeen ranks culminating in the ruler and, above him, Heaven itself. 15 Rank was bestowed for
military success and an objective and clear criterion was established t<)r its
achievement: onc degree of rank was awarded for cutting off an enemy head and
presenting it to the duly constituted military authorities. Two heads were
rewarded with two degrees of rank. Officers, whose function it was to supervise
the ordinary soldiers in battle, were not to cut off heads themselves; they were
rewarded on the basis of the numbers of heads their subordinates took.
This rank was a negotiable commodity and could be returned to the government in exchange for the manull1ission of relatives from slave status or in
exchange t())' a low-level position in the government bureaucracy. Rank also entitled a holder to be allotted a plot of land whereby he could pay the obligatory
taxes to the state, and to enjoy the help of government slaves in working that
land. In addition, rank-holders were punished less severely than ordinary commoners, although they also seem to have been obliged to provide service to the
state, such as overseeing convict gangs, when called upon to do so. In fact, it
appears that the previous social system was not completely restructured: ordinary commoners could only reach rank eight, and the influence of bmily was still
felt, tc)r it appears that a rank-holder could designate onc of his heirs to inherit
his title. Nevertheless, quite evidently the Qin state arrogated to itself the right
to manipulate and control the status of all members of the population, including members of the royal t~lIl1ily and its related aristocratic lineages, with no
doubt - strongly disruptive effects on the previously existing system of social
relations: rank-holders in a village would have been mllch more likely to be
chosen as heads of {~lll1ilies and heads of villages (sce below, p. 363), and to have
been given the positions of honOl' in village sacrifices and ceremonies. 16
SPATIAL TOPOGRAPHIES: THE DIVISION OF THE
LAND AND THE EST'ABLlSHMENT OF SACRED
SPACE
In Warring States China, the Zhou ruler claimed to be the owner of all the land
under a principle similar to "eminent domain"; ideally, territory was divided
between agricultural fields on the onc hand, and {clrests, mountains, rivers, lakes,
and seas on the other. The {cmBer was occupied by the peasants, who were organized into a (probably) idealistic system called the "well-field" (ji1J!ltilm) because
the land was divided into equal squares like a tic-tac-toe board in the shape of
the Chinese graph fClr a "well" (jilllT). Eight individual f~1I11ilies worked the
outside squares fex their own subsistence needs, and worked the central square
tClr their lord, the produce of which was submitted to him in tax. The size of the
"acre" (WOJl) was lOO paces (ll/l), possibly 1 pace wide and 100 paces long; each
COJlltoJ and central a ItthoJ'i~y ill the early ChineJe empire
square tilled by a family was 100 1/UJIt. However, in actual practice, the different
states had evolved ditferent sizes of acres.
What Lord Shang did with this first type of land, those fields exploited in
intensive agriculture, was to break down the tc)!'(ner boundaries and increase the
size of the "acre" to 240 paces. Pathways running north and south (or east and
west, depending on the location of the property) divided this land, and small
walls, called JeIW, separated the fields. These walls were miniature replicas of the
walls that divided the contending states from each other and that established
their separate identities. Later, in the Han dynasty, Confucian critics of the Qin
rdC)l')l1 claimed that this initiated the practice of buying and selling land, such
that poor peasants eventually were t()rced to hand over their patches to rich
neighbors, becoming either slaves or tenants, or migrating to the cities. No indication in the newly discovered materials, however, suggests such buying and
selling. And exactly how the new system operated is unclear, even though a law
emending the land statutes was t(lUnd in a Qin grave in Sichuan, dated 309 B
CB (K. Yang 1983). In tact, it would appear that the Qin state cultivated much
land directly, some of which it leased to peasants, and some of which it forcibly
assigned or bestowed on them (Gao 1979; Hulsewc 1985b). It required taxes
to be paid in grain, hay, and straw, regardless of whether or not the farmer had
actually opened up his allotment.
The Qin wrote very detailed management procedures (c)r the land into their
legal statutes, specif)'ing, (JI' example, the exact amount of seed that was to be
sown per acre depending on the type of grain. Special bureaucrats in charge of
the fields were required to report directly in writing to the central authorities the
amount of acreage spoiled by floods, drought, 01' grasshoppers, and they were
to ensure that the peasants did not sell alcohol. The state also loaned oxen (c)r
plowing the fields to peasants. The girth of these oxen was subject to inspection
every kw months, and the ox-tenders were bastinadoed ten strokes {clr every
inch lost. In order to store the huge quantities of grain that were produced,17
the state developed a highly elaborate system of granaries with strict rules tClr disbl11'sement and enlTY; checking procedures attempted to determine precisely
which officials were responsible {C))' loss, damage, or thell (R. D. S. Yates 1995).
Qin needed this grain because it had to supply its huge armies, as well as its enormous gangs of corvce laborers (700,000 were said to have worked on the First
Emperor's tomb alone), in addition to paying its officials in kind.
This interest in micro-management, as specified in the statutes, was also
extended to state-operated artisanal workshops and f(lllndries using convict
labor. The state held all members of a work unit responsible Ic)r the quality of its
products, and tined the entire unit if the quality was persistently poor.
Surprisingly, the higher up the management hierarchy, the greater the punishment exacted. Bdclre the discovery of the new documents, it was thought that
Qin despised mercantile activities: now it appears that they exploited and controlled them carefully. They ordered that every item on sale in a market priced at
onc cash or more had to bear a price tag, and they exacted taxes on transactions.
361
362
Robin D. S. Yates
To return to the other type of territory: its produce was reckoned to be the
exclusive property of the ruler, and the peasants had to receive permission to take
its products. As a consequence, the rulers of the various states sometimes had
enormous tracts ofland set aside as their private hunting parks. Often these were
enclosed by walls. Their maintenance, at least in Qin, was the responsibility of
the peasants living in proximity to them. In the Qin and the Han, the Shanglin
("Supreme Forest"), the main park near the capital situated south ofvVei River,
was conceived as a kind of microcosm of the entire empire. Strange beasts and
birds from all over the empire were brought to populate it and it was said that
its climate reflected that of the entire empire: it was wanner to the south and
colder to the north. ls In t:1(t, the entire area of the Qin original homeland was
eventually restructured into a microcosm of the whole empire: as each of the rival
states was conquered, the Qin built a replica of that state's palace along the banks
of the Wei River and moved the female retinue of the t()I'Iner ruler to serve the
Qin. In addition, different parts of the central domain were reserved for altars
t(JI' sacrifices to different astral deities and to the spirits of the f()J'Jner Qin rulers
(Loewe 1974b: ch. 5).
It is more than likely that the Great Wall, in addition to its practical purpose
of preventing northern nomads lI'om raiding the Qin heartland, was the last of
the many walls that divided Qin space and civilized it. The innermost walls were
those of the Qin palaces occupied by the emperor, and the walls that surrounded
his mausoleum; then there were the city walls of the capital, the metropolitan
centers, and the villages; inside the settlements, walls surrounded the markets;
then there were the walls of the agricultll1'al fields and the hunting parks; and
finally the Great Wall.
All these walls were aimed at channeling and controlling the unseen spiritual
forces of the world, as well as the movement of humans. They were intended to
harmonize earthly space with the order of the cosmos, ()r Heaven was conceived
as being round and Earth square, and all the walls that the Qin built, at least conceptually, were either square or rectangular to con()J'Il1 to the appropriate
pattern of Earth. Indeed, as wc shall sce fllrther below (p. 367), Heaven, Earth,
and Man were conceived as being mirrors of each other, and they affected and
resonated with each other. Man's body reflected the shape of I-leaven and Earth
as well as the organization of time, and Earth, too, resembled Man. This is why
when General Meng Tian, the builder of the Great Wall, was f()rced to commit
suicide, he exclaimed that his f:1lI1t had been that he had cut through the arteries of the Earth during his project. It is fc)r this reason that I said above that the
Qin imperial design was cosmographic.
A final element to this cosmography was the Qin development of a hierarchical administrative system of commanderies and counties (prefectures) above the
village and district level, a normative network they spread out over the entire
"field" of the empire based upon the previously existing regional city-state sites
of occupation. It seems as l"llOugh the central administration appointed officials
in this system down to the county level and established strict rules f()r regulating
COSlnOS
{md central authority in the early Chinese empire
their appointment, transfer, and dismissal (R. D. S. Yates 1995). This system for
central control had been in development for many centuries in several of the
competing states (Creel 1970), but was extended to the entire empire after the
unification (Bodde 1986), thus eliminating more "feudal" forms of governance.
This administrative system, together with the reformed land division, can still be
seen from the air in north China to this day; it was certainly influential, at least
on a conceptual level, in structuring the southern parts of China, when those territories were occupied and incorporated into the empire in later times (Leeming
1980; Clunas 1996).
CONTROL OF BODIES
Starting in 375 BeE, the Qin government attempted to control and exploit
their population by forcing them to register their names (Du Zhengsheng
1990). This seems to have been the first time that the non-elite were given surnames, previously a privilege of the aristocrats. Control was extended in 359 B
C E when a system of "linked liability" (limtzllo) was enforced. Under this
system, members of the ordinary population were linked into units of five families, each with a head, villages,19 with a village head, which were subordinate to
districts, counties, and commanderies. They were held mutually responsible {ex
each other's behavior and required to report to the authorities any crime committed in their area of jurisdiction. 20 If they f:liled to report such criminal action,
they were considered to be equally culpable with the wrong-doer. In establishing this system of control, the Qin state penetrated right into the heart of the
f:lInily structure, attempting to disrupt its solidarity against the state. The Qin
also enforced a system of very severe punishments, consisting of terms of hard
labor and mutilation of the body, to ensure conf(H'Inity to its rules. Thus the Qin
marked, f()r the most part permanently, those who had refllsed to abide by its
laws. In so doing, however, it also seems to have claimed the right to punish
those who had offended against social and community norms, f()r example by
executing or exiling those who failed to behave in a filial way toward their
parents. 21 Yet the very severity of the punishments seems, in the long run, to have
encouraged group solidarity CI;lTai1tst the state. 22
This same system seems to have been applied in the Qin's military organization. It too was based Oil units of five and ten men, and they were responsible
f()r each other's safety. If onc man was lost, the rest of'the squad were executed
if they (:liled to capture an enemy head to redeem his loss. Probably the f1ve men
in a squad were taken/i'om each of the f1ve f:lI11ilies in the five-t:lI11ily unit of civilian administration.
By the period immediately preceding the foundation of the empire, the rules
of the system of linked responsibility had become highly complex, no doubt the
result of experience in applying them in actual practice. for example, a distinction seems to have been drawn between the culpability of a man's feJl\I' neighbors (in his f1ve-family unit) and that of the village elders, the heads of the
363
364
Robin D. S. Yates
five-family units, and the village head. The tC)I'(ner were held culpable only if they
were in the village when the crime was committed; the latter the elders and the
village head, with more authority and responsibility and as representatives of the
state within the community were held guilty regardless of whether they were
at home or not (Hulsewc 1985a: 145-6, D81-D82; R. D. S. Yates 1987).
In addition, the Qin state punished crimes committed by groups of five or
more more severely than those committed by an individual or by a group of less
than five (Hulsewc 1985a). It also distinguished the severity ofa theft on the basis
of the value of the stolen goods, reckoned in multiples of eleven cash, because
the state fixed the rate of exchange between a bolt of cloth used as currency and
metal coinage as being 11 cash per bolt (Hulsewc 1985a: A43, A44: 52).23 The
value had to be recorded both at the time of the theft and at the time of the thief's
capture, because the value of goods seems to have fluctuated widely and the
authorities wanted to make sure that the thiefwas condemned to the correct punishment. At this point, it is worth mentioning that the Qin monopolized the
casting of bronze cash and punished counterfeiting, although it is not known
how severely; other states in competition with Qin seem to have given the rights
of such casting of cash to worthy wealthy private individuals and aristocrats. On
the establishment of the empire, Qin withdrew from circulation the currency of
the states it had defeated and only permitted Qin coins to be used. These round
coins with square holes, symbolic ofl-leaven and Earth (sec below, p. 367), were
to remain the standard t(Jl'Il1 of cash throughout the imperial period.
As the Qin expanded their territorial control wider and wider over newly conquered territory, they required the people to make a 1(>I'Il1al deposition (zizhall)
of the extent of their property and of their ages. 24 This enabled the state to determine when members of the populace were obliged to provide taxes (including
head tax and labor tax in the t(H'll1 of corvce labor) and military service.
Obviously, the inf(H'lnation in population registers was crucial till' the military
and financial well-being, even the viability, of the government. 2S But it also seems
that the Qin, by registering the population, were attempting to fix and settle
down permanently a people previously used to a much more mobile existence:
when there was a natmal disaster where they were living, they moved elsewhere.
Many of the rulers of the Warring States had instituted policies to try to attract
such migrants. To achieve the stabilization of the population, the Qin, and later
the Han, elaborated a system of tallies and passports that had been invented by
about 500 BeE to restrict movement, and they also established a network of
toll booths and gate towers on the main arteries to verify travclers' credentials
and to exact taxes on itinerant merchants.
Although the Qin govel'l1ment had clear rules specit)ling that individuals had
to be registere'd and that concealment of age resulted in the punishment of the
village head (dian) and the elder of the five-man group (lao) with the fine of
redeemable shaving (Hulsewc 1985a: 115, C20; R. D. S. Yates 1987: 218), f,'om
the almanac texts it is quite obvious that the populace at large did not perf(ll'Il1
the ritual of capping and buckling on the sword (f(lr males) and marrying off
Cosmos and central authority in the early Chinese empire
daughters (tor females) except on appropriately auspicious days or in auspicious
seasons. 26 So the time of the Qin state could well have come into conflict with
the time of the people. Even though these same almanac texts provide much
information about the auspiciousness or inauspiciousness of different days for
the birth of children with concomitant effects upon the character and fate of
the new arrivals (Kinney 1995: 24) - it does not appear as though the Qin state
kept detailed records of dates of birth. The height of children was, however,
recorded when they became involved in lawsuits, and it seems that there was at
least a rough correlation made between age and height (R. D. S. Yates 1987).
Perhaps this was because so many children died in infancy. Nevertheless this
omission certainly enabled the people to manipulate the dates they registered
their off:~pring with the authorities, thus enabling them to determine when they
would submit themselves to the state and when they would seek financial advantages from it. In other words, the omission permitted people the opportunity to
create a space for their own rhythms of life, separate from the demands of the
state.
Wc should also note that both the Qin and the Han states claimed to name
their subjects. Name, village, degree of rank, and whether the subject had committed any previous crimes were the first matters recorded in the transcripts of
official investigations of crimes {cllll1d at Shuihudi. These transcripts were apparently circulated (I'om the center to local officials as {cmns or examples fCH' them
to f(lllow in writing up legal cases (McLeod and Yates 1981). In addition, state
law required that those accused of a crime submit (fit) to the truth of the accusation. If it proved by interrogating the parties to the case that the accusation
was false, then the accuser himself was guilty of a crime. And if an official failed
to t(lllow proper procedure or made a mistake in his assessment, he too could be
held guilty of various degrees of administrative errot'. Thus if a case was brought
to the attention of the authorities, someone was held guilty of a crime. 27 Persons
in Qin and Han times theref(lre only became named subjects when they became
objects of the state's hegemonic vision and inscription. In onc or two of these
cases, wc ilnd individuals attempting to turn the state's legal procedures to their
own advantage. i:'or example, a group of twenty villagers sought to have a fellow
villager deported into exile, as his maternal grandmother had been, on the
grounds that he possessed "poisonous words," pl'Obably referring to the belief
that in the hot southern districts the saliva ("mouths and tongues") of impetuous people become venomous. Over a lengthy period of time, the offending villageI' had f:liled to prevail upon his neighbOl's to share with him the drink and
/(l()(i of village sacrifices, and they tried to use the state's legal procedures to rid
themselves of an unwelcome member of their community. As Anagnost (1994:
258-9) questions in another, modern, context: "Can this unexpected presence
of 'ofl1ciallanguage' signify only the extent to which the power of the state has
become internalized within the speaking subjectr Can we not conceive of power
as a more dialectical process that returns some agency to the 'masses' in shaping
the meaningfulness of language(" To me it seems very likely.
365
366
Robill D. S. Yates
It is in this context that the long-term eHects of onc of the First Emperor's
most famous rdtmns following the establishment of the empire bears scrutiny:
he ordered that all the various fcmns of writing in the diHerent states should be
unified, following the model of the Qin script used in official communications
(the "clerkly script") (Barnard 1978). From that time to the present day, despite
the very wide differences of articulating or pronouncing words represented by
the graphs in the different regional spoken dialects, the actual meaning of the
written graph remains the same. Individuals who arc mutually unintelligible
when speaking can nonetheless write their thoughts down in graphs and, by
reading and writing, can communicate with onc another. It appears that, within
two generations or so of the empire's establishment, a linguistic revolution took
place; great numbers of words were invented that had not previously existed and
others dropped out of common usage - so much so that in many instances the
graphs used in preimperial texts lost their currency. I n order to interpret the
ritual and philosophic canons of the pre-Qin period, such as the Confucian
canons that became the basis of the education system f"om the time ofHan vVudi
(reigned 140-87 BC E and under whose auspices Confucianism became
accepted as the state orthodoxy) down to the beginning of the twentieth
century, commentators had to subject the graphs to much scholarly exegesis.
Commentaries became, in fact, a site of cultural production. Unfc)rtunately, the
precise dimensions of this linguistic and cultural revolution in the Qin and early
Ban have not been the subject of much analysis, but the effects of this element
of the Qin imperial project have had very major consequences fc)r the self~iden­
tity of Chinese people and fc)r the preservation of the unity of Chinese cultlll'e. 28
Finally, we should note the pervasiveness in the Qin and early Han legal cases
of members of the population absconding (1JIIlllJJ), abandoning their homes, and
fleeing their obligations to the state. Some obviously went absent without leave
on a regular basis, even though this was a crime that was punished. Clearly, many
members of the newly incorporated population sought ways to inhibit the
encroachment of the state over their bodies. Interestingly enough, the term used
by the Qin It)!' such "abscondence" is the same as that f(JI' "losing" something
in a crime of robbery (dao), on which there is Illuch inf(H'lnation in both the legal
and the almanac texts. Could it be that the state conceived of the people's
running away as a kind of theft of its labor power and tax resourcesr
HARMONIZATION WITH THE COSMOS
Further inlcH'lnation about the ideology of the Qin state, with its emphasis on
cosmology, sllt'vives in the fC>l'l11 of three philosophically orientated works, one
of whieh was contemporary with the J'irst Emperor, and in the texts of the
inscriptions on several stelae that he e'reeted in diflerent parts of the country
extolling his success in unification. 29 The first of the works, which has been
alluded to a number of times already, is the llooll l!f'Lol'd ShmlJJ (ShallJl}lIu .I'hll),
essays partly composed by Wei Yang (Gongsun Yang) - Lord Shang himself (died
Cosmos and cm t1'll1 authority ill the early Chinese
338 BCE) - and partly by his followers (cf. Duyvendak 1963). This work preserves the policy recommendations of the man who was chosen by Duke Xiao of
Qin (I'. 361-338 BC E) to reorganize the state of Qin in the mid-fourth century
BC E and whose "rdcmn of the laws" established the political, social, economic,
and military structure tc)r subsequent Qin success just over a hundred years later.
Lord Shang advocated that a rigid system of "rewards and punishments" should
be introduced, that all aristocrats and commoners alike should be equal before
the law, that the state should emphasize only agricultural production and ,var,
that merchants should be discriminated against, and, finally, that ritual specialists, such as the Confucians, should be banned. Although he appears to advocate
a strict version of rational "realpolitik" and has been likened to Machiavelli, his
arguments and recommendations arc couched in a language cm bedded in a discourse of purity and pollution that suggests Lord Shang was couching his policy
initiatives in a more cosmic li'amework than has previously been supposed
(R. D. S. Yates 1997b).
The second is the "Spring and Autumn Annals ofUi Buwei" (Liishi chll1lqi1t),
a work which the First Emperor's chief minister, Ui Buwei, a fC)I'mer wealthy
merchant, commissioned from a group of leading scholars. He attached these
scholars to his household as "guests" and presented their work to his master
while Zheng was still a young king in 239 BCE.3D It seems as though Ui
intended this text as a blueprint tc)r the ideology of the unified country
(Kalinowski 1980; 1982; cf. Levi 1989; Yates 1994a; 1994b; Sivin 1995). He
structured it on the basis of a Yin Yang text called "The Monthly Ordinances"
which specified in great detail exactly what sacrifices the emperor should
perfcmll, what colors he should wear, what ((>od he should ingest, in what activities he should engage, and what orders he should promulgate: all throughout
the course of the year in order to harmonize himselfwith the ehanging rhythms
of the (cHlr seasons as manifCsted in the alternation of the Five Phases (Wu Xing)
dynamic powers that were used to categorize and classify all things in the universe and with the ever-fluctuating flows of the cosmic powers, Yin and Yang.
The emperor was Man pm' excellencc within the tripartite unity of Heaven, Earth,
and Man which composed the cosmos. Irregularities in the ruler's behavior
would immediately affect the harmony of the natural world, and it would manilCst aberrations, resonating in response, such as generating snowlill1s in summer.
Thus the macrocosm and the mierocosm humans, the state, and the natural
order were bound together into a single, complex, organic whole through the
medium of the body of' the ruler. When the First Emperor finally achieved the
conquest of his rivals, he assumed the elevated title of Hllt1llJJd i (August Celestial
Deity, which we translate "Emperor"), putting himself' on a par with the Folll'
Cosmic Deities of the Folll' Quarters, and adopting Water as his ruling Phase.
This Phase was correlated with the color blaek, and so he changed the color of
his vestments and all imperial symbols, such as flags, to black. Six was the correlated number, so he ordered that the gauge of all chariots in the empire should
be 6 (eet, and the number of regional administrative commanderies be thirty-six.
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Robill D. S. Yates
Thus he sought to harmonize the change in the nature of his polity with what
he perceived to be current dominant Phase in nature. 31
CONCLUSION
From what I have described above, the Qin imperial design was cosmographic
and cosmologic. Huge amounts of labor and wealth resources were expended
on bringing this vision to reality. However, as has been indicated, the Qin empire
itself lasted only a few years beyond the death of the First Emperor, principally
because the cornerstone of the entire structure was the emperor himself. When
he was replaced with a weak, greedy, suspicious, lazy, incompetent younger son
- the Second Emperor it took only a few years to subvert the dynasty.
Nevertheless, the Qin had succeeded in inscribing their cosmic vision on the
bodies of its people, in altering the language that they used, in subverting the
structures of their families and their sense of time and of social practice, and in
laying out over the landscape a normative hierarchy of administrative centers,
flows ofcoml11unication, and a division of land. These practices then became the
heart of the l11yth of the imperial unity of the Chinese people, a myth that has
survived to this day and still infc>I'll1S the sense of self-identity of the Chinese
people and the policies of their government.
PART V
THE AFTERLIFE OF EMPIRES
Susan E. Alcock
To poets, the end of empire has offered a metaphor through which to bewail the
inevitable ending of all things - a compelling trope, expressed countless times,
in ways that range fi'om the sublime to the ridiculous:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch 1;11' away. (Percy Bysshe Shelley, OZYlIIlIlIdillS)
The jackals prowl, the serpents hiss
In what was once Persepolis.
Proud Bahylon is but a trace
Upon the desert's dusty I:ICe ...
And all the oligarchies, kings,
And potentates th,1t ruled these things
Are gone! But cheer up; dOIl't be sad;
Think what a lovely time they had! (Arthlll' Guiterman, Elegy)
The death of empires seems to exert a lurid t:lscination, underlining, as it so
pointedly does, the mutability and transience of human lite. Great men live, great
deeds are done, great wealth is amassed, great power is wielded - but, in the end,
it all comes to nothing. In this conception, empires are truly "written on water"
(Subrahmanyam, this volume).
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Susan E. Alcock
Ironically, one of the most striking, and certainly one of the most persistent,
messages of this volume is that old empires never entirely die, and some strongly
resist fading away. In other words, empires possess a potent afterlife, albeit one
that is decidedly stronger in some cases than in others. Such an imperial afterlife
can take on many forms, but two particularly dominant manifestations will be
highlighted here. First is the interplay between imperial systems themselves.
Processes of emulation and rejection, copying and capping, of the mores