by Ober, Josiah
There had already been several skirmishes at which small units of Spartan hoplites had proved vulnerable, both to Athenian light-armed troops using sophisticated mobile tactics and to well-led Theban hoplites. But the day of reckoning came in 371, in Boeotia at the Battle of Leuctra. There, a Theban army, using a new wedge formation of heavy infantry and spearheaded by a crack unit of 300 highly trained citizen-soldiers (“the Sacred Band”), routed a Spartan army in the open field.
The era of Spartan supremacy in mainland Greece ended abruptly at Leuctra. Pericles’ dream of knocking Sparta back to a modest regional power was achieved soon thereafter, when a Theban army marched into the Peloponnesus to found a new capital city for the Messenians—and fortified it with a spectacular state-of-the-art city wall. With the creation of Messene (i318), the Messenians were no longer helots but citizens of a substantial and defensible polis of their own. When added to the Peloponnesian states already prone to hostility toward Sparta—Arcadians, Eleans, Argives, Corinthians, and Achaeans—Messene proved an adequate counter to attempts at Spartan resurgence. With the eclipse of Sparta’s hegemony, the poleis of the Peloponnese fully reentered the Greek world of dispersed authority—with substantial positive knock-on effects for overall Greek efflorescence.17
ATHENS’ INSTITUTIONAL INNOVATIONS AND CIVIC CULTURE
Among the surprises of the post-Peloponnesian War era was the quick recovery of Athens. In 404, the crushing defeat in the war had been quickly followed by the imposition of a Spartan puppet government, “the Thirty.” Like other postwar Sparta-imposed governments, the Thirty sought to impose a rough form of centralized autocracy. With a coalition that included as its enforcers young thugs and upper-class cavalrymen, the Thirty began a reign of terror. They confiscated property from wealthy resident foreigners, exiled thousands of their fellow citizens, and employed pseudojudicial processes to execute anyone who stood in their way. By some accounts, they killed more than 1,500 Athenians in a few months.
A democratic counterinsurgency quickly emerged, based initially at the deme of Phyle in northern Attica (map 5). Gaining momentum with early victories over field armies sent against them by the Thirty, the democratic rebels shifted their base of operations to Athens’ port town of Piraeus. At a major battle in central Piraeus, the forces of the Thirty were again defeated, and their leader, Critias (Plato’s uncle and a sometime student of Socrates), was killed. Divisions among Sparta’s ruling elite prevented a decisive Spartan response. Athens’ democracy was restored. Proposals to expand and to restrict the citizen body were defeated. The restored citizen assembly undertook to pay back the debts that had been incurred by the Thirty to pay for a Spartan garrison.
To the surprise of many, who expected tit-for-tat retaliation by the democrats against their enemies, an amnesty was declared. The events of the civil war were officially (if not actually) to be forgotten. The amnesty forbade the use of the courts or other state institutions by those seeking vengeance on Athenian supporters of the Thirty.18
Meanwhile, legal reforms that had begun in 410, after the first oligarchic coup, were recommenced. The main work was largely complete by 399, by which time the laws of Athens were codified and made accessible in a new public archive and the legislative process was significantly revised. The Solonian–Cleisthenic system was largely retained, but according to the new constitutional rules, all decrees of the assembly must now be in conformity with the written (and now properly codified and archived) fundamental laws of the state. Those basic laws could be revised: Each year, the assembly held a vote on the laws, deciding section by section whether revision was called for. But new fundamental law would now be made, not by the assembly directly, but by a large, lottery-chosen, jurylike, body of “lawmakers” (nomothetai), over age 30.
Any proposed new law must be advertised for a statutory period on whitened boards in the agora, where any citizen who wished could review the proposal. The new lawmaking procedure was triallike, in that proposed legal changes were publicly debated between advocates of change and state-appointed defenders of the existing law. The lawmakers then voted to determine the result. The proposer of any decree of the assembly thought to be in contradiction of the laws (paranomon) could be indicted before the people’s court, as could the proposer of a new law thought to be inexpedient (me epitedeion). If the proposer was condemned by the court, the decree or law in question was invalidated. The upshot was a democratic brake on the legislative process of democracy.
The legal changes were motivated, at least in part, by Athenians’ recognition that the fifth century democratic process had led to some bad outcomes that might have been avoided by better process. The new procedure clarified and codified the fundamental rules, subordinated day-to-day decisions of democratic bodies to those rules, and set up incentives that discouraged clever and articulate public speakers from seeking to end-run the rules. The constitutional reforms of the late fifth and early fourth century are sometimes characterized as a moderation of, or retreat from, the original radical spirit of participatory democracy, but they are better understood as a refinement of the Athenians’ understanding of democracy as collective self-governance by citizens. By limiting the authority of the assembly, the Athenians were not limiting the authority of the demos. Rather they were seeking to enable the demos, as a collectivity, to judge well—to choose the course of action most consonant with the deeper principles of the democracy and most likely to further the common interests of the citizenry—and of the polis.19
The new constitutional order precipitated changes in the nature of the game played between elite speakers and mass audiences. As before, the Council of 500, with its membership chosen by lot from across the regions of Attica, set the agenda for meetings of the citizen assembly and often made recommendations on policy. And, as before, social networks encouraged by Council and magisterial service helped a large and diverse citizen body to make good use of expertise (ch. 7). But over the course of the fifth century, a weakness had appeared in the original system: a potentially perverse relationship between skilled speakers and mass audiences. As Thucydides, Plato, and other Athenian writers critical of democracy pointed out, the skills of public speakers were being sharpened by the kinds of expertise taught by the sophists. Meanwhile, mass audiences developed a taste for rhetorical pyrotechnics. With no brake on the process, the dynamic of public speakers seeking influence and honors, and mass audiences eager to be entertained and willing to be flattered sometimes led to catastrophic policy mistakes.20
Before the constitutional changes, an assembly speaker who did not like the Council’s agenda or its recommendations might break the rules by introducing a topic outside the agenda. Or he might propose a superficially attractive but dangerous alternative to the Council’s proposal—relying on his expert skills in the arts of rhetoric to sway the assemblymen in his favor. With hindsight, the decision to send a supersized expedition to Sicily in 415 could be recognized as a prime example of constitutional violation, one that was accompanied by rhetorical excess and levels of popular enthusiasm that suppressed dissident voices (ch. 8). But now, assembly speakers confronted the likelihood that if they broke the procedural rules or proposed a measure that was either illegal (contravening the standing laws) or inexpedient (retrospectively seen as rashly imprudent policy), they would be brought to trial by their political rivals. The judges would be drawn from the same citizen body as were the assemblymen, but the young citizens (under age 30) were excluded, and the fever-pitch excitement of the assembly meeting would have cooled. The new rules, in short, encouraged each politician to anticipate the consequences of his actions in light of others’ likely responses—to “look a little further down the game tree,” recognize that if he violated the rules his rivals had a winning move, and act accordingly.21
Athenian mass audiences could for their part collectively use the revised rules of the game to make better use of expertise. We may assume that, given the high stakes of policy-making and the absence of organi
zed political parties, most Athenian citizens attending an assembly charged with deciding a matter of grave moment were sincerely seeking the best outcome: That is, they were there to promote what they took to be common interests, rather than a narrowly partisan agenda, in the assumption that their private interests would be furthered by the public goods of collective security and welfare. As Thucydides’ Pericles had repeatedly pointed out, there would be no chance for Athenians to pursue private interests if the polis failed as a collective enterprise.
That said, the opinions of the wealthy elite and the mass of ordinary citizens concerning, for example, what would constitute optimal levels of taxation, were not identical. Speakers in the assembly were drawn primarily from the ranks of the elite—men who were considerably richer and also more highly educated than the median assemblyman. Highly educated, well-informed speakers offered a potential advantage to the state: As we have seen (ch. 7), if and when the Athenians attended properly to true experts, the polis stood to do better. But on the other hand, if the educated elite used their near-monopoly as assembly speakers to warp debates in the direction of the interests of the wealthy and against those of ordinary citizens, the democracy would quickly unravel.
In the course of the fourth century, the two-way communication of elites and masses at Athens was refined through regular interchanges in Council, assembly, and courtroom against the background of the new constitutional rules. What emerged from these interchanges was a set of informal but clearly articulated discursive rules of expression. By sticking to the rules, elite speakers had the opportunity to win the respectful attention, and the votes, of the citizen masses. In order to win that chance, each speaker was required to demonstrate, by the everyday conduct of his life and by his rhetorical self-presentation, over time and in both legislative and legal forums, that he was worthy of the citizens’ trust. He must prove himself to be at once elite and democratic: He must show that he was both a highly educated expert in the relevant policy area and that he was fully committed to the core democratic values of personal liberty, political equality, and civic dignity. He must demonstrate that his loyalties were to the democratic constitution, the polis, and the demos—not to an elite class or to aristocratic cronies. He must show himself to be an independent statesman, not a spokesman for a clique of powerful men. And he must prove himself to be incorruptible: His public opinions must be his own, not those of some shadowy paymaster.
Those Athenian politicians who successfully walked the tightrope by presenting themselves as both sufficiently elite and staunchly democratic were granted considerable privilege by their fellow citizens: They were accorded the status of recognized political leaders: treated as reliable experts, worthy advisors, loyal statesmen—and rewarded accordingly. Those who failed the test were discarded. The game was tough and the stakes high. Many failed, but, given the competitive culture of the democratic city, there were always other elite competitors ready to enter the lists in hopes of gaining influence, honor, and the respectful attention of the demos.
The upshot of iterated play of the mass–elite game of public speech was that the increasingly sophisticated governmental institutions of the democratic polis were complemented by an equally sophisticated culture of public discourse. Democratic institutions and culture were, on the whole, effective at achieving two ends essential to the long-term success of the polis: making good (innovative, but not excessively risky) policy and reducing the level of discord and dissonance between elites who were intensely engaged in public affairs and the masses of ordinary citizens. Individual Athenians could count on a reasonable stability in the basic rules (institutional and discursive) and thus could calculate risks and make reasonable personal decisions about the future accordingly. The community of citizens could look forward to the chance to consider innovative policy options arising from brisk competition between would-be leaders, without being too worried about falling prey to a dangerously charismatic leader.22
There was ongoing tension between Athenian elites and masses, as well as among rivalrous elites. And it is not the case that all fourth century Athenian policy was wise. But the overall positive feedback loop between democratic institutions and democratic discursive culture did mean that the way was open to innovative and effective policy-making and that postwar Athens was able to achieve a high-level, productive, and stable social and political equilibrium. That equilibrium appears striking when it is contrasted, for example, with the extreme volatility of fourth century Syracuse—which had seemed to be Athens’ twin in the mid-fifth century as a superpolis democracy.
We consider, in the section of this chapter on opening access to institutions, a few key Athenian innovations that were instrumental in enabling the democratic polis to rebuild its economy, finance public programs, and thereby to maintain security relative to dangerous rivals and to enhance the welfare of residents. Meanwhile, there was no internal challenge by disaffected elites to Athens’ democratic order in the 80 years between the overthrow of the Thirty and the top-down replacement of democracy with a broad-based oligarchy by ruling Macedonians after the Lamian War in 322 BCE (ch. 11). In his analytic history of Athenian political development (Ath. Pol. 41.2), Pseudo-Aristotle describes this period as a single constitutional era and as the culmination of democracy as he knew it.
CONFUSION AND DISORDER: MAINLAND AND AEGEAN GREECE TO 352 BCE
The dramatic victory of Thebes at Leuctra was won without Athens’ help. Athens and Thebes had found common ground in the early fourth century, when faced with the machinations of an expansionist Sparta. But the quick rise of Theban power in the mid-370s rebooted the old and deep rivalry between the two central Greek neighbors. Athens had, after all, tried to force all Boeotia into its empire in the mid-fifth century. Thebes had reciprocated by stripping rural Attica of movable assets in the late Peloponnesian War and by urging the Spartans to reduce Athens to a sheep walk in 404. Relations worsened when, in 372, Thebes for the second time sacked Plataea, Athens’ traditional ally in southwestern Boeotia. The town had only recently been refounded after its destruction early in the Peloponnesian War.
Thebes had long sought to achieve superpolis status by asserting authority over the poleis of Boeotia. A Boeotian confederation of a sort had existed in the sixth century, before the Persian Wars; it was reinvented on federalist lines in the fifth century. That federation had been broken up by the terms of the King’s Peace of 387. Now the Thebans were determined to rebuild it once again—but this time with an organizational structure that would enable Thebes to control the smaller poleis of Boeotia and to mobilize Boeotia’s military capacity under Theban generals. As in the origins of the Delian League, the founding ideal of the new Boeotian League was cooperative defense against a common enemy. As with the Delian League and Athens, the Boeotian League quickly became an instrument wielded to ends determined by its dominant member.23
With Sparta out of the way after Leuctra, Thebes grew more actively belligerent toward Athens. In the 360s, Thebes’ leader, Epaminondas, threatened invasion of Attica by land and was reported to be planning a 100-ship navy that could potentially disrupt Aegean trade routes. The second Athenian naval league, which had been formed with the purpose of resisting imperial Sparta, might have been dissolved now that Spartan power had been broken, but it was not. The league remained important for the security of Athens and that of other grain-importing states. Athens was a regular importer of large quantities of wheat and was therefore dependent on maintaining the overseas routes from grain-producing regions around the Black Sea, through the Bosphorus and Hellespont, to Piraeus.
There were other threats to Aegean states that valued their independence and depended on the free movement of people and goods across the eastern Mediterranean: Persia was now ready and able to exert its power beyond the Anatolian coast, as demonstrated by its takeover of Samos, in contravention of the autonomy clause of the King’s Peace, some time before 366. In that year, Athens wrested Samos from Persian control. Athens h
ad developed an especially close relationship with Samos during the late Peloponnesian War; now the Athenians settled a group of cleruchs on Samos. In the 360s, Athens also attempted, but failed, to regain control of Amphipolis (i553), its former colony on the south Thracian coast. Athens had more success at Potidaia (i598) on the Chalkidike Peninsula, (map 9) which accepted Athenian cleruchs in 362. Athens also took Sestos (i672) on the Thracian Chersonese on the west side of the Bosphorus (map 8). Each of these cities occupied a strategic location on the grain route. Athens’ aims in these military actions could be interpreted in two ways. For the Athenians, it may have been primarily a matter of regaining key strategic assets. For nervous allies and suspicious rivals, it might appear that Athens was seeking to rebuild an overseas empire.24
Persian governors of the empire’s western provinces were, for their part, becoming more independent and ambitious. A protracted series of revolts against the authority of the king in Anatolia (the so-called Satraps’ Revolt) drew in large numbers of Greek mercenaries—and provided employment for expert Greek generals, including several from Athens. Although the revolt was eventually suppressed, the Persian king’s principal-agent problem clearly had not yet been solved.