ROUTLEDGE LIBRARY EDITIONS:

SECURITY AND SOCIETY

Volume 4

WAR AND IDEOLOGY

WAR AND IDEOLOGY

ERIC CARLTON
First published in 1990 by Routledge

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© 1990 Eric Carlton

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WAR AND IDEOLOGY
To the specialists and staff of the Cardiothoracic Centre at the
Freeman Hospital, Newcastle, without whose care and expertise
this book would never have been completed.
WAR AND IDEOLOGY

Eric Canton
 First published 1990
by Routledge
11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE
© 1990 Eric Carlton
Set in 10/12pt Palatino by
Input Typesetting Ltd, London
and printed in Great Britain by
TJ Press (Padstow) Ltd, Padstow, Cornwall
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by
any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including
photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the publishers.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
Carlton, Eric
War and ideology.
1. War. Sociological perspectives
I. Title
303.6′6
ISBN 0–415–04157–0
 CONTENTS

Preface

SECTION I THE PROBLEM OF WAR

SECTION II WAR AND IDEOLOGY

SECTION III PERCEPTIONS OF ‘THE ENEMY’

1 THE EGYPTIANS OF THE NEW KINGDOM: The enemy as non-

people

2 THE SPARTANS: The enemy as political obstacles

3 THE CARTHAGINIANS: The enemy as economic rivals

4 THE ROMANS: The enemy as uncouth barbarians

5 THE EARLY ISRAELITES: The enemy as ritual outlaws

6 THE CRUSADER KNIGHTS: The enemy as unbelievers

7 THE MONGOLS: The enemy as effete degenerates

8 THE AZTECS: The enemy as ritual fodder

9 THE ZULU: The enemy as colonial intruders

10 THE ATHENIANS: The enemy as opponents of democracy

11 THE MAOISTS: The enemy as class antagonists

12 EXCURSUS ON RACE, MASSACRE, AND GENOCIDE: The

enemy as racial inferiors

SECTION IV WAR AND THE PROBLEM OF VALUES

Bibliography
Index
 PREFACE

The subject of war lends itself to a variety of possible treatments. So much

depends upon the required emphasis of the research in question, whether it
is to be primarily historical or social and economic, or whether it has to
include more abstract philosophical elements. In the past, it has often
proved helpful to take a great-battles-of-history approach by tracing
chronologically the key conflicts that have occurred in, say, the last two
thousand years. This kind of treatment is popular and reasonably
uncomplicated but it makes the study of war necessarily selective. It begs
the question: by what criteria does one decide what is great as opposed to
the not so great, or identify the ‘decisive’ as distinct from the not so
decisive. Alternatively, one could adopt a more analytical patterns-of-
conquest approach which attempts a categorization of the nature and
methods of military expansionism. This can be extremely useful, but its
weakness is that it tends to concentrate almost exclusively on predatory
societies, and does not give enough attention to those societies that cannot
be neatly pigeon-holed in this all too convenient way.
The present study is a little more oblique. It is concerned with analysis
and categorization, but it is also interested in motivation and interpretation.
It asks the question: why do men have recourse to war to solve their socio-
economic problems? It thus relates war to ideology, and takes as its sine
qua non the proposition that men act as they think, and think as they
believe, and that belief – religious or otherwise – conditions attitudes to the
nature and conduct of war. It argues that various constellations of values –
often intellectualized as ideologies – not only constitute the rationalizations
and justifications for war, but may also provide the actual imperatives for
warfare itself.
 It is assumed that one of the best ways of doing this is to examine war
and ideology in the context of what is believed to constitute the ‘enemy’.
Perceptions of the adversary, possibly more than anything else, determine
the nature as opposed to the fact of warfare. And it is also taken as a basic
presupposition that this discussion can be most instructive if it is conducted
in a historical and comparative setting. This means that the text has to
include extensive substantive material as well as theoretical analysis. It
should, therefore, be suitable for students of both history and sociology, as
well as those who are specifically engaged in war studies. As such, it is
intended to be scholarly without being intimidating.
The work is thus organized in four unequal portions. Section I introduces
the discussion on ‘The problem of war’; Section II elaborates on this with
‘War and ideology’, which is, in effect, a sociological treatment of what is –
or can be – meant by the term ‘ideology’. Section III – ’Perceptions of “the
enemy” ‘ – is divided into an Introduction and twelve case studies covering
war in different societies. This is by far the largest part of the book, and is
written in a straightforward, descriptive way. It is intended to inform the
reader about the military structures of these societies whilst, at the same
time, highlighting some of the theoretical points about the nature of war in
general and specific appreciations of the enemy in particular. Section IV
concludes the study with an examination of ‘War and the problem of
values’; this rounds off the discussion by drawing together the threads of
the prior arguments and reaffirming the relationship between war and
ideological belief and commitment.
 Section I
THE PROBLEM OF WAR

At the most elementary level, war is a problem simply because most of us

would like to know how it can be avoided. But it is a problem in other
senses as well. At a theoretical level it raises all sorts of supplementary
issues, and it is these which constitute the basis of our initial discussion.
Most societies have persistently resorted to violent solutions to their
political-economic problems. And this has not always been in moments of
desperation. There have been exceptions, but – as we shall see – these have
been extremely rare; so rare, in fact, that the phenomenon of seeking
peaceful solutions to such problems is itself in need of explanation.
Why then do men go to war? Are they basically competitive and self-
seeking, with war as an institutionalized outlet for their aggressive
instincts? Or is war a cultural invention rather than a biological necessity?
Complementarity, why do societies go to war? Are the reasons rooted in the
human psyche and its personal motivations, or should we be looking rather
to historical situations of need and scarcity for an explanation? In these
circumstances, the ‘answer’ to war may be seen in terms of social change,
in the outlawing of classes and the more equal distribution of goods.
Underlying all these issues are yet further questions concerning the
inevitability of war and the possibility of its elimination as a barbarous
extension of political endeavour. But there are no simple answers. All these
matters require careful analysis and exemplification, so in the ensuing
discussion, the treatment will be both comparative and historical in order to
show something of the wide diversity of human conduct in relation to the
nature and conduct of war. The object is not necessarily to detail particular
campaigns or probe the natures of would-be conquerors and political
personalities, but to investigate the ostensible causes of human conflict and
the ways in which these are then rationalized and justified. This will entail a
preliminary analysis of the theories which are commonly adduced to
explain the phenomenon of war and its implications.
The general problem can be looked at from a number of perspectives,
that of the historian, the political scientist, the economist, and the like, but
the behavioural scientist will want to know to what extent war is a function
of cultural development. A 1970s Harris poll, for example, found that a
‘substantial majority’ of Americans agreed with the statement ‘Human
nature being what it is, there will always be war and conflict’ (Robertson
1977: 55). But nobody knows exactly what is meant by ‘human nature’.
Genetic inheritance obviously sets limits on human potential and provides a
framework for possible patterns of behaviour. Within this, however, there is
appreciable flexibility, hence the considerable cultural variation which can
be seen in relation to war and violence. For instance, it is argued that
modern western society is highly competitive and therefore puts an undue
emphasis on wealth and success. It is said that this preoccupation with
achievement and prestige fosters aggression, and that this is a necessary
function of its market orientations, although this does tend to discount very
similar values in some complex pre-industrial societies (Carlton 1977).
By contrast, there are societies among whom this kind of aggressive
behaviour is apparently unknown. These are, without exception, small-scale
societies at a relatively low level of technological development such as the
Arapesh of New Guinea, the Kung Bushmen of the Kalahari, and the
pygmies of the Ituri forest. One account of the Lepchas of Sikkim (Gorer
1938), for instance, insists that they do not understand war – even defensive
war. These may be compared with the Dani who have ‘pretend wars’. Their
simulated violence which amounts to little more than the exchange of abuse
reduces injury to a minimum. Such societies are remarkable and are held up
as examplars; their very existence is regarded as a challenge to western
assumptions about ‘human nature’. They have become famous in the ‘trade’
for their uncharacteristic singularity, and are often cited in the texts as
illustrations of a shaming moral simplicity. The implications being that we
in the developed nations might also share in these pristine virtues if only we
had not allowed ourselves to become corrupted by a whole series of
extrinsic factors.
 But these societies are very unusual. They may represent some kind of
lost ideal, but their existence only demonstrates the exceptions that prove
the rule. They cannot even be cited as evidence for the theory that
increasing war and aggression are really functions of the scale and
complexity of society; there are too many known contra-instances, such as
the Amazonian Jivaro, for this to be upheld as a general truth. The fact is
that most societies throughout history have been well aware of the
advantages and disadvantages of aggression to attain their ends, and the
vast majority have been prepared to have recourse to violence if it would
further or protect their basic interests.
It is perhaps worth noting here the useful distinction between the
‘military way’ and ‘militarism’ made by Alfred Vagts (1959). This
maintains that the military way is marked by ‘a . . . concentration of men
and materials on winning specific objectives’ whereas militarism is a ‘vast
array of customs, interests, prestige and actions . . . [involving] authority
and belief. In other words, war and military adventure may not be quite the
same thing. Societies everywhere indulge in warfare, and some take the
resigned and rational view that, if war becomes necessary, it should be
prosecuted with the utmost care and efficiency. By contrast, militarism is a
way of life. It involves a complex of traditions and values which is integral
to particular social systems, such as those of the Assyrians and the Spartans.
This has not, therefore, been a common characteristic of historical societies.
We can say, then, that amidst all this cultural variation, the practice of
war – with given qualifications – may be regarded as a cultural universal.
The forms it takes give the impression of considerable diversity, but these
disguise its essential similarity. Very broadly speaking, war derives either
from the nature of men, or from the common situations in which they find
themselves – or from some subtle combination of the two. The causes of
war, therefore, can be categorized as either social or psychological in kind;
attributable either to traceable structural variables or to personality factors
which are recognized but difficult to define. So, fundamentally, the question
we are really asking here is whether aggression is a social product or
whether it is related to some form of infirmity which is integral to the
human condition.
Perhaps the most useful way of tackling this fundamental issue would be
to look at some of the theoretical positions which have been – and still are –
taken concerning the causes of war:
 WAR AS A BIOLOGICAL NECESSITY
Many people take the view that man is a naturally aggressive creature.
Writers as different in their philosophical orientations as Augustine and
Machiavelli agree that, by nature, men are greedy, selfish, and rapacious.
Thomas Hobbes, the political thinker, writing in the seventeenth century,
maintained that there is no justice in nature. Men, therefore, become the
inevitable victims of war in which there is no security for anyone. In such
an unendurable situation, Hobbes argued, any sensible person would be
willing to give up his natural liberty to gain peace. Thus government came
into being as a source of power to restrain the natural rapacity of human
kind (Hobbes 1963).
Similar views about man’s ‘natural state’ have been expressed by both
philosophers and psychologists. Kant insisted that peace among men is not
a natural state. He saw violence as a permanent feature of all societies, and
thought that peace would only obtain when some form of strict discipline
was imposed. Similarly, Sigmund Freud, one of the most seminal thinkers
in this field, saw aggressiveness as normal. According to Freud, man was
naturally at variance with society. His egoistic interests were not in
harmony with community interests; the individual instinctively rebelled
against social constraint. Freud’s ‘hydraulic theory’ of the human
personality assumes that there is a reservoir of pent-up aggression just
waiting to be released, and unless it finds some reasonably harmless form of
expression, it could eventually lead to mental breakdown. Men need some
kind of social catharsis – a release mechanism – to prevent unwelcome
psychological repercussions.
If aggression needs, therefore, to be expressed rather than suppressed,
how can it be effectively channelled? Would, say, games be a suitable
substitute? The psychologist, W. Menninger (in Bylinsky 1976) has argued
for sport as an ‘outlet for the aggressive drive’, and he believes that this
would (and does?) result in forms of ‘controlled aggression’. But contrary
to this, another psychologist, Leonard Berkowitz (in Bylinsky 1976), insists
that in sport – particularly contact sport – tensions actually increase, and
aggression finds all sorts of harmful and objectionable expressions. It is
further argued that this is not confined to the field, but is also
communicated to the spectators. Of course, it could be that the reactions are
reciprocal. For instance, in soccer, it is possible that the hostility on the
terraces simply mirrors the win-at-all-costs mentality of the players. Less
plausibly, it may be that the players take their cues from the crowd.
So we see that some research evidence indicates that, rather than
expression having the desired cathartic effect, violence actually breeds more
violence. Work done by James Prescott on violence to children suggests that
children who are seriously maltreated by their parents, tend to maltreat their
children in turn – almost as though they accept it as the normal mode of
conduct (Bylinsky 1976).
On the question of how violence is generated, the data – as usual -are
conflicting. There seems to be some correlation between actual or known
violence in one area and replication in another. For example, in cases dating
from 1900 studied by Archer and Garner (in Bylinsky 1976) there appears
to be some relationship between wartime violence and domestic violence.
But how this can be explained is not clear. Similarly, there is the long-
standing debate as to whether television violence actually generates
aggressive attitudes in children, or whether it simply characterizes what
children really want. Do some television programmes make children
violent, or are they like it anyway? The evidence is not really conclusive
either way. Back in the 1950s when the amount of bloodshed on television
was not quite so copious, research suggested that parents had little to fear
from the media, but more recent reports seem to indicate otherwise. What
we can say is that, whether children are naturally aggressive or not, there is
some evidence to suggest that the continual depiction of violence
legitimizes violent acts and attitudes in impressionable viewers. Perhaps it is
all fantasy and make-believe, but fantasy may actually increase rather than
sublimate possible aggression. Furthermore, there is the question of
habituation, which applies to adults as well as to children. If the depiction of
violence does not actually make people violent, does it inure them to
violence? Does the continual portrayal of aggression make it more
acceptable? We all know how haphazard television scheduling can be, and
how -say – a magazine programme of a general kind can switch from a
deeply serious subject such as war or terrorism to the mediocrity of the
‘Rock and Pop Awards’. One suspects that this could lead to the
trivialization of violence as just another aspect of entertainment, and the
diffusion of its impact in the mind of the viewer. The effects of such
presentations may therefore be quite subtle. It is not that people, and
especially children, will necessarily copy the violent acts they see, but
rather that their commonality will generate an increasing indifference. The
problem is not therefore so much one of reproduction as one of
desensitization.
Some ethologists in their studies of animal behaviour have come to their
own conclusions about the naturalness of aggression. One of the most
influential, Konrad Lorenz, has developed an evolutionary theory of
violence and warfare in which he postulates that aggression has a vital
biological function in preserving those who are fittest to survive. The theory
is basically a very simple one: those who survive are, ipso facto, those who
are best adapted to the evolutionary process. They have the necessary
qualities of strength, courage, and cunning which have enabled them to
endure where others have perished (Lorenz 1966).
According to this view, there is a complex but inexorable process of
differentiation, selection, and adaptation taking place which takes in not
only the natural order but the social order as well. Even in the man-made
world, none of us can escape the tyranny of our own biology. This is the
way the world is. If it applies to creatures, it certainly also applies to man. It
is further argued that not only has this process a kind of amoral inevitability,
it also has certain positive advantages. Competition is healthy, and
competition is facilitated by the aggressive instinct. Only by the elimination
of the weak and unsuitable can any real progress take place.
This position has a rather unsavoury provenance. It can be found in the
strained and least defensible arguments of the nineteenth-century social
evolutionists such as Herbert Spencer who wrote in the heyday of Victorian
social optimism (Schneider 1976). It can also be found in an extreme form
in the worst excesses of the Nazis who hurried along the so-called
evolutionary process in genocidal terms.
As a theory of human development, it also begs an awful lot of
questions. For instance, who decides exactly who are the weak and
unsuitable, and by what criteria are these judgements to be made? Does
‘nature’ make the decisions or is nature aided and abetted by human
agency? Are the assumed imperatives of the evolutionary process to be
‘implemented’ as acts of policy? Yet a further problem concerns the positive
virtues of the relevant human ‘instincts’. If we concede a natural human
tendency towards aggression, we are still left with the question of the other
instincts which are also present in conflict situations. What about the
positive advantages of co-operation and even flight? It may actually take
more courage to retreat from a situation than to be drawn into an unwanted
engagement. There may be occasions when flight rather than fright is to
everyone’s long-term advantage. However, perhaps the most obvious
weakness of the biological necessity argument centres on the issues of
whether or not war actually does result in the elimination of the weak and
undesirable – however these are defined. In traditional society the old, the
sick, and the very young certainly suffered in conflict situations, but usually
at the secondary level. Their fortunes – or misfortunes – were often
incidental to the main action: their sufferings from disease, starvation, and
pillage were largely by-products of enemy activity. One might cite the fate
of the northern European tribes during the Roman invasions under Julius
Caesar (58–56 BC) which was so horrifying that even a seasoned
campaigner such as the late Field Marshal Montgomery (1972: 61–2) could
say that ‘no man made war so horrible as Caesar did in Gaul’. But at the
primary level, in terms of the armies themselves, the biological argument is
surely open to question. In actual engagements between fighting men, it is
not the old but the young who die, it is not the sick but the flower of a
nation’s manhood which is destroyed. And if men were not killed in the
battle itself, it was not unknown for them to be massacred afterwards and
their women and children sold into slavery – a practice not uncommon
among the Greeks in the classical period (Garlan 1975).
Even in modern times, this has hardly changed for the better. Massacres
are still a practice, if not actually a policy, in certain conflict situations, and
the phenomenon of ‘total war’ made possible by advanced technology
means that no one effectively escapes. When war is unleashed, there is no
biological discrimination, everyone suffers -the young and the old, the sick
and the healthy together. Nuclear weapons are hardly selective in their
devastation.
The argument that aggression is natural is really rooted in the
presupposition that it is part of our ‘original’ or ‘primitive’ nature. This
view -as popularized by Freud – holds that the aggressive instinct was
necessary in early man to enable him to cope with the rigours of his
primitive existence. But this is something that can be modified as men adapt
to new – and presumably better – social conditions. Of course, from time to
time, so the argument goes, there will be a reversion to type. Even modern
man will betray his primordial past when circumstances permit. After all, in
evolutionary terms, he has only just emerged from a state of barbarism, so it
is only to be expected that he will occasionally display some of the
savagery that facilitated his climb from the abyss. Hence the many
manifestations of the aggressive instinct still to be seen in everyday
experience.
Again the argument presents problems. If man’s nature is being modified
by social conditions, why is it that society seems to be as egocentrically
oriented as ever? It is all very well to maintain that we can see vestigial
elements of man’s primitive past in various institutionalized risk-taking
activities. But there is a great deal of difference between such things as
motor-racing, mountaineering, and parachuting, and the formalized flutters
on the pools. Can we really believe that in these pursuits aggression has
become sublimated in socially innocuous terms? Do they really indicate
that aggression is now canalized as ritualized competition, as, say, sport or
business enterprise?
What is very much more serious is the question as to why it is that men’s
aggressive tendencies show disturbingly few real signs of change. Despite
all the modern means for sublimating and canalizing aggression, despite the
fact that men like to think that they have reached some measure of
developmental maturity, the evidence suggests that, if anything, things are
getting worse rather than better. Take as just one example, crime –
especially violent crime. This is on the increase in most advanced societies,
and can be seen especially in the stark crime statistics from the advanced
society par excellence, the USA. Here we are told (Time Magazine 1981)
that there is a burglary every ten seconds, a rape every seven minutes, and a
murder every twenty-four minutes. In fact, the murder rate in cities such as
Dallas exceeds that for the whole of the UK. Violent crime, i.e. murder,
rape, aggravated assault, etc., has increased by approximately 50 per cent
from 1970 to 1980; in one area of Miami alone rape figures show a
dramatic jump from 70 in 1969 to 700 in 1979 with the ages of victims
ranging from 2 months to 92 years.
Certain trends in the types of crime are possibly more disturbing than the
figures themselves: the rise in the numbers of apparently motiveless
murders, in drugs-related crimes, and, of course, in race-related crimes.
This last category is particularly interesting because murder is now the
leading cause of death among black males between 24 and 34 years of age;
the rate is eight times higher than for whites where the leading causes of
death in the same age category are car and motor-cycle accidents. But this
ethnic factor is not that simple to explain. What can be established is that
each racial group is in more danger from those within its own fraternity
than from those outside; whites have more to fear from other whites, and
blacks are in more danger from other blacks than anyone else. Some crime
obviously has an indirect interracial dimension; there are economic and
status factors behind some of the relatively high rates of black crime. But
83 per cent of assaults and 70 per cent of robberies and rapes are same-race
crimes, so a direct interracial element is not really substantiated.
Persuasive as crime statistics are that man is not exactly outgrowing his
animal past, they tend to pale into insignificance beside the injury rates and
mortality figures for recent wars. To argue that natural aggressive instincts
are simply necessary in order that men might cope with the everyday
exigencies of a primitive existence takes little account of the horrific
carnage of wars between civilized societies. The view that aggressive acts
will diminish with time looks pretty sick when one looks at the evidence,
with 50 millions dead in the First World War alone, and an estimated death
rate of 300 millions in the first hour of a full-scale nuclear holocaust.
So we are back to the ‘real’ nature of man’s problem. Is there a natural
altruism which only needs the right circumstances for it to be realized? Or
are we naturally egocentric, depending on the necessary constraints of
society to keep us all under control?

WAR AS AN ECONOMIC EXPEDIENT

The view that war derives from some kind of economic necessity or
expediency is extremely persuasive. Even where societies did not actually
go to war for specifically economic reasons, it is certainly true that
economic exploitation often followed in the wake of military success. In the
Greek classical period, for instance, we find Xenophon (d. c. 354 BC)
writing that ‘it is a law established for all time among all men that when a
city is taken in war, the persons and the property of the inhabitants belong
to the captors’ (Cyropaedia VII. 5. 73; trans, in Garlan 1975: 69).
It is important, however, to distinguish between economic need and
economic greed. There is a world of difference between, say, the assertive
colonizing activities of the Greeks, particularly in Sicily, Italy, and Turkey
from the eighth century BC, and the predatory excursions of the Assyrians
which were taking place in the Middle East at roughly the same time. In
practice, though, the distinctions were not always that clear. Perhaps
nothing is ever done out of a ‘pure’ motive, and this certainly applies to war.
There are many reasons why men resort to violence, and these often
become confounded and confused in actual situations. Greed can so easily
be rationalized as need when the occasion demands.
The reasons or ostensible motives for militaristic activity in different
societies are complicated by the apparent or declared intentions of political
rulers and military leaders. Not infrequently, they have used their power –
and certainly their success – to enrich themselves and secure favourable
positions for their families and friends. Nepotism and even dynastic
ambition are common concomitants of rulers with expansionist intentions.
In cases where the military leaders were not themselves political rulers,
the military vocation could be a source of mobility for the aspiring careerist.
For example, in the Egyptian New Kingdom it was not unknown for a
successful general actually to end up as Pharaoh, especially in critical
phases of the nation’s history, even though, in theory, he was supposed to
come from the divinely endowed royal line. Indirectly, military success
affected the masses as well. Conquest brought all sorts of beneficial by-
products, so the people were usually happy to support a military leader as
long as he delivered the goods. Perhaps it was fortunate when such heroes
died young, like Alexander the Great; at least people remembered them for
their achievements rather than an unproductive old age.
The reasons-for-war issue is further complicated by ideological factors.
And here too a necessary distinction must be made. As reasons are different
from rationalizations, so reasons are also different from justifications, and
justifications are often advanced in ideological terms. It is extremely
common, for instance, to find conquest or intended conquest justified in
terms of religious conviction or purported revelation. Thus in the Middle
Ages, the impassioned preaching of Peter the Hermit helped initiate that
series of Christian wars against the Muslims which we still know – rather
misleadingly – as the Crusades. They were hardly the heroic endeavours of
dedicated knights which some histories have depicted. To what extent their
real motives were religious, and to what extent they were political and
expansionist, or even acquisitive, perhaps even they were not always sure.
A reactionary variant of the economic expediency argument has been put
forward by the sociologist, Stanislav Andreski (1968). He repudiates
various kinds of popular explanation as being naive and simplistic, and is
particularly impatient with psychological theories and ‘absurd ideas’ which
argue that all racial animosity is pathological. He has serious reservations
on the question of war and cultural relativism, and insists that the basic
causes of conflict are reducible to demographic-economic imperatives. He
gets right down to what he believes are the fundamentals. It is scarcity that
promotes war. Given the overall human situation, struggles for land, wealth,
food, women, power, and honours are unavoidable. Struggle is omnipresent
because resources are perennially scarce. Therefore, war has a functional
importance in ensuring the necessary balance of wealth over population.
A counter-argument, also offered by sociologists (LaPiere 1954),
maintains that the land-hunger theory of war is a myth. It is suggested that
conceptions of under-population and over-population are mere social
evaluations, and are therefore relative to particular situations. Furthermore,
it is contended that history is replete with instances of societies that have
lived for centuries at near-subsistence levels in areas which, in modern
terms, may be regarded as over-populated, without resorting to war on
neighbouring peoples who were weaker both in numbers and in technology.
With some qualifications, the Egyptian Old Kingdom (c. 2700–c. 2200 BC)
would fall into this category, although some of its more ambitious rulers
often made predatory raids against the ‘non-people’ of the Sudan (Nubia)
who were hardly in a position to retaliate.
Generally speaking, traditionalist arguments have some cogency,
especially when couched in terms of what Andreski calls ‘ophelimites’, a
neologism he employs to denote anything which is desired, and which can
presumably be obtained – either directly or indirectly – by aggression.
Human conflict is seen as the inevitable concomitant of the struggle for
survival, and it will go on as long as men strive for material goods and the
intangibles of prestige and social esteem. Indeed, it could be argued that
with more and more demands being made upon the world’s diminishing
natural resources, there will be a reversion to type as men scramble for the
limited rewards that remain.
This point calls to mind one further distinction which should be made.
We have already seen that we must not confuse the struggle for existence
with the struggle for pre-eminence. So if war is primarily concerned with
gain in some form or another it is also useful to distinguish between
conflicts which arise from ‘position scarcity’ and those which arise from
‘resource scarcity’ (Mack and Synder 1970). ‘Position scarcity’ can be
defined as the condition in which an object cannot occupy two places at the
same time or fulfil two different functions simultaneously. So, for example,
fifth-century Athens, as ostensible leader and benefactor of the Delian
League of allied Greek States, could not consistently perform the roles of
both protector and oppressor – although she tried to do both. ‘Resource
scarcity’ is much more straightforward. Conflict occurs when contending
states cannot both have all they want. Mutually exclusive and/or mutually
incompatible value-judgements will obviously condition the demand for
scarce resources and positions. This is an inevitable consequence of conflict
situations (Walzer 1977).

WAR AS A CULTURAL PRODUCT

This view of war and aggression also takes several forms. These tend to
stress the nurture rather than the nature side in the perennial debate about
primary causal factors, and maintain that aggression and competition are
learned rather than inherited. Human biology is de-emphasized, and human
culture is seen as an all-important element. The arguments are either
psychological in orientation, stressing the formative influences of human
growth and development, or sociological with a contemporary emphasis on
structural forces.
The psychological argument repudiates the idea that aggression is some
kind of ‘instinct’; indeed, the whole notion of instinctual drives is under
something of a cloud in psychology at the present time. Instead, the
argument is that aggression is a learned response – like any other learned
response – to particular situations. This is said to take place, first, by
observation and imitation; so, for instance, cruelty to others is seen and
therefore copied – particularly by children. But the evidence here is
conflicting. Some research – indeed, everyday experience – confirms this
form of the theory, but there is contrary evidence which suggests that some
children and adults are repelled by the observation of cruelty, and have no
compelling wish to imitate such behaviour.
Second, aggression is said to be learned by experience, and again there is
evidence which appears to indicate that those who are maltreated as
children are also inclined to maltreat others in turn. But this raises the
question as to whether this kind of aggression can also be minimized by
example? Some work done in Tahiti by Robert Levy, an anthropologist
from the University of California, suggests that the answer lies with those
who act as exemplars. The rising crime rates on the island seem to be
related to the fact that children prefer to copy their peers and television
stereotypes rather than adhere to the traditional norms observed by their
parents.
Not only may aggression be learned by experience, it may also be
induced by experience. Some research data – especially those of the
behaviourists – suggest that it can. The work of Stanley Milgram is
commonly cited in this respect. In a now famous series of experiments
Milgram has shown that, in certain prescribed circumstances, sets of
subjects can be persuaded to carry out acts of ostensible cruelty which are
assumed to be contrary to their normal modes of behaviour. These studies in
obedience and conformity are somewhat chilling in their implications and
suggest that virtually anyone can be induced to act insensitively to other
human beings, given an accepted authority, the right conditions, and the
appropriate cues (Milgram 1970). Of course, the question which is begged
by this is how can aggression be induced if it is not embryonically present
in the personality? How can people be induced to be aggressive if the
capacity does not already exist? Potentiality must imply actuality.
There is little doubt that there is a learning element in aggression. We
can see this where aggression is instrumental in the gratification of need or
desire. People tend to repeat those acts which are rewarded; so if aggression
pays – as in certain forms of bullying – then aggression continues to be
employed. Research has repeatedly shown that the opportunity to aggress,
and successfully inflict pain or injury – be it for material gain or simply for
some kind of perverted pleasure – usually encourages still more aggression.
There is certainly very little evidence to indicate that aggression ‘obeys’
some form of catharsis principle. Aggressive acts do not appear to act as
safety valves. Unchecked aggression often stimulates more aggression.
The kindred view that aggression is activated by stressful situations does
not really tell us very much. Aggression may well be elicited by an
appropriate stimulus – say, a frustrating event – but does this mean that
everything that is worrisome or objectionable should always be removed
from our path? Surely learning to cope with problems is part of the stuff of
being human? To argue that aggression simply arises as the result of
temporary frustration in the face of life’s obstacles is quite inadequate. It
does not tell us anything about the human capacity for aggression, neither
does it tell us what determines either the degree or the form of aggression. It
may only indicate something of the focus of aggression in particular
situations, as, say, with the attitudes of children to British troops in
Northern Ireland. Frustration may be linked with aggression, but violence is
only one possible response to a particular set of circumstances. It does not
follow that it should always be ‘legitimate’ or even permissible.
Perhaps Leonard Berkowitz has a point when he distinguishes between
defensive and hostile aggression, or Erich Fromm when he makes a similar
distinction between defensive and malignant aggression (Fromm 1976). In
each case, defensive aggression is seen as natural and creature-like, whereas
hostile or malignant aggression is regarded as something which is
particularly characteristic of the human species in its deliberate and
calculated capacity to inflict pain on others. Fromm, especially, sees
malignant aggression as a growing feature of our time which is occasioned
by the increasing alienation of men in an uncaring and impersonal society.
Such views bring us conveniently to a brief appraisal of the sociological
argument. This too takes a number of forms, and has certain affinities with
the economic expediency position which we have already discussed. In
general, it too maintains that war is the inevitable outcome of the
interminable struggle for land and resources, but it also links this with the
development of class societies and the emergence of the state as an agent of
political control.
The classic Marxist hypothesis is that a highly conjectural primitive
communism gave way to the increased complexities of the division of
labour and the subsequent development of private property. This, in turn,
led to the formation of class divisions with their consequent evils and
injustices. War, therefore, is a manifestation of aggression, and aggression is
a reflection of the economic inequalities and uncertainties in society. War
will presumably cease when these have been remedied and the Utopian
classless society has been established. Only then will conflict become a
thing of the past because aggressive acts will no longer be necessary.
This view envisages war not so much as a product of man’s nature as a
product of social evolution; the problem is rooted in history rather than the
human psyche. Social relations are not a product of human consciousness,
but are rather the determinants of that consciousness. Primarily, it is not
man that makes society, but society that makes man. The ‘answer’ to war,
therefore, is seen – somewhat simplistically – in terms of social change
which would mean the outlawing of classes and the more equal distribution
of goods.
Although not without insights, the general Marxist argument has to be
suspect. First, the idea that individual consciousness is merely a product of
social consciousness is without evidential support. It involves a circularity
of reasoning which produces an extreme relativism. And second, the
Utopian vision of the classless society has little to commend it in historical
terms. History has plenty of precedents for class conflict but none for
Marxist-type classless societies. It has no record of a developed classless
society, and anthropology has no knowledge of a society without social
differentiation. This has to suggest that the future possibilities for such a
social arrangement are, at best, minimal. Certainly, known communistic
societies – arguably a legacy of the Marxist idea – show little progress
towards such a state.
A related and complementary argument is that the incidence of war is
associated with the growth of nationalism, the development of urban-ism
and the fortress towns, and consequently with the rise of new military elites
which were necessary to consolidate and control the new forms of society.
Both these views tend to dismiss the idea of war and aggression as
something characteristically human, or, as Mosca puts it, ‘a constant
phenomenon which arises in all human societies from the most civilised
down’ (Mosca 1939: 29). As yet, there are no signs that social development
in either scale or sophistication will necessarily lead to the abolition of war.
Indeed, if anything, the evidence points in the opposite direction. As we
have seen, in the rare cases where war is not practised the societies in
question are invariably primitive and unsophisticated by western standards.

WAR AS A PRODUCT OF MORAL DECLINE

This argument maintains that war derives from the breakdown of the
traditional moral order, and the liberating but disorganizing influence of
more permissive social norms. It is held that the older identities of estate,
class, region, and religion have been eroded by the emergence of the mass
society, and that this in turn has precipitated the collapse of a stable moral
order. This kind of thesis can be seen in Gibbon’s (1979) Decline and Fall
of the Roman Empire, and has been frequently echoed by historians who
have attributed all manner of current evils to moral decline, from the loss of
the medieval sense of community to the view that the First World War
resulted from the decay of European society after the revolution in France
in the late eighteenth century.
The sociologist, Emile Durkheim, contended that any breakdown in the
accepted moral order results in both a condition and a sense of ‘anomie’ or
normlessness. People are literally ‘without order’ (Durkheim 1970). They
find themselves in a situation where the old values are disregarded or
actually forgotten, and where there are no longer any firm guidelines for
personal and social behaviour. This has been a common experience of
people since time immemorial. For instance, we find that after the collapse
of the Egyptian Old Kingdom, about 2200 BC, one anonymous writer
protested that the kingdom had become ‘a come-and-get-it for anyone’,
monarchic authority was ignored, subjects were doing as they pleased, and
all restraint had apparently been abandoned. It took some 150 years before
normality was restored and control was re-established.
Similar sentiments have been expressed in all sorts of historical
circumstances – with more or less justification. Whether they always have
substance is still a matter of dispute. What some contemporary observers
see as decline, others merely interpret as change – and perhaps much
needed change at that. Often, those who make the most vociferous protests
are the traditionalists who most regret the challenge to the old order. On the
other hand, it may be that their indignation is not without foundation. So
another anonymous writer, this time writing with regret about what he
regards as the weaknesses and abuses of Athenian democracy, says that

it is only those departments of government which bring emolument

and assist private households that the People care to keep in their own
hands. ... If any mischief should spring out of the deliberations of the
assembly [of citizens], the People charge that a handful of men acting
against the interests of the citizens have ruined the state. But if any
good result ensue, they, the People, at once take the credit of that to
themselves.
(Claster 1967: 45–6)

A further reservation about the moral decline argument concerns the

difficulty of establishing any definite connections between any two sets of
variables. Some possible correlations have a certain plausibility, but the
proposition that there is a connection between moral values – or the lack of
them – and the display of social aggression can never be more than
persuasive. War can certainly be related to quite contrary types of social
value, so it is not possible to say that aggression or non-aggression are
always and only to be found in particular social situations. If, on the other
hand, the argument is that war is the result of breakdown, no matter what
kind of social system is involved, then we are simply dealing with a form of
truism. But even here there are problems involved because when a
breakdown occurs it is not always possible to establish exactly which is the
cause and which is the effect. Does social breakdown cause conflict, or is it
directly or indirectly the result of conflict? Or is it both? The connections
between some variables may be arbitrary and fortuitous, and their causal
relationship merely plausible rather than conclusive.

WAR AS A RITUAL IMPERATIVE

In this context, ritual may be defined as the expressive aspect of religion,
and it is conceivable that war not only has ritual aspects and ritual
justifications, but it is sometimes actually waged for ritualistic reasons – or
what are ostensibly ritualistic reasons. Certainly many pre-industrial
societies were apparently impelled to war for what were broadly religious
reasons. These do not seem to have belonged to any particular type or area
or culture. Ritual war has virtually a universal distribution; it can be found
in both simple and complex pre-industrial systems which are often widely
separated in both space and time. Head-hunting in New Guinea was a ritual
act, though heavily overlaid with status considerations, and the cannibalistic
consumption of prisoners among some Amazonian tribes had strong ritual
as well as economic connotations. Generally speaking, practices of this kind
were most developed in more advanced agrarian societies. People who live
at or near the subsistence level spend too great a proportion of their time
trying to eke out a precarious existence to worry much about ritual warfare.
But among settled peoples it is often a different story. They have the time
and resources to indulge in ritual strife. Where relative prosperity is
confidently attributed to the gods, it is sometimes felt necessary to convince
others of one’s spiritual good fortune. Therefore, it is not unusual to find
historical societies matching god for god on the battlefield. Each deity’s
claims are aggressively asserted by that deity’s followers, and when success
is achieved it is not uncommon to find that the spoils of victory include
sacrifices to the triumphant deity. So concerning the battles of Rameses III,
a pharaoh of the 20th Dynasty (c. 1200–c. 1090 BC), against the ‘Sea
Peoples’, i.e. tribes of the Western Mediterranean, we read how he crushed
their army and scattered their ships with enormous losses, and then how the
god Amon, who had granted the victory, received his ‘accustomed sacrifice
of living victims’. At this all Egypt is said to have rejoiced because of their
restored security. Similarly, we find that before the Libyan campaign of
Merneptah, the successor of Rameses II (The Great) in the thirteenth
century BC, he had a vision of the god Ptah who held a sword before him
and commanded him not to be afraid. The result was an inspired and
innovatory use of his archers; it is recorded that ‘the bowmen of his Majesty
spent six hours of destruction among them [the Libyans], then they were
delivered to the sword’ (Carlton 1977: 188–9).
Conquest for avowedly religious or ideological reasons may take the
form of evangelical fervour, as with early – and perhaps not so early -Islam.
Or it may take a chillingly ‘practical’ form as with many Meso-American
societies such as the Maya, the Toltecs, and particularly the Aztecs who
tried not to kill their enemies in battle, but take them prisoner so that they
could be slain on the sacrificial stone as an essential offering to the gods. In
the early sixteenth century AD, the Aztecs tried this once too often, this
time with the Spanish Conquistadores, and effectively brought about their
own destruction. It was the beginning of the end for a distinctive culture
which recognized the combination of war and sacrifice as a ritual necessity
(Davies 1973).
This overview of war as a cognitive problem has not exhausted the range of
explanatory possibilities. So far, we have considered a number of
theoretical approaches which have looked at war in terms of key variables
such as economic necessity and ritual imperatives. But it may be that we
can only explain war in terms of itself. In this sense, it is a little like trying
to account for people playing or liking a particular sport. They may offer
instrumental reasons which centre on sport as a health-giving, strength-
increasing activity. Or they may give social – even moral – reasons which
focus on the value of competition or of cooperation and the generation of a
team spirit. Yet at the most elementary level they may insist that they take
part in sport just because they like it. This has an irrefutable simplicity
which is impossible to question. They like it because they like it.
Very similar arguments could apply to war. There is ample evidence that
some societies indulge in warfare for ‘autotelic’ reasons, that is to say they
find it – or certain aspects of it – exciting and pleasurable in itself. For
them, war is a kind of ritualized game, a pastime, an interesting diversion. It
is difficult to conceive modern war in these terms, but this has undoubtedly
existed in the past. Many early societies spent much of the winter
recuperating from war, and planning the next year’s expeditions. They
welcomed springtime as the beginning of their campaigning season, and
looked forward to either the confiscation or the destruction of enemy goods
and crops. Societies such as the Dani so regularized and organized their
engagements that fatalities were kept to a minimum so that the tribal groups
concerned could resume their hostilities on a future occasion.
Other societies have seen war as a kind of proving ground for their
young men. Warrior castes have deliberately courted battle in order to test
the mettle of the new generation. This mentality is exemplified in such
widely different formations as the Zulu impis and the Waffen SS. War is a
healthy exercise which tempers the potentialities of both the person and the
state. Such accounts are not at all unusual; they can be paralleled from the
records of many societies, as we shall see in the ensuing discussion. There
is a kaleidoscopic variety to human behaviour, and the reasons, pretences,
and justifications for war reflect something of that cultural diversity.
 Section II
WAR AND IDEOLOGY

It is a primary contention of this book that war is not just a function of

political and economic exigencies, but is also largely determined by
ideological imperatives. This means that before we can examine the ways in
which war is waged in societies, we must look at the beliefs which are held
to justify it. This does not mean that we are going to be able to explain war
in these terms – explanation, as per the natural sciences, is rarely possible in
the social sciences. But it does mean that we can offer more or less
plausible theories as to how belief operates in relation to war. After some
general statements about belief, the discussion will concentrate on the main
theoretical orientations current in the social sciences on the place of
religious and secular belief – issues which are assuming growing
importance in modern society where so many revolutionary movements are
ideologically motivated.
The central concern of this section of the discussion therefore is the
relationship between belief and action. The underlying problem is whether
belief – intellectualized as ideology – really affects or even determines
social behaviour. To what extent are belief-systems dependent or
independent variables in the institutional complex of society? That is to say,
are beliefs subordinate to the politico-economic realities of the social
situation, or do they actually influence action? It is the nature of this
relationship that merits study, and which we are going to examine in the
context of war and aggression.
What exactly then do we mean by belief, and how is it to be defined?
Belief implies the acceptance of propositions or values which by definition
are not susceptible of experimental validation. Sets of beliefs which are
ideological purport to tell us how things are or were. To this extent, they are
modes of self-interpretation, and forms of explanation. As such, they may
be both persuasive and prescriptive in that they enjoin certain kinds of
behaviour. Religious belief, in particular, can connote more than mere
intellectual assent. But it does not necessarily imply the truth or otherwise
of the belief-object. The gods may or may not exist. It is the believing
which is true; the truth-value of the ideology itself may only be significant
in so far as it achieves social expression. The belief is innocuous without
physical articulation. This text, therefore, takes the view that belief is
important because it contributes to the construction and maintenance of our
social realities, and it also defines and legitimates our moral and intellectual
structures.
Ideology interiorizes institutions and affects everyday practices in subtle
ways. But the precise nature of the relationship between ideology and other
institutional phenomena still remains an open question. It is impossible
finally to demonstrate a direct correlation between a belief-system and any
social form or pattern of behaviour. Any argument concerning its ‘effects’
can never be regarded as conclusive, though its influences may certainly be
seen as pervasive. This is particularly evidenced by the determinative
perceptions of what is thought of as the ‘enemy’.
Here it is very easy to become caught up in the deceptive simplicities
and resounding generalities that characterize ideological statements and
statements about ideology. In looking at ideology, we are concerned not
only with what it ‘is’, but also with the ways in which it operates. If we
consider it, say, in relation to the state, are we to equate it with the ways in
which the state thinks about itself? And if so, are we speaking of the way
the state actually is (a substantive statement) or the way it would really like
to be (a normative statement), or, indeed, how it would like others to think
of it (a deceptive statement)? In practice, these are often confused both by
outsiders and by the members themselves. One only has to think of the
varying and contradictory perceptions of Nazi Germany and its policies in
the 1930s.
Ideologies are belief-systems which enshrine certain values, and
although it can be contended that the need for such systems and the forms
they take may be socially derived, the predisposition to believe – the ‘truth-
quest’ – may not easily be reducible to simple social explanations. Beliefs
attract some and repel others, but this does not necessarily reflect the social
position or the emotional disposition of the believer. It is still impossible to
know how certain beliefs are derived and how they are appropriated,
regardless of whether the beliefs in question are religious, ethical, or merely
aesthetic. It is not always possible to say why a view or an idea is elevated
to the status of a value which is then expressed as a belief (Parsons 1954).
Perhaps some values are simple social derivations; courage in battle, for
instance, may derive from the need for group survival. But is this also true
of personal survival? Can group needs entirely explain personal sacrifice?
Furthermore, the ‘needs’-type argument can involve a logical confusion
between function and origination. To say that courage contributes to group
survival is quite different from saying that the need for group survival
‘causes’ courage.
The issues relating to the role of ideology have been overlaid with
numerous associations and connotations which have not always contributed
to the business of clarification. John Plamenatz speaks of ideology as a ‘set
of closely related beliefs and ideas, or even attitudes characteristic of a
group or community’ (Plamenatz 1971:15). But can we meaningfully speak
of ideas which are ‘characteristic’ of a group? That is to say, can we
distinguish ideas which are so peculiar in essence (as opposed to the form in
which they are expressed) that they can be clearly seen to constitute the
differentiae of that group?
Perhaps a more satisfactory definition of ideology is ‘a pattern of beliefs
and concepts (both factual and normative) which purport to explain
complex social phenomena with a view to directing and simplifying [their]
socio-political choices’ (Gould 1964). Such a general definition does not
explicate the many nuances of the term or specify the variety of intellectual
systems which have been styled ideologies. Neither does it define the
different modes in which they may have been legitimized, nor the internal
balance between their factual and ethical components.
Not infrequently, definitions of ideology have pejorative connotations. It
has been argued that ideology is to philosophy what superstition is to
religion; that, in effect, one man’s philosophy is another man’s ideology.
But it is generally agreed that ideologies are forms of belief-system that
explain and justify a preferred social order. This social order may already
exist or simply be proposed, in which case the ideology may constitute a
believed strategy for its attainment. This may generate an emotional appeal
which, in turn, may call for some kind of moral commitment. These
ethically infused ideals may then help the members of that order to interpret
their past, explain their present, and anticipate their future (Christenson
1972: 6). As we shall see, this is particularly evident in military systems
which have a strong sense of mission or destiny such as those of the
Crusader knights or the Islamic sultanates.
Ideologies, then, are complex belief-systems which involve both
empirical and normative elements. For the ‘common man’, there may be an
unreflective confusion between facts and values; but the ideologue, whose
approach is far more forensic, will make careful distinctions between
diagnosis and prescription. Sometimes, ideologies are systematic and self-
sufficient, sometimes they are self-contradictory and internally inconsistent,
and their very abstraction detracts from potential mass appeal. In their
religious forms, they are frequently exclusive and absolutist. They often
consist of beliefs in ‘true principles’, which are not open to negotiation; in
simple dichotomies which distinguish the chosen from the rest – the
believer from the unbeliever. They may be reductionist and inflexible, and
represent the objectification of personal, group, or even national interests.
Their strong inspirational orientations may have little time for logical
proofs other than scripturalized validations. Ideologies do undergo
development, but they are normally regarded as typically resistant to
fundamental change, and both pragmatic and dogmatic when faced with the
need to modify doctrine or alter, or adapt – as they inevitably must – to new
situations.
On the other hand, ideologies are sometimes regarded as the instruments
of change. They can develop as alternative value-systems which emerge in
times of stress or emergency, as, for example, the Mau Mau in the Kenya of
the 1950s. The fact is that ideologies can operate in either direction. Indeed,
this can be true of the same ideology; after all, we have only to examine the
outcome of so many successful liberation movements to see that the
revolutionary ideology of today may be the status quo ideology of
tomorrow (Greig 1973).
Values are enshrined in ideologies, and values are really preference
statements. This means that their relative merits cannot be scientifically
validated. But in institutional terms, they can be ‘realized’, promoted, and
even enforced. It follows, therefore, that although the ‘truth’ of any
particular ideology can never be verified, its potency can be judged in terms
of sheer effectiveness. Normal tests of reality may be inappropriate. All that
can be examined are its factual assertions; its empirical bases as distinct
from its normative prescriptions; the reliability of its promises and
predictions; its feasibility and the conditions necessary for its general
implementation. At a different level, it is obviously also possible to study its
theoretical components; the implicit structure of its ideas, the hidden
assumptions, and their compatibilities and incompatibilities (Weiss 1967).
But such ‘logical’ tests can never establish the truth or falsity of these
assumptions. It can never be proved that particular ideologies ‘cause’
particular behaviour, yet the connections have a psychological plausibility.
Again, this is particularly characteristic of religious ideologies.
Although interpretations as to the nature and structure of ideologies
multiply, the theories of how ideology functions are often conveniently
reduced to so-called Interest and Strain theories. The Interest (or Realist)
view which is most commonly associated with Marxist thought maintains
that ideologies are concerned with gain and the preservation of advantage,
particularly within political systems. Marx, himself, distinguished between
what he termed the material substructure of society and its cultural
superstructure, hence his insistence that social consciousness was
conditioned by social existence. In effect, he is saying that the way we think
is conditioned by the way we live; it is therefore not belief that affects
action, but the need for action that gives rise to belief. In attributing
primacy to the material order, it follows that the ideological order is
consequently reduced to a dependent variable in the social process (Marx
and Engels 1965). Ideology is seen variously as a guise or a weapon in the
unending historical struggle for advantage between those who have power
and those who seek it (Pareto 1935). The structure of society reflects these
interminable conflicts. Ideology, therefore, is an expedient devised by
authority systems to secure and justify their aims and policies. It is a
contrivance which generates a ‘false consciousness’ and thus perpetuates a
distorted view of the social process. It therefore constitutes a system of
related illusions about the state in particular and society in general. This
view of ideology necessarily sets it against ‘scientific’ appreciations of the
situation, and, to this extent, it may be seen as a substitute for ‘exact’
knowledge.
Using the term to denote not the illusion, as such, but the belief or value-
system, it is then argued that the ideology of the dominant classes is used to
enhance their class interests by justifying the established order to the
detriment of the oppressed classes. So, in one sense, ideology is seen as an
exploitative value-system which is imposed upon the masses. Yet, in
another sense, it is regarded as a contrivance which both mystifies and
misleads the masses by encouraging a false awareness of the historical
process and of their place in the whole scheme of things. In yet a further
sense, it is seen as a pervasive yet vulnerable illusion which is ultimately
subject to the practical realities of production relations within society.
The pristine Marxist view has been extensively refined and qualified by
subsequent thinkers in the same general tradition. But one thing which
divides them is whether ideology should be seen essentially as a form of
error or a kind of truth. The idea that ideology is a source of error, and
therefore incompatible with science itself, takes a number of forms (Stark
1958: 53). It has been argued that while Marx recognized the situational
basis of thought in his political opponents, he failed to recognize that all
thought, including that of Marxists themselves, must be subject to the same
strictures (Schumpeter 1965). Karl Mannheim has likewise criticized Marx
and Marxists for their lack of self-examination and their apparent inability
to see that Marxism is also open to ideological distortion. He insists that
there are two antithetical urges which lead to distorted thinking; the urge of
self-interest which constrains men to maintain the status quo, and the urge
which impels men to try to remould society in a new and better image, if
necessary by war. The former, he theorized, leads to forms of ideological
thinking, whilst the latter – which may be equally mistaken – leads to forms
of Utopian thinking (Mannheim 1936), and even aggressive expansionist
policies. Mannheim insisted that Marx’s view that the key to social change
was a class rising to power through changes in the character and
instruments of production was over-simplified. He felt that any analysis
based solely on economic relationships must be inadequate. Instead, he
argued that new and constructive ‘syntheses’ could be achieved by that
relatively classless stratum – the often-underestimated intelligentsia.
What Mannheim does not make clear is how the intelligentsia itself can
necessarily remain immune from any form of distorted thinking. A very
clear example of how the intelligentsia can itself be susceptible to the
prevailing ideology can be seen in the number of German academics such
as Otto Ohlendorf and Professor Franz Six who were directly involved in
the extermination of European Jewry (Hilberg 1967).
 Mannheim is not entirely consistent on these issues. If all values are
determined by the situation, how is it possible to remain aloof from such
determination? It seems simply to be an assumption that the perceptive
being becomes impatient with the strident clamour of conflicting
ideologies, and is ultimately disenchanted with them all. Intelligence is thus
equated with ideological scepticism. For Mannheim’s critics, it is self-
evident that these situational arguments are suspect. If circumstances
condition thought, why do individuals and groups in similar situations often
think so differently? There may be a universality of at least some values,
but why is there such diversification in their expression?
Mannheim’s ‘situational distortion’ is but one version of cognitive
relativism; other neo-Marxists such as Lukacs opt for a less refined form in
terms of class distortion. Lukacs’ thinking is rooted in the notion that ideas
originate in actual historical circumstances (Lukacs 1971). The problem this
raises is to what extent practical considerations can be held to account for
the origins of these ideas and, presumably, values? A kind of necessity-is-
the-mother-of-invention argument. For Lukacs, ideology is a distortion of
the truth; a reflection of the economic process which saturates the social
consciousness. It is not – as in the more orthodox Marxist tradition – an
objective systematized representation of actual social relations embodied in
social institutions and practices which facilitate social control.
The view that ideologies are contrived and that ideological
pronouncements are, therefore, patently false is open to dispute. There is
evidence that underlying the party line of some modern movements is a
believed ideology (Fest 1972). Ideologies are not necessarily sources of
error or distortions of truth which are calculated to deceive the unsuspecting
and the politically naive. Some Marxists have made this very point. Antonio
Gramsci, for instance, maintains that the ‘truth’ of an ideology must be
judged pragmatically; has it the power to mobilize political opinion, and
achieve historical actualization (Gramsci 1971)? He breaks with the
conception of ideology as a simple reflection of economic relations or as a
uniform expression of the ruling class. Instead, he sees a differential
appropriation of the dominant ideas by both the dominated class and the
various groups within the ruling class itself. Ideologies, or forms of
ideologies, therefore enjoy different kinds of ‘hegemony’ in a variety of
situations. There is no simple imposition of a uniform set of ideas by one
class upon another. Instead, there are various combinations of domination
and subordination in given contexts. Action and behaviour are related to
everyday ideas – to the social world and its practicalities. Gramsci is
impatient with a simple interest view of ideology. Ideologies are not mere
‘tricks’ to deceive the workers, but have their base in material realities and
act as material forces. They can – and do – contain contradictory elements,
but, in general, their complex formations are internally coherent. Whatever
their ‘faults’, ideologies — like religions to which they are related – do
possess a certain social utility.
Louis Althusser, a modern Marxist thinker, takes up the same ideas.
Ideologies reflect the ‘ways men live’, ‘they are rooted in everyday life’
(Althusser 1969: 114ff.). ‘Human societies secrete ideology as the very
element and atmosphere indispensable to their historical respiration and
life’ (Althusser 1969: 232). He maintains that the various levels of social
formations, political, economic, ideological, interact in different ways in
their capacity to influence each other, but he recognizes that this interaction
can be uncertain and uneven. Here Althusser makes an important distinction
between dominant and determinant elements in specific social situations. As
a good Marxist, he dutifully ascribes an ultimately determinant role to
economic factors, but admits that in actual situations other, possibly
ideological, factors may exercise a dominant influence. Thus, say, in ancient
societies such as Egypt or Greece, the dominant factors may, in fact, be
religious rather than political. War, for instance, may be embarked upon for
motives which have little to do with material aggrandizement. No simple
primacy can be given to ‘pure’ economic factors – there is always a
complex of motives behind every activity.
Ideology, then, is not false consciousness, it is not – as in traditional
Marxism – the basis of a distorted relationship, but of an imaginary
relationship between individuals and their ‘real’ (economic) conditions of
existence (Althusser 1976). The emphasis is away from a fairly
uncomplicated bourgeois conspiracy theory to a view which implies a
misapprehension on the part of members of society. Obviously, this
misapprehension is encouraged by those who hold power and who wish to
manipulate public opinion. But what is not apparent is the extent to which
this is, in any sense, a willing misapprehension. The situation, as Althusser
represents it, is one in which men connive in their own subjection, co-
operate in their own unfreedom. Their unwillingness to live socially
authentic lives constitutes a kind of l>ad faith’ which reduces them to the
situation of mere cyphers in the social process.
Such views are also echoed by other neo-Marxists. Nicos Polantzas, for
instance, supports much of Althusser’s thinking on ideology. For Polantzas,
an ideology is a relatively coherent ensemble of values and beliefs which
hide the real contradictions of the socio-economic order from the agents. Its
function is to provide cohesion at every level of the social structure, and
this it accomplishes by a combination of value-inversion and mystification
(Polantzas 1975). One particularly interesting feature of Polantzas is that he
recognizes that in any given situation there may coexist a plurality of
competing ideologies, one of which may exert a hegemonic influence over
the others. Furthermore, he maintains that, in particular systems, the
dominated classes may ‘live out their revolt’ within the framework of the
dominant ideology. Thus it follows that in, say, Roman society, the slave-
revolts were attempts to secure freedom for particular slaves, not attempts
to change radically the social order. In fact, if anything, they were
endorsements of that order.
The view that ideologies constitute not so much evil distortions or
misrepresentations as forms of – albeit mistaken – explanation, comes close
to the type of interpretation which is usually contrasted with Interest
theories, namely, Strain theories of ideology. In fact it might be argued that
views of theorists such as Louis Althusser really bridge the gulf between
traditional Marxists and consensus theorists such as Parsons, and highlight
affinities that have already been well-documented (Lipset 1976).
Strain theories see ideologies as a symptom of – or even a remedy for –
dislocations in the social structure. In general, they maintain that all
societies are riddled with insoluble contradictions which are extremely
difficult to resolve. In general, societies are characterized by the desire to
maintain stability whilst accepting the need for change; vexed with the
problem of how to maintain or increase social efficiency whilst, at the same
time, trying to preserve a vestigial humanity. These, in turn, involve yet
further problems of precision and flexibility; of how to reconcile the cry for
liberty with the stifling necessity of political order.
These issues were not so marked in complex pre-industrial societies
where change was slow and hesitant. Questions of humanity and flexibility
were usually subordinated to the requirements of stability and social order.
Such problems were largely resolved in terms of ideology, and the
innumerable frictions arising from them were often contained by
ideological imperatives.
In one way or another, all men live ‘lives of patterned desperation’
(Apter 1964). Thus ideology can be seen as a patterned response to
persisting social divisions. On this interpretation the presence of, say,
religion in society could be construed as a functional remedy for these
problems in that it provides cohesion and consolation, a kind of ‘opium of
the people’. In this capacity, it may purport to explain these social
discrepancies, or it may try to obscure their ‘real’ nature; or failing this – or
even in addition to this – it may endeavour to ameliorate their effects. Thus
some societies may well embark upon ‘religious wars’ in order to distract
attention from the inherent weaknesses of the political system. War can
have unifying and reinforcing functions which are indispensable in given
social circumstances.
Ideology, then, may reflect man’s sense of helplessness and inadequacy,
and – in its religious forms – may derive as much from his cosmic situation
as his social position. And this involves his perceptions of reality; his
believed place in the order of things, especially in relation to those with
counter aspirations. Thus in pre-industrial systems, particularly, it is not
unusual to find war related to perceptions of cosmic competition (Kirk
1973). It is the gods who are really in conflict; men merely act as their
agents. Military success or failure, therefore, simply underlines the
respective strength of the deities.
It could be argued that most human action is unreflective. Society tends
to encourage non-reflection by presenting inadequate sets of choices, and
simply indicating approved ways of behaviour. In traditional societies,
particularly, there were often no clear empirical references or ‘solutions’. So
sometimes alternative referents such as religion and myth were found to be
effective in given situations. In all societies, the imperfections within the
system become too obvious and too great, and eventually various
mechanisms are evolved to deal with them. The strains, therefore, are held
to call forth different kinds of response, both rational and non-rational.
Ideology is regarded as a non-rational response in terms of ideas and
symbols. But again, no satisfactory explanation is given as to why people
respond to certain symbols rather than others, or why it is that some
symbols gain and others lose their force in particular situations.
 Ideologies, therefore, usually mirror the conditions in which men live.
There is often a suspicious coincidence between the particular ideology
which is advanced or adopted and the interests which it reflects. Indeed, it
might be argued that ideologies are never adopted, but always adapted.
That is to say, no system takes over or uses an ideology in its pristine and
unadulterated form; it is usually modified – sometimes rather selectively –
to suit the needs of the situation or regime. At the very least, the situation
will condition its applicatory effectiveness. On the other hand, it is equally
– if not more – difficult to sustain the view that all values dissolve into
ideology. This strips ideology of any independent meaning and importance.
It also shows the weakness of the Marxist position in that economic
considerations do not cover all actions. There is no fixed hierarchy of
values which insists that men must always prefer, say, economic advantage
to social esteem. We will see from the following ‘case studies’ that ideology
does exercise important influences, and does shape the course of human
action in discernible ways.
Both Interest and Strain theories of ideology can be criticized on a
number of grounds, not least of all for the presupposition that belief-
systems are necessarily contrived, false, or – at very best – mistaken. Such
explanations – however correct – as to why individuals act and think as they
do may have nothing to do with the truth or falsity of what they say or do.
Interest theories, particularly, are open to several objections. In their cruder
forms they imply an inadequate psychology; they do not – perhaps cannot –
explain how or why the ideology in question is accepted and believed. They
seem unable to span the causal gap between a specific belief and a
particular form of social response. In general terms, it is not known why
some people sense a natural affinity with certain value-systems and others
do not; why some react positively and others negatively to the same
ideological stimuli. Interest theories do little to clarify this particular
problem. How did it come about, for instance, that in ancient Greece the
various warring city-states were prepared temporarily to forgo internecine
strife for an armistice celebrated by a festival of Games? The periodic
cessation of warfare makes sense in any system, but why in this form? And
why do we not find this a common practice in other societies? To insist, as
Interest theories must, that this was really a device to further the covert
interests of a privileged minority is to explain neither the fascination which
the Games had for ordinary Hellenes nor the binding solemnity of their
ritual performance.
It can hardly be doubted that ideologies can be what Interest theorists
say they are. They can be contrivances; they often act as exploitative
mechanisms – but they are not always or necessarily either of these things.
Ideologies can be ‘used’ to support the hierarchical status quo, to sanction
injustices, and neutralize the possibilities for social agitation. But they can
also be a source of intellectual enquiry and revolutionary zeal. Even
institutionalized religion has been the generative agent of social reform. It
can be both cohesive and devisive and to insist that it is any one kind of
thing is to ignore its ambiguous role in actual historical circumstances.
Indeed, there is ample evidence to show that ideologies do condition social
relations and that those same ideologies really are believed by exploiters
and exploited alike. The argument that ‘interest’ is a particular form of
rational action which derives from a class position does not explain how (1)
as a historical phenomenon, an ideology has been formulated, or (2) as a
psychological phenomenon, it has been accepted and believed, or (3) as a
social phenomenon, it has acquired its power to persuade the credulous and
actually influence affairs. In short, Interest theories, even when carefully
defined, are inadequate if only because they can be made to cover every
contingency, and thereby lose their meanings (Sutton 1956).
In general, ideologies do command attention where other systems of
explanation are found to be cognitively inadequate or emotionally
unsatisfactory. But the influence of ideologies on the wider social process
defies simple calculation. As Jorge Lorrain has argued, ideology ‘is one of
the most equivocal and elusive concepts ... in the social sciences’ (Lorrain
1979: 13). Ideologies derive from values which, in turn, may be expressed
as beliefs. These are not usually susceptible of empirical verification. It is
impossible to quantify a value or calculate an influence. It is even difficult
to correlate the holding of any belief with a given life-style or a particular
pattern of behaviour. But the difficulties involved in trying to isolate the
determinative potential of the belief-variable should not detract from its
importance. A knowledge of men’s fundamental beliefs will not explain
everything about their actions in the real world, and it may not always be
possible to specify the precise contribution of ideology to the social order,
but even though its ‘nature’ is hard to define, its effects especially in
relation to war and conquest are, as we shall see, both subtle and pervasive.
 Section III
PERCEPTIONS OF ‘THE ENEMY’

INTRODUCTION
In this section of the discussion, we are going to examine the relationship
between religious and secular ideas and the conduct of war. In particular we
will look at various ideological stances which are taken in relation to ‘the
enemy’. After this short introduction there is a series of case studies
covering twelve substantive areas.
As we shall see, in practice it is not always easy to distinguish between
societies characterized by a religious ideology and those motivated by clear
secular considerations. And even where mundane concerns seem to be
paramount as with, say, Nazism or Maoism, the underlying ideologies may
well have quasi-religious overtones. Similarly, it is not always possible to
make a simple distinction between predatory and non-predatory peoples. An
apparently non-predatory people may, in certain circumstances, become
increasingly predatory simply as a survival mechanism. And in particular
social circumstances, a relatively non-aggressive people may become
expansionistic. This might be said of the Phoenicians of Lebanon who were
originally merchant adventurers rather than military adventurers, but who
became expansionistic as Carthaginians in a particularly competitive social
context. A people with what were initially modest territorial or economic
ambitions might well begin to flex its muscles after some signal success
against a weaker neighbouring state or – better still – against a rival state
which had originally been held in some awe as a stronger foe. An
unanticipated conquest can herald unbounded possibilities – as with the
Muslim Arabs of the seventh century AD. Similarly, a reputably pacifist
people may develop aggressive tendencies given sufficient provocation; this
happened with the notably easy-going Pueblos of New Mexico in relation to
the Spanish invaders. Successful predatoriness can easily develop into
imperialism.
No matter how blurred the line is, therefore, between predatory and
expansionists in some instances, and recognizing that one may shade into
the other, there are some societies which have been unambiguously
aggressive in both policy and practice, but each had its own individuality,
and its own singular motivations for war.
Aggressive activity is generated in a number of ways, and undertaken for
a number of reasons. It is, therefore, crude and unsophisticated to insist on
seeing aggression as any one kind of a thing. Given that motives are almost
invariably mixed, and that the mix differs in different situations, we need to
analyse our societies with care. Furthermore, we must not overlook the
important distinction – which was first made, as far as we know, by the
Greek historian, Thucydides – between the immediate causes of war and the
underlying causes of war. Similarly, there is the distinction between aims
and policies. The general aims and objectives of a Spartan campaign, for
example, may be very similar to those of, say, a Roman campaign, but the
underlying policies of the two societies can be seen to be very different
indeed.
The societies we are going to discuss display important differences, but
all were notoriously aggressive in their own particular ways. The Egyptians
of the New Kingdom (case study 1) – like, say, the French, English, and
especially the Spanish in the New World – were essentially military
adventurers, whereas the Carthaginians (case study 3) would fall into the
category of merchant adventurers who became militaristic almost by
default. They developed a taste for empire in special economic
circumstances. The Zulu (case study 9), who were one of the most
aggressive peoples in African tribal society, and who were challenged by
the intrusion of the British and the Dutch, may be contrasted with the
Americans, who were themselves the intruders in Vietnam. Like the British,
French, and other colonizing European powers, the Americans may be
regarded as the quintessential military imperialists. Their actions – more
recently in Middle America – are strangely reminiscent of those of the early
Athenians (case study 10) who created an empire ostensibly to impose
democratic forms on sometimes unwilling states.
 There are certain societies which we must consider that are often thought
of as militaristic par excellence. But again there are important shades of
difference. The Mongols (case study 7) were unquestionably one of the
most rapacious peoples that the medieval world had the misfortune to meet.
They certainly edge out the Assyrians in the ferocity of their campaigns and
the merciless treatment of their victims. The Spartans (case study 2), on the
other hand, were essentially political hegemonists. Above all else, they
wanted to be first among ostensible equals. It is said that a Spartan feared
nothing except the law. They were a highly disciplined people who have
enjoyed a rather bad press; perhaps they are due for popular re-evaluation.
They can be usefully compared with the Romans (case study 4) who were
the great unifiers of the ancient world. Like the Persians before them, they
could be amazingly tolerant and flexible on all sorts of issues, but
calculatingly and meticulously cruel to those who dared to question their
authority. In societies such as these, there was no pretence at furthering
ideological conversion, no crusading spirit, but a concentration on hard
socioeconomic realities – you get what you can take, and take what you can
hold.
It is interesting to compare the Chinese Maoists (case study 11) and the
Nazis (case study 12), with their particular predilections for class and race
respectively. The Maoists were a revolutionary force, mainly within the
confines of their own homeland, who were keen to propagate a civic
ideology with ruthless efficiency. There are here affinities with the Khmer
Rouge in Cambodia who took political conviction to its ‘logical’ conclusion
by the extermination of their class enemies. It is after this group of studies
that it will be instructive to look at the disturbing incidence of massacre and
genocide, and the entire phenomenon of ‘New Order’ politics.
It is here that a consideration of ideology is so important. Religion in
particular is often regarded as an exalted abstraction which does not play a
direct part in everyday affairs but merely reacts to ‘real’ socioeconomic
situations. Marx, for example, whilst acknowledging that religion had
consolatory functions as the ‘opium of the people’, also argued that it was
just part of the superstructural icing on the substruc-tural cake. Yet, at times,
he does not seem to be at all clear about this, and credits religious
ideologies with the sinister role of clouding social awareness as well as
anaesthetizing people to their social condition. As we have seen, for the
contemporary French Marxist, Louis Althusser, religion does sometimes
have a dominant role but never a determinant role in society – this is
reserved for the supremely important economic factor. On the other hand,
for perhaps the greatest of Marx’s successors, the German sociologist Max
Weber, religion could be influential, and actually determine the course of
economic development. He tried to demonstrate this in his monumental but
much debated study (The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism)
which indicated a relationship between the emergence of Protestant
Christianity and the rise of capitalism in Europe in the post-medieval era.
Even a cursory survey of the history of war suggests that both these
approaches contribute something to our understanding of ideology -and the
ways in which it interacts with military practice. As we shall see, this occurs
in two main ways: either it acts as the rationale for military attitudes and
expansionist policies, even though their effective causes appear to be of a
quite different order, or it constitutes the imperative itself. Wars either can
be ideological in kind, or are simply explained in ideological terms, or they
are most probably a subtle amalgam of both. Here we are going to look at
these various forms: each of our studies presents us with shades of
difference which actually illuminate the central thesis that ideologies
enshrine a complex nexus of values which are expressed as belief, and that
belief affects action and is not just the intellectualization of the need for
action. Deeds (action) are not always prior to words (ideas). Value-ideas do
change things and are not necessarily or always changed by things. This is
no more evident than in the practice of war even where it is ostensibly in
the pursuit of socio-economic goals. Ideologies can both initiate and
validate this activity, and condition indelible attitudes towards the ‘enemy’.
It is in case studies 5, 6, and 8 that we are confronted by the
phenomenon of religious ideology in its classic forms. In the first of these
(case study 5), concerning the early Israelites, we will see how the notion of
ritual purity provides not only a motive for military action but also a
justification for a policy of annihilation. The term ‘genocide’ would be a
misnomer in this context; technically it should only be used to denote a
racial extermination programme, and this was not the case with the
Israelites. They were obviously bent on destroying the ‘pagans’ of their
time, but it is extremely difficult to decide to what extent their motivations
were purely ideological and to what extent they were actually territorial –
simply clearing the way for an Israelite settlement of the land. This is
examined in some detail, and although religious ideology is given a
prominent place in the analysis, we will see that mundane considerations
cannot be ruled out entirely.
In case study 6, that of the Crusaders, we come much closer to what
might be construed as ‘holy war’. Again, because motives can never be
entirely ‘pure’, we find that material gain is mixed – indeed, perhaps even
confused – with religious sentiments. The desire to rid the Holy Land of the
infidel was clearly a compelling reason for the Crusades and not simply a
justifying principle. But in this case, we find a complicating factor. Here –
and this is quite distinct from the Israelite situation – we have the intrusion
of knightly codes and martial status which both modified and vitiated the
behavioural dimension of the campaigns. The account shows that it is often
difficult to square the lofty aspirations of Christian virtue with the actual
conduct of the Crusaders; and their treatment of the vanquished was hardly
consonant with the noble ideals of Christian chivalry.
Case study 8, relating to the Aztecs of Mexico, is quite different. Here we
probably come nearest to the idea of pure religious motivation. The Aztecs
did not go to war to destroy unbelievers; in fact, most of their enemies had
very similar religious practices, though – arguably – they did not pursue
them with quite the same rigour and consistency as the Aztecs. Yet the
Aztecs did launch military campaigns for religious reasons. These could be
construed as wars of extermination, but not in the conventional sense. The
primary objective in battle was to secure prisoners to sacrifice to the gods.
Again, religion was alloyed with political and economic motives yet, as the
discussion shows, these do not really explain the bizarre singularity of
Aztec behaviour.
 1
THE EGYPTIANS OF THE NEW KINGDOM
The enemy as non-people

Egypt and Mesopotamia are regarded as the world’s two great formative
civilizations and are consequently designated as ‘archaic societies’ (Parsons
1966). Both were riverine civilizations, Egypt itself being dominated and
sustained by what the Greek historian Herodotus called ‘the gift of the
Nile’. Indeed, Egyptians spent their time in ‘intimate symbiosis with the
river’. In a land with negligible rainfall, the annual inundations
commencing in July became the focus of practical activity and reverential
concern.
Egypt developed in significantly different ways from Mesopotamia.
Certain cultural traits suggested that it was not entirely immune to
influences from the Tigris-Euphrates area, but the appropriation of these
diffused cultural elements in no way seems to have determined the
developmental patterns of the Nile civilization. Egyptian society, possibly
because of its early relative isolation, evolved its own unique identity and
remained culturally homogeneous for the best part of three thousand years.
It is customary – and to some extent useful – to divide the history of
ancient Egypt into thirty-three dynasties dating from c. 3100 BC when the
kingdoms of Upper (southern) Egypt and Lower (northern) Egypt were
united under a common ruler. By Dynasty 3, i.e. c. 2700 BC, with the
beginning of what is traditionally termed the Old Kingdom, there was a
fully developed and recognizable Egyptian culture, including hieroglyphic
writing, monumental architecture, extensive bureaucratic organization
under a god-king, all supported by a highly elaborated religious system. The
Old Kingdom was the main Pyramid Age. These amazing structures
involved a vast labour force which was possibly mobilized on an annual
corvée basis. The most impressive of these structures are at Gizeh in
northern Egypt and date from the 4th Dynasty. These are the pyramids of
Khufu (Cheops), Khafre (whose features may be immortalized in the
Sphinx), and Menkaure, and date from c. 2500 BC. The Great Pyramid of
Khufu is one of the most incredible structures known to history. It covers
about 13 acres and its mass is in the order of 6 million tons. The stone
blocks weigh over 2 tons each, and the original limestone facing was so
accurately worked that it would have been difficult to get a knife blade
between the joins. The pyramid itself, containing the tomb of the king, was
the centrepiece of a complex of buildings including two temples and a stone
causeway from the Nile some 550 yards long. Herodotus – admittedly
writing two thousand years later – says that this alone took ten years to
build. The pyramids and their attendant structures are not only a tribute to
the considerable -one might almost say, anachronistic – technical skill of
the construction engineers, they are also mute testimony to the overarching
power and control by the state of all necessary resources.
After Dynasty 6 there was a breakdown in the established social order,
possibly due to the rising power of the nomarchs (district governors). There
followed a long interval of dislocation, usually designated the First
Intermediate period, which lasted for some 150 years. Central authority was
restored with Dynasties 11 and 12 (the Middle Kingdom). This revival
began in Thebes, and was led not by one of the nobility but by a member of
the provincial aristocracy, Mentuhotep, who eventually became king. Little
remains of the architectural achievements of this period, especially the
famed Labyrinth at Fayum which Herodotus says was the greatest of all the
constructional masterpieces, but what there is testifies to the exquisite
quality of the workmanship. The Middle Kingdom lasted only about 200
years after which there was another phase of social disruption and
widespread unrest when Egypt was invaded by tribes of Semitic nomads
collectively known as the Hyksos (Shepherd Kings).
The full flowering of Egyptian culture came with the expulsion of the
Hyksos. This heralded the New Kingdom or Empire period (Dynasties 18–
20). The economy was buoyant, political organization was stable, and art
and literature flourished. Building and architecture generally reached new
heights of grandeur, perhaps the most notable achievements being the
extensive temple complex of Amun at Karnak which was large enough to
contain five European cathedrals. It was the 19th Dynasty that witnessed
the building of the gigantic rock temple and figures at Abu Simbel, the
inspiration – and presumption? – of Rameses II (the Great). During the New
Kingdom the state was at its most powerful – and most aggressive. Again
the nation’s fortunes had been restored by the Theban aristocracy and the
capital was actually transferred to Thebes with the founding of the 18th
Dynasty. This period, c. 1550–c. 1100 BC, saw the accession of the
Ramesside kings and the expansion of the empire into Israel and the
Lebanon. Until this time the relatively isolated position of Egypt had
presumably made such policies unnecessary. But with the growing need to
repel the incursions of would-be invaders and check the depredations of
border tribes, it became a short step from defence to offence. The task of
reconstruction became one of expansion. Having mobilized the necessary
forces to oust the Hyksos and reconquer Nubia and the traditionally held
territories, the implementation of an imperialist programme became a
natural progression. Tighter control was exerted over the regional
governors, and the centrifugal tendencies of earlier periods were minimized
by authoritarian government.
By c. 1400 BC, Egypt had extended its empire south into Ethiopia, some
thousand miles from the Delta, and had even established indirect trading
relationships with central Africa. Its influence was felt as far afield as
Cyprus, Canaan, and Syria; we know that it was trading on the Lebanese
coast as early as Old Kingdom times, and it may well be that the town of
Byblos was an Egyptian colony. Certainly, there were strong commercial
ties; with its acute shortage of wood, Egypt needed to import cedar from the
Lebanon, particularly, to build ships. There were, however, limits to
Egyptian expansion, and it encountered resistance in Anatolia (Turkey) and
Babylonia where other powers were periodically exercising their own
military muscles.
At the height of its power, ancient Egypt was very much the province of
the Pharaoh. In fact, the Egyptians had no word for ‘state’ and this may
have been because all the significant aspects of the state were concentrated
in the person of the king. The monarchy was thought to be as old as the
worjd, and although for most of its history Egypt was administered by a
vast bureaucracy of officials, it is impossible to divorce the real exercise of
power from the position and authority of the Pharaoh. Similarly, there was
no equivalent of our term ‘law’. Egyptians maintained that ‘law proceeds
from the mouth of the Pharaoh’. But even the king ruled in accordance with
precedent, and his edicts had to conform to the requirements of ma’at (often
translated as ‘truth’ or ‘justice’), the principle of eternal balance and
harmony which was believed to inform the entire cosmic order. Ultimately,
of course, this was very much a matter of interpretation, and the cultural
longevity of Egypt testifies to the fact that, by and large, successive
monarchs did what had always been done.
There were obvious inconsistencies in all this. The king, as a divine
being, though the sole source of law and authority, also relied upon other
gods for supernatural help and oracular direction. Furthermore, even god-
kings have to delegate responsibilities through a variety of officials. Thus
the king worked through the vizier and an army of officials, the requisite
members of the military establishment, and representatives of the
priesthoods; in all, an extensive and highly centralized organization. But
this mediation of divine authority by humanly fallible agents presented a
paradoxical situation: its operation detracted from divine absolutism and –
depending on the ruler and the circumstances obtaining at any one time –
served to neutralize the effectiveness of autocracy. After all, even arbitrary
despots can have their edicts ‘derailed’ by an efficient and determined
bureaucracy.
This can be illustrated by one of the most intriguing periods of Egyptian
history. In the middle years of the fourteenth century BC, a revolutionary
change in religious ideas and practices was elaborated by Amenhophis IV
who later came to be known as Akhenaten. Indeed, he and his immediate
family introduced a new pharaonic style in art and manners as well as
religion. He effectively downgraded the elaborate polytheism of Egypt
which included a pantheon of about 2,000 deities, and initiated a form of
solar monotheism, the worship of the sun’s disc, the Aten. More
controversially, he challenged the established priesthood of Amun-Re, the
sun-god, who – somewhat strangely -appears to have been regarded as a
separate deity. To modern minds this seems rather contrived, but it may be
that the difference of emphasis reflected political as well as religious ideas
and aspirations. The seat of government was moved from Thebes to a new
capital on the Nile roughly equidistant from Thebes, the centre of the
Amun-Re cult, and Lower Egypt. This involved the establishment of a new
court and possibly a new administration. But archaeological investigation
indicates that the new worship probably had little general appeal; the mass
of the people still continued with their traditional religious practices.
Akhenaten reigned for about seventeen years, and after his death there
was a pronounced reversal in religious thinking. His immediate successor, a
young man, Smenkhakare, appears to have died in somewhat suspicious
circumstances after a reign of only three years. He was followed as king by
his brother, the now familiar figure of Tutankhaten who was only 9 at his
accession, and therefore hardly able to exert any real influence on the court
or the resurgent priesthood. A counterrevolution was underway, and he
changed his name to Tutankhamun – reflecting the movement back to the
Amun-Re cult. He too died young, possibly at the age of 19; how – again –
we do not know. What we do know is that at this period the memory of
Akhenaten was execrated and his religion vilified.
Akhenaten is a difficult person to assess. He may have been little more
than a political opportunist who wanted to break the power of the
priesthood and restore the practice of absolute monarchy, or he may have
been a failed visionary. Whichever he was, his reforms were far from
popular, and after his death his city was abandoned, his tombs and temples
were destroyed and inscriptions erased. In fact, attempts were made to
eradicate ail knowledge of Akhenaten and his cult from history, and would
have succeeded had it not been for some chance discoveries in recent times.
Records do not tell us as much as we would like about the actual
operation of the Egyptian state, or of the many changes that took place over
its long history. We do not know that it was hierarchically organized with
government control of treasuries, granaries, etc., but with a small measure
of autonomy in the ‘outer’ administrative districts (nomes). Both central
and provincial administration were the tasks of the viziers as chief officers
of state, one for Upper Egypt, and another for Lower Egypt where there
were separate councils of dignitaries. Religious functions, on the other
hand, were the special prerogative of the king who was also chief priest, but
because he, though divine, was hardly omnipresent, he had to act through
his consecrated representatives at the various temple complexes throughout
Egypt. Each town of any size had at least one temple, and at the large
religious centres there were many temples where the various state deities
were worshipped. Each temple was a minor industry. Each had its estates
including vineyards, gardens, and servants (serfs?) to tend the land. Some
even had their own military and naval personnel in addition to their
extensive bureaucracies. The immense wealth of some of these temples,
especially those dedicated to Amun, also generated hosts of minor
functionaries ranging from cadres of scribes to superintendents of transport,
storekeepers, linen-masters, and modest herdsmen and sunshade-bearers.
The king was no mere cypher, and his authority was not simply a fiction.
Strange as his divinity may sound to modern ears, there is every reason to
suppose that it really was believed to a lesser or greater degree by both
officials, whose interests were undoubtedly served by such beliefs, and the
laity for whom it was the operative ideology. Yet there must have been
some doubts or, at least, rationalizations on the part of some members of the
community when one realizes that, with one qualified exception, every
known royal tomb was violated for its wealth in ancient times, despite the
awful natural and supernatural sanctions which could be invoked for such
crimes. For the unimpressed, religious sanctity clearly took second place to
economic ambition.
What could happen as a result of sacrilege can be seen more specifically
from a case of believed regicide which took place c. 1164 BC. The Pharaoh
in question, Rameses III, may have died as the result of a harem conspiracy
in which court officials and members of the royal family were involved. As
far as we can ascertain, his death – perhaps by poison – was attributed to
‘witchcraft’, and the plotters were ‘overtaken by their crimes’. The ‘lesser’
participants had their noses and ears cut off, those more deeply implicated
were executed, and those of royal blood were allowed to take their own
lives.
Law was not carefully codified, as it was in, say, contemporary
Mesopotamia. As we have seen, in principle, the king alone determined the
law, but this was operationalized throughout the state by duly convened
courts. In theory, the law was constantly ‘renewed’ by the will of the
Pharaoh whilst, in practice, there were accepted regulations which covered
specific situations especially in relation to property transactions,
inheritance, and so forth. Oppressive treatment by tax collectors and the
minor bureaucracy seems not to have been unusual, although they were
subject to severe punishments if found guilty of corruption or disloyalty.
Little wonder that they were always anxious to declare their probity and
conscientiousness. Inscriptional ‘evidence’ – such as it is – of their
blameless service is not an uncommon feature in their tombs, where it
functions as a declaration to the gods, and an insurance for the afterlife.
 The actual implementation of the law is something we would like to
know more about. Judges had a reputation for harsh punishments no matter
what class of criminal was involved, although – as we have seen – for
highly placed dignitaries some form of ‘voluntary’ suicide seems to have
been imposed for capital offences. Disfigurement was more common for
serious crimes, as was also deportation to the mines and quarries where life,
as Hobbes reported, could certainly be nasty, short, and brutish. The death
penalty appears to have been used sparingly, and was mainly reserved for
treasonable offences, particularly rebellion. In general, it appears that the
entire politico-economic apparatus was designed to ensure the smooth
running and continuation of the current social order. Obviously it was not
perfect. This is evidenced at the highest levels by occasional incidents
involving assassination and usurpation. In general, though, despite
fluctuating fortunes, the traditional system was successfully perpetuated,
and during the Empire period this was due in no small measure to the
efficiency of the Egyptian military machine.
In such a long-lived society it was inevitable that the military systems of
the state could change considerably over time. The military forces of the
Old and Middle Kingdoms had a somewhat amateur appearance when
compared with those of the expansionist New Kingdom. During the Old
Kingdom there was no standing army. The central administration
maintained only a relatively small corps of troops to police the capital and
to act as a body-guard for the royal family. When large-scale campaigns
were planned, the administration had to rely on contingents of militia from
the nomes (administrative districts) of the state. Temple police might also
be mobilized for military duties, and the whole operation might well be
commanded by civic officials with little or no formal military training or
expertise. In the Middle Kingdom period, more professionalism was
introduced. A small regular army was created, again to be supplemented by
local levies which were commanded by high-born officials who owed direct
allegiance to the king. Free citizens were enrolled for possible military
service in a form of age-set system. Large-scale hostilities were still a thing
of the future. War consisted mainly of loosely organized forays into
neighbouring territories, sometimes for gain but often to punish raiding
tribesmen, especially on the Nubian and Libyan borders.
The Middle Kingdom effectively came to an end, as we have seen, with
the invasion of nomadic peoples, possibly from the north-east, collectively
known as the Hyksos (perhaps, more correctly, ‘rulers of foreign lands’).
They dominated most of Egypt from c. 1730 to c. 1570 BC (Dynasties 13–
17), and they brought with them certain military innovations, particularly
the composite bow and the skilled use of chariots. The eventual overthrow
of the Hyksos ushered in a new period of expansionism which led
eventually to the creation of the Empire.
During this period both the army and the naval forces were increased.
Two large armies were permanently stationed in Upper and Lower Egypt,
supplemented by a police force consisting mainly of Nubians. The actual
numbers are uncertain, but it is unlikely that the whole army exceeded
30,000 men including contingents from various subject territories such as
Libya and Sardinia. The Pharaoh was the supreme commander of the army,
but normally authority was delegated to the army council consisting of
high-ranking military personnel and officials of state, often including the
crown prince. The general staff saw to the day-to-day running of a
campaign, but the inspiration for any particular enterprise was duly
attributed to the divine power of the king. Even a Pharaoh such as
Amenhotep III (d. c. 1360 BC), who had a long and peaceful reign, had –
by tradition – to be depicted as a warrior-king. He probably only took to the
field once, and this against some wretched Nubian tribesmen who had
staged an uprising. But he, or his sycophantic ‘biographers’, sought to give
the impression of a conquering hero without whose example and inspiration
the enterprise would almost certainly have faltered. Inscriptions show him
riding over prostrate foes in his chariot, and speak of him subjugating
foreign lands by the might of ‘his valiant sword’. But his aggressive
activities did not actually extend much beyond the successful lion-hunt.
Army officers were normally drawn from the upper echelons of educated
men who, like the members of the bureaucracy, had been trained for
positions of responsibility since childhood. It was possible to be promoted
from the ranks; this undoubtedly provided a convenient channel of mobility
for able men, especially those from a modest family background. However,
it must be pointed out that some evidence indicates that there was some
doubt about the desirability of the army as a career. Discipline was strict,
life was often harsh and precarious; little wonder that some contemporary
texts express reservations about the lot of the soldier. It is perhaps
significant that as the Empire developed – and particularly as it declined –
there was an increasing tendency to use more and more mercenaries for
military duties, an expedient which was later to prove a mixed blessing.
But the military life did have its rewards. Courage and enterprise could
be profitable for the successful. Campaigning could often result in the
distribution of booty such as women, slaves, and jewellery. Achievement
could result in advancement and the allocation of lands, and it is not
surprising to learn that in the later Empire certain military leaders actually
found their way to the throne itself. This may have been the case with
Herihor (d. c. 1085 BC) who came from obscure beginnings, rose to
become designated ‘commander of the Army’, and later Vizier of Upper
Egypt and High Priest of Amun, and eventually the founder of the 21st
Dynasty.
Egyptian soldiers were armed with the usual array of weaponry available
in a still predominantly Bronze Age society. The weapons themselves were
supplied from state arsenals – a distinctive feature of highly centralized
societies – although the actual dress of the troops was mainly determined on
a class basis. Protective armour was largely missing from all classes, but
officers and high-status personnel were distinguished by emblems of rank.
The most important innovation was the introduction of the light war-chariot
which was customarily manned by a driver and his armed companion; it
was rather a fragile contraption, but quite effective on the flat terrain areas
of the Middle East. What seems strange from a modern perspective is that
the Egyptians did not have a cavalry, as such, until a much later period. This
has been attributed – probably quite wrongly – to the ‘fact’ that they
possibly found the actual riding of horses repulsive.
Campaigning was a somewhat routinized affair in the ancient world.
Egyptian military procedures were no exception. Normally it would begin
in springtime before the enemy had harvested their crops and when they
were therefore at their most vulnerable. The invasion itself would be both a
predatory expedition and an impressive display of power which was
designed to intimidate other subject peoples. Enemy lands were often
plundered and put under tribute, and sometimes they were also put under an
obligation to supply scarce goods such as wood and metals on a more or
less permanent basis. Sometimes hostages were taken from the nobility of
conquered peoples and even egyptianized as insurance against possible
further insurrection. Towns were not always razed, nor were their
populations always enslaved or massacred, although obviously there were
certain infamous cases of indiscriminate slaughter; so much depended on
the policy or caprice of the Pharaoh concerned. Amenhotep II (d. c. 1406
BC), for example, tells of how he crushed the skulls of his royal opponents
and hanged their bodies on a city wall in order to discourage possible
rebellion. And how in Syria he single-handedly drove into an enemy
stronghold and returned with twenty severed hands hanging from the
foreheads of his horses.
The religious implications of Egyptian military activity are all too
evident. The mystical cursing of enemies, the triumph songs after victory,
all have marked religious overtones. The texts are replete with claims of
military prowess, divinely bestowed, especially on the part of warrior-
pharaohs such as Rameses the Great:

At the cry of my despair swiftly the god came to me

Took my hand and gave me strength
Till my might was that of a hundred thousand men. . . .
(Murray 1963: 209)

Even allowing for some measure of exaggeration, the conclusion is

inescapable that the aid of the gods was sought for all military expeditions,
and it was the gods who were to be praised for military success. In practice,
this really meant adulation of the divine Pharaoh who was both the
‘colleague’ and favoured representative of the deities. When hostilities
ceased, and peace negotiations began, especially with particularly powerful
enemies, it was always done with due religious deference. The gods were
dutifully called upon to solemnize the occasion, and appropriate records
were kept as witness of their good intentions. So, for example, after the
inconclusive battle of Kadesh (c. 1295 BC) against the Hittites, the peace
treaty was written on two silver tablets, one of which was taken to Hatti
(modern Turkey) and the other to Egypt and laid ‘at the feet of Re’, the sun
deity.
We can see similar sentiments expressed later in relation to the invasions
of the ‘Sea Peoples’ or, as the Egyptian texts call them, ‘the northerners in
their islands’. These were a loose confederation of tribes who descended not
only upon Egypt, but also upon much of the Near East about 1200 BC.
They comprised numerous peoples most of whom are not easily identifiable
from the texts, but almost certainly included Philistines (Cretans?),
Sicilians, Sardinians, and possibly Achaeans (Greeks). It was a time of
ominous, restless movements of peoples from the north and west, possibly
born of the need for grazing and living space rather than mere plunder. It
was also the time of the break-up of Mycenean civilization in Greece, and
the period associated in tradition with the siege and destruction of Troy, but
we cannot be sure if there was any connection between these events, and, if
so, what was their actual significance.
The ‘Sea Peoples’ overran Cyprus, and parts of Anatolia (Turkey) and
Syria. And, no doubt attracted by the rich pickings in Egypt, made at least
three attempts to invade by both land and sea between c. 1190 and c. 1185
BC. Indirectly, they also precipitated further hostilities between Egypt and
her troublesome neighbours, the Libyans, who the Egyptians called the
Meshwesh. These were no ordinary predatory raids; the invaders came with
their wagons and families, presumably to stay, and were only defeated with
great difficulty by the Egyptians.
The texts are quick to glorify the virtues of the Pharaoh in all this. He is
compared with Mont, the warrior-god, as he declares about those who
reached the boundary of his territory, ‘their seed is not. . . their souls are
finished for all eternity. And those who arrived by sea at the river mouths
were trapped, pinioned and their corpses butchered. . . .’ There is even some
evidence that the enemy were sometimes slain as a form of sacrifice, as we
hear that god Amun, who granted victory, ‘did not fail to receive his
accustomed sacrifice of living victims’ (Breasted 1906–7: 478).
Military success was one of the primary tasks of the monarch. His
achievements were frequently extolled in temple inscriptions, and also
represented in artistic form in many victory reliefs. The Pharaoh is not
unusually depicted as a giant figure which dwarfs both the enemy and his
own troops. The enemy are both symbolically and actually seen as non-
people. They are not members of the ‘favoured land’ but – whether they
know it or not – are, nevertheless, subject to the will of the god-king who
has ordained their subjugation. The victory is his by virtue of his personal
attributes and his divine will.
This, at least, was the theory. The Pharaoh’s god-like qualities were
calculated to ensure success and make him invincible in military
encounters. It goes without saying that this was not always seen to work.
Success was not always certain. But even this could be rationalized in
ideological terms. Indeed, it could be argued that there was an ambiguous
relationship between militarism and religious ideology. On the one hand,
military success seems to have been regarded as a proof of divinity, yet
there remains a suspicion that this insistent emphasis on the martial prowess
and unshakeable resolve of the Pharaoh was a form of compensation for
what appears to be some diminution in the acceptance of his divinity,
especially in the later days of the Empire.
Regardless of doubts and qualifications, ancient Egypt comes as close as
any society ever has to having a system of ultimate explanation. The
miscellany of polytheistic religious beliefs were contained and harnessed by
the state in the worship of the Pharaoh. Despite the heterogeneity of
supernaturalistic ideas, ideological praxis centred on the authority of the
king. Policy, particularly military policy, was legitimized and validated in
religious terms, and control was actualized through the state in the person of
the Pharaoh. It cannot be denied that there were conflicts and divisions,
sometimes between the priests and the military, sometimes between factions
representing different temple hierarchies. But overall, this was a long-lived
and stable society.
Egypt’s programme of military expansionism was largely conditioned by
external circumstances, but the rationale for these actions is inextricably
bound up with religious belief. In its early days of relative geographical
isolation, it enjoyed a reasonably peaceful existence. Later, partly out of
ambition and partly from military necessity, it became increasingly
aggressive and imperialistic. Then, having savoured the fruits of power and
military success, it pursued determined expansionist policies. This was done
quite obviously for the material benefits it brought, but it was also done to
preserve the inviolability of its unique and divinely ordained system. How
else is one to explain its theological obsessions and the focus of its cultural
and artistic achievements? The evidence suggests that the Egyptian system
was not primarily cynical and opportunistic, but was informed by the
conviction of its own supra-mundane importance – its mission to maintain
the harmony of the cosmic order.
 2
THE SPARTANS
The enemy as political obstacles

Sparta, and its unusual social institutions, has exerted a considerable

fascination on historians and social theorists alike. Some affinities to the
Spartan system can be found in other states which were tribally related such
as Dorian Crete, and – strangely enough – in societies widely separated in
space time such as the warlike Zulu of the early nineteenth century AD. Yet
in its own way Sparta was unique. In many respects, it was deliberately
archaic; for instance, it adamantly refused to adopt coinage which it was
thought might have a corrupting influence on its people. In a sense, it was a
‘closed society’, reminiscent in some ways of certain of today’s ‘restricted’
countries. It was apprehensive about innovations that might undermine the
fabric of its singular social system. Yet, in other respects, it was regarded as
being culturally superior, and was much admired by relatively liberal
thinkers in other Greek states. This can be seen especially in the work of the
historian Xenophon and the philosopher Plato, who was undoubtedly
influenced by its institutions in the writing of his avant-garde treatise, The
Republic.
The polis, loosely translated as city-state, was the central organizational
entity of ancient Greek life. A Greek was known by his polis affiliations; in
some states like Athens it was not possible to be a full citizen unless you
were born of citizen parents, and impersonation of a citizen by, say, a
resident alien was such a serious offence that the culprit could be sold into
slavery. Indeed, one of the most powerful sanctions in the social life of a
citizen was that of atimia, which could lead to the deprivation of citizenship
rights for a designated period. Without the ability to participate in public
life, a man was literally without honour in such a status-conscious society.
Sparta, however, was not a polis in the conventional sense. Of course, it had
political autonomy, but it was unlike many poleis in topographical and
architectural terms. It was not the usual walled city with a central acropolis
(high town), both of which were customary for defence purposes. Instead, it
was a group of villages which formed a kind of large country settlement in
the midst of one of the most fertile areas in southern Greece. It was actually
extremely poor in public buildings, and certainly had nothing approaching
the impressive temple complex found on the Athenian acropolis. The
contemporary observer, Thucydides, wrote, ‘If one day all that remained of
it were its sanctuaries and the foundations of its public buildings, posterity
would find it hard to believe that its power ever matched its reputation’
(Thucydides 1972).
Sparta proper was the principal centre of Laconia, and was situated close
to the banks of the Eurotas which is one of the few rivers in Greece that
does not dry up in summer. It is in a vast valley which is bounded in the
west by the Taygetos mountains and in the east by those of the Parnon
chain. To the west of the Taygetos, in south-western Greece, lies Messenia,
which had been occupied by the Spartans in about 715 BC and which acted
as a reserve source of manpower and grain. To the north, Sparta was
bounded by the territories of Arcadia and Elis, and to the north-east by the
ArgoHd, the lands controlled by the city of Argos whose citizens were the
traditional enemies of Sparta even though they were of the same ethnic
extraction.
This entire area, which is cut off from the rest of Greece by the Isthmus
of Corinth, is usually termed the Peloponnese. It had been earlier occupied
by the Myceneans, the people associated in Homer’s Iliad with the siege of
Troy. But from about 1200 BC, waves of warlike invaders, who came in all
probability from the Balkans, brought what is perhaps erroneously known
as a ‘Dark Age’ to Greece. The Spartans were part of this Dorian family of
tribes often referred to as Lacadamonians.
In trying to account for the unusual nature of Spartan political and social
organization, it is tempting to cite this qualified geographical isolation. But
this could be no more than a contributory cause. Other poleis were also
relatively isolated, but did not develop in the same way. Also, Sparta did
expand into other areas, notably Messenia, Arcadia, and the Argolid, so it
was not really that cut off from the rest of Greece. But this expansionism
was limited. Unlike some of the large trading poleis such as Corinth and
Aegina, Sparta founded few colonies other than Tarentum (Taranto) in Italy
and encouraged few settlements other than those on the islands of Melos
and Crete. Colonial expansion was extremely common in Greece in the
eighth century BC and was usually occasioned by political upheavals, the
need for resources and markets, and – not least – internal demographic
pressures. But Sparta had no serious population problem because there was
no scarcity of suitable land, especially after the annexation of Messenia.
Furthermore, its policy of non-colonization meant the retention of the
young – who in other states tended to emigrate – and this enabled it to build
and maintain a large standing army.
Early Sparta was apparently ruled by a military aristocracy, and seems
not to have been very different from many other poleis in its social and
political organization. But the records are extremely sparse, and much has
to be inferred from later writers. The reforms which changed Sparta into
such a singular state are traditionally associated with Lycurgos, who is said
to have lived c. 650 BC. Lycurgos is a very shadowy figure and his reforms
may represent a gradual oligarchic change rather than one man’s political
ideas. There is always the tendency among some ancient peoples to
personify agents of change in order to validate current social practices.
These reforms were probably instituted as a reaction to the economic and
political prospects that were presented by the conquest of Messenia and the
new wealth that the country was beginning to enjoy. Increased prosperity
meant pressure from the non-aristocratic elements for a share in the spoils,
and this, in turn, threatened a breakdown in the traditional social order with
the possible emergence of populists who would champion the people’s
cause. This was nipped in the bud by the development of a system which
was a unique amalgam of oligarchy and selective democracy, and was quite
unlike the participative democracy of Athens. The new system effectively
reduced the possibilities for disruption, and gave the Spartan state
considerable stability. From c. 650 BC she established a growing hegemony
in Greece, and formed a league of loosely confederated states, with no
formal constitution, which was dedicated to the suppression of both tyranny
and democracy. Both were distrusted. (Like Socrates, the Spartans regarded
one as potentially disruptive as the other.) All this was mainly achieved by
alliances rather than military conquest – though possibly with the help of a
little intimidation at the margins.
Many of these changes were retrospective in orientation. In effect, Sparta
turned her back on the outside world and developed a system which, though
not imposed upon her allies, influenced them indirectly in a number of
ways. As one writer has put it, Sparta was ‘admired but not imitated, an
inspiration to political theorists, and a comfort to those who found
democracy distasteful’ (Andrewes 1976: 66).
The reforms that revolutionized Sparta are reflected in a three-tiered
social structure consisting first and foremost of the Spartiates themselves
who were known as the ‘Equals’ (homoioi) but who admitted certain
gradations of authority within their ranks. They probably never numbered
more than 9,000 yet were the real source of power within the state. In
addition there were the perioikoi (literally, the living-around-ones) who
were the non-Spartan citizens of largely autonomous communities within
the Spartan sphere of influence who were ultimately subject to the dictates
of the sovereign state. Perioikoi came in various economic classes and
pursued different occupations, but they had to be available for military
service should this be required. They also had to confine their interests to
the administration of their own local communities as Sparta did not brook
interference in its internal concerns. In effect, the perioikoi had to accept
any decisions the parent state might make for them, and providing they
were politically unambitious they could lead a moderately uneventful
existence. But it should also be pointed out that Spartan officials did
intervene in the affairs of the perioikoi from time to time, and in extreme
circumstances could execute a perioikos without trial. Such was the fate of
Spartan satellites.
Finally, there were the helots who were really slaves, though not by
purchase or capture, but because they were members of the indigenous race
that had inhabited the land when the Spartans arrived. These had been
subjugated by the invaders, and henceforth their descendants had been
forced to work for the Spartan state. Normally in Greece, slaves were the
property of their masters, but helots were merely assigned to masters; they
were owned by the state. Also it was not uncommon for slaves in other
poleis – especially Athens – to be able to acquire or buy their freedom, but
this was virtually impossible for a helot. He paid half his produce to his
master, and was subject to considerable abuse and – if some early
authorities are to be believed – if he was murdered his death would be
considered inconsequential. Their actual living conditions may not have
been markedly different from those of poor peasants, but they were always
under the vigilant eye of the Spartan secret police, the Krypteia, and it is
even rumoured that Spartan youths were occasionally encouraged to kill the
odd helot as part of their military training. But helots were also feared. The
oligarchy, on their annual resumption of office, formally re-declared war on
them as if they were an undefeated enemy. In 464 BC, after a catastrophic
earthquake, there was such a serious helot uprising that it took the Spartans,
together with a contingent of Athenians, some five years to suppress. On
another occasion (425 BC), this time during the Peloponnesian War, the
Spartans could not afford a possible stab in the back so they devised a plan
by which they effectively eliminated the potential opposition. Helots acted
as body-servants to their Spartan overlords in the field, and under certain
conditions were actually allowed to participate as troops. Thucydides
reports that the Spartans

offered freedom ... to those [helots] who claimed to have served them
best in war, thinking that those who came forward would be the
likeliest to revolt. Some two thousand were selected, [garlanded] and
paraded round the temples, as if set free, and then wiped out.
(Thucydides 1972: 313)

Spartan political organization consisted of an unusual four-level hierarchy:

a monarchy, an Ephorate, a Gerousia, and an Assembly. Most Greek states
had dispensed with kingship ages before, but Sparta retained two hereditary
kings who held office simultaneously. They had ritual as well as military
duties, and were responsible for much of the administration of Sparta’s
dependent territories. Then there was the Ephorate which comprised five
men, elected by the Spartan Assembly for one-year terms, who supervised
the entire working of the state, especially the socialization and training of
the young. They were probably the most important executive body in the
Spartan system and, although they and the kings swore oaths of mutual co-
operation, the relationship between them was sometimes very uneasy.
When, for example, the case for war against Athens was debated, the urge
for caution by the king was ignored in favour of a counter recommendation
by an influential ephor. The king had temporized with his advisers over the
decision to go to war; this he tried to avoid, or at least postpone. When the
vote went against him, we have the strange situation of Spartan envoys still
trying to persuade Athens to yield on certain points – almost as though war
had not been declared.
Sharing the administration with the ephors was the Gerousia, the Council
of (thirty) Elders of whom the kings were ex officio members. Except for
the kings, the members of the Gerousia were all over 60 years of age – a
considerable age in traditional societies – and were elected for life by the
Assembly which consisted of all full citizens over 30 years of age. At
Assembly level, there was something approaching complete equality. The
citizens voted on general state issues, yet they were not responsible for
legislation; it would appear that they did not actually debate any issues but
merely approved recommendations from the higher legislative bodies. This
was in complete contrast to the Athenians who debated every issue, and did
not really recognize any legislative body higher than its Assembly
(ecclesia).
The system thus had a seemingly unbalanced pluralistic quality. It had its
monarchy – albeit with reduced functions; a limited democracy in its
conception of the Equals – the Spartans themselves; and its oligarchy in the
form of the Gerousia and particularly the ephors who were the real power in
the land. This strange yet effective combination contributed towards
Sparta’s famed traditionality and political consistency which continued
virtually intact for some five hundred years.
Perhaps the most important underlying value of Spartan society was that
of arete, a word which is often translated as ‘virtue’, but is probably more
accurately rendered as ‘excellence’. Arete denoted not so much a general
principle as excellence in specific things – in this case, military valour and
prowess. It was reflected in popular religion and in traditional myths –
especially those related to the culture-hero, Heracles. Quite possibly it had
at least some of its roots in the highly competitive inter-poleis situation.
State rivalries demanded the possession and display of military qualities
and physical courage. For Sparta, arete meant being best at the military
game.
The selection and training of Spartan youths started from birth. If there
was any doubt about a child’s suitability, it might be exposed after being
presented to its father and a board of Elders. If it survived this test, it was
deemed worthy to live. All children spent the first six years with their
mothers and at 7 they were segregated, and boys were enrolled in a military
company. Here they were in the charge of older boys who, in turn, were
supervised by men. They were subjected to very strict regimental discipline
which was calculated to harden the body and condition the mind, not least
of all to the idea that all others were their military inferiors.
As part of their rigorous training programme, the boys were subject to a
number of privations. They slept on rushes and were rarely allowed baths,
which were regarded as effeminate; they wore only one garment, and were
compelled to go barefoot summer and winter even though many of the
mountain passes were often covered in snow during the winter months.
They ate very simple food, and were encouraged to steal to supplement
their meagre diet, but if they were caught they could be severely whipped.
Indeed, part of their training included ‘running the gauntlet’ of men with
whips, and it was not unknown for boys to die from this ordeal. Although
virtually illiterate except for some knowledge of music (the flute) and
dancing, they were taught to have good manners and always to display the
required deferential respect to elders and superiors. In all, everything was
done to inculcate what the Spartans saw as manly virtues which included
temperance -drunkenness was seriously deplored – fortitude, and, above all,
complete obedience.
To modern eyes, the one notable area of inconsistency was that of sexual
mores. Sexual inversion between boys seems to have been encouraged or, at
least, allowed – although the sources are not entirely clear on this issue.
There was undoubtedly a tremendous emphasis on youthful beauty –
unsurprising in societies where people age quickly and life expectancy is
low, and there were certainly festivals in which boys were the object of
attention, and the love of boys was a central preoccupation. But whether
actual physical contacts were promoted or whether this homosexuality had
a more ‘spiritual’ quality (as is implied in some of Plato’s writings) is
difficult to know. Plutarch, a near-contemporary, was also not sure: he
suggests that the boys had no heterosexual relations, ‘they kept their
youthful bloom pure and uncorrupted’. But he does go on to mention mixed
wrestling with naked girls, which was perhaps a kind of quasi-heterosexual
horseplay. Perhaps versatility was the thing.
Normal sexual relations were certainly expected in adults for at 20 a
Spartan male was compelled to marry. This would seem to put Spartan
sexual norms on a par with those of other Greek states where sexual
freedom also involved carefully prescribed limits to deviant sexuality. For
example, in Athens homosexuality was recognized, but soliciting for boys
was a civil offence, and exclusive homosexuality was a subject for criticism
and ridicule. It was probably most common among military elites, notably
in Sparta and Thebes. Youths were said to fight more valiantly in front of
their lovers and admirers. In other states, there were no restrictions on
sexual relations between legitimate heterosexual partners, but Spartan males
lived in barracks and only visited their wives when they could. Apparently
this was done surreptitiously with the authorities closing a blind eye to what
was going on. The theory was that unlimited coitus was weakening, so if
intercourse was only occasional it would produce healthier children.
Xenophon even maintains that old men could invite younger men to use
their wives to beget children for them; fathers of three sons were exempted
from military service, and fathers of four from all ‘state burdens’. It was
extremely important for a man to beget a son to join the diminishing
Spartan elite, and it is reported that Leónidas, who led the heroic but fateful
stand of the 300 Spartans at Thermopylae, insisted that he only wanted men
for this suicide mission who had at least one son to perpetuate the military
traditions.
At 30, a man’s training was complete and he was eligible for election to
the Equals. If he failed, he was ‘blackballed’ – literally given a black ball –
which marked him out as an inferior who would never be a full citizen.
Once admitted to the Equals, he was released from the barracks and given a
parcel of land on which he could settle with his family, but he was always
on permanent standby for military service.
The position of women in this society was quite anomalous. They appear
to have been given more freedom than in many other Greek states. In
Athens, ostensibly a more liberal community, Spartan women were a
byword for liberty and even laxity, as can be seen from Aristophanes’
parody in Lysistrata in which the women are seriously advocating the
withholding of all sexual favours until their husbands abandoned the war.
Yet they are depicted in other source material as completely endorsing the
warrior ideal. Their task was to produce healthy sons for the state, and to
surrender them as mere children for eventual military service. Men must be
taught to fight and die courageously. The greatest shame was to have a son
who was a coward and who abandoned his weapons and his comrades;
‘Bring back my son with his shield – if not bring him back on his shield.’
The implication being that if he has no shield, don’t bring him back at all.
 Greek warfare changed relatively little over the centuries. In the early
seventh century BC, battles of loose formations occasionally assisted by
small cavalry contingents gave way to more tightly ordered phalanxes of
heavily armed infantry, or ‘hoplites’. There were still lightly armed troops
such as slingers and archers who were sometimes imported mercenaries or
resident aliens, but the development of the hoplite formations probably
represented some democratization of the military compared with earlier
times when the cavalry were the elite arm of the forces. As the city-states
developed, so did their citizen armies. The ranks of the hoplites consisted
mainly of small farmers and shopkeepers, in effect middle-class men who
had a heavy stake in the community. Hoplite equipment was expensive and
usually consisted of a layered linen corslet, an enveloping brass or bronze
crested helmet which protected much of the face and neck, and greaves
which were ‘sprung’ on to the legs. The armament normally included a
heavy shield about 3 feet in diameter and perhaps weighing as much as 18
pounds, an 8-foot thrusting spear, and a short sword. The Spartans also
wore a red cloak which was said to disguise the appearance of blood and so
not demoralize others, but this was normally discarded before battle. They
wore their hair long and sometimes – as at Thermopylae – they dressed it
nonchalantly within sight of the opposing army before the fighting began,
perhaps in an effort to ‘psych’ the enemy and impress them with Spartan
confidence.
Hoplite tactics were really rather crude. Armies advanced in line with
phalanxes of eight to ten ranks deep. This could be increased or decreased
as the situation decreed. The army might move as a single line or break into
columns perhaps sixteen abreast and eight deep. The Spartan’s march to
battle was often accompanied by flutes, but signals – especially once the
mêlée began – were given by trumpet. When the ranks were closed up
immediately prior to engagement, each man’s shield partly protected that of
his neighbour on the left, so there was a tendency for the line to move to the
right – a weakness which could often be exploited by flanking movements
which rolled up the enemy line. These operations required tenacity and
cohesion. Soldiers aimed their long spears at their opponent’s chest and
throat. When men fell at the front it was imperative that their place was
taken quickly so as to maintain the steadiness of the line. A battle was won
when through a combination of tactical skill and weight of numbers the
enemy line broke and a hurried retreat began.
 There was often a frightening disparity between the numbers killed in
battle and those butchered in the general rout which followed. When a line
gave way, there was a feverish scramble for safety. For instance, just a year
after Greece had been saved from a full-scale Persian invasion by the
Athenians and their allies at the naval battle of Salamis (480 BC), the
Spartans and their allies engaged a Persian army of about 30,000 men at
Plataea. After enduring a barrage of enemy arrows while they ‘waited for
the gods to speak to them’, the Spartans launched an attack which
eventually annihilated the Persian forces of which probably no more than
3,000 survived the rout. Hoplite warfare did not lend itself to a rapid or easy
retreat. Once discipline gave way and weapons were discarded it was every
man for himself. There were only the quick and the dead. The cavalry
carried out their mopping-up operations with cold efficiency.
Once the Persian threat had subsided, the Greeks once again took to
fighting one another, and inexorably the growing rivalry between Athens
and Sparta changed to open warfare. The Peloponnesian War which lasted
from 431 to 404 BC effectively divided most of the Greek world. Few
people wanted to confront the Spartans on land – least of all, the Athenians
– so they took refuge behind their city walls while the Spartans took time to
ravage the countryside and despoil the crops. On the other hand, the
Spartans did not want to encounter the Athenians at sea; with their huge
fleet, the Athenians were able to import foodstuffs and make good many of
the losses from their fields.
The war dragged on through a succession of uneasy truces, indecisive
battles, and indiscriminate massacres on both sides. Eventually, the Spartan
forces were victorious and they were able to impose humiliating terms on
the Athenians, although nothing like so devastating as some would have
liked. Thebes and Corinth wanted Athens destroyed which presumably
meant that they wanted to kill all the men and enslave the women and
children. This was turned down by Sparta who favoured a more lenient
policy. All the more surprising because, shortly before, their leading
commander – and subsequent negotiator – Lysander, had ordered the
execution of 3,000 Athenian naval personnel after a battle at Aegospotami
in northern Greece.
It was a triumph of oligarchy over democracy which was not to outlast
the fluctuating alignments of the Hellenic world. Xenophon wrote
(Hellenica) that the Spartans thought that with the defeat of Athens it was
‘the beginning of freedom for Greece’ (Xenophon 1949). It was hardly that.
They set up a series of military garrisons in what had now become their
subject territories. Inevitably this met with considerable resentment and
sometimes actual resistance, so increasingly repressive measures had to be
employed to maintain order. The unity of Greece and the solution to the
Persian problem had to await the arrival of a new conqueror, the precocious
and pathological talents of Alexander the Great.
Sparta’s empire was short-lived. It was a period of almost perpetual war.
It tried to repeat its success against the Persians but with mixed fortunes.
The most spectacular enterprise of this period was that of the Ten Thousand
(celebrated in Xenophon’s Anabasis) who tried vainly to secure the Persian
throne for the king’s brother, Cyrus. A number of those Spartans who
survived this epic expedition enlisted with the Spartans in the indecisive
Persian campaigns. These military adventures were very exhausting in men
and materials, and encouraged sundry coalitions of Greek states to try to
neutralize Sparta’s military ascendancy – again with varying success. Real
humiliation came with the rise of Thebes who introduced new and flexible
battle tactics and undermined the traditional authority of the Spartan
phalanx. Sparta’s dominance had lasted a bare thirty years.
The Spartans – for reasons which are not entirely certain – opted for a
militaristic society. Most societies have adopted a ‘military way’ in so far as
they have been prepared to have recourse to military expedients when
thought to be necessary. But for Sparta militarism was a way of life. The
unique training system which stressed conservatism and unquestioning
obedience produced a military elite whose courage has probably never been
surpassed, and who dominated Greek land warfare for centuries.
Internecine strife was an ongoing pastime among the Greek states, and
certain societies – pre-eminently the Spartans – determined that they were
going to be the best at the game. Most of the time they were able to
overawe others by their obvious military capabilities. Their very reputation
was enough to ensure compliance. It took the exceptional, more powerful
states such as Athens or Thebes to stand up to this kind of intimidation,
states which – in their own ways – were just as aggressive as Sparta.
The value-priorities of Sparta’s military orientations are difficult to
assess. Did the valour (arete) ideal give rise to the military ethic as a
seemingly obvious form of expression? Or, more likely, did the ideal exist
to justify a military society? Sparta was not a predatory society in the way
that, say, the Mongols or the Assyrians were, nor was it really
expansionistic in the customarily understood sense of the term. It did not
concern itself primarily with booty or the exacting of tribute, although it
was hegemonic in that it wished to impose its will on other Greek states and
sometimes order their internal affairs. This was particularly so after the
Peloponnesian War when Sparta, even went as far as setting up military
missions in other suspect communities. In a sense this was an attempt to
promote a particular political ideology, namely, the abolition of democracy
and the substitution of oligarchic forms of government which were deemed
to be superior.
Although the Greek world was politically fragmented, it did have a kind
of cultural unity in that it used a common language and recognized common
cults. So Spartan ascendancy did not mean that there was any marked
contempt or disrespect for their enemies among the Greeks. This was
reserved for the ‘barbarians’ (i.e. non-Greek-speaking peoples) outside their
borders. But, as is not especially unusual in political affairs, Sparta could be
notoriously inconsistent about its alliances. At one period, the Spartans
were the champions of Greece against the invading armies from the east,
yet a few years later they connived with the Persians against their fellow
Greeks. To be fair, this was not an inconsistency that was peculiar to the
Spartans; other Greek states – particularly Thebes – often acted with an eye
to the main chance. Neither did it mean that Spartans treated Greeks any
better than others. During the Peloponnesian War, they committed some
unforgivable atrocities, but again – to keep the record straight – they were
often a restraining force on their more vindictive allies, and, on balance,
probably came out of it slightly better than the Athenians from whom
posterity has mistakenly come to expect more humane behaviour.
In order to pursue their military careers, the Spartans chose to lead the
lives of absentee landed gentry. They ensured that their living standards
were maintained through the operations of a subjugated serf population,
while they concentrated their attentions on the military sphere. Having
achieved the status of the finest army in Greece, it had to be perpetuated.
Military predominance had to continue. The Athenians had a formidable
navy, they also prospered at commerce; the Spartans, on the other hand,
excelled by force of arms – this is what they were good at, this is what they
did best.
 Their whole social and political organization was calculated to
perpetuate this tradition. But demographic factors were against them. They
simply hadn’t enough men. Unlike, say, the Romans, they did not relish the
idea of recruiting ‘outsiders’ into their forces; still less did they like the idea
of employing mercenaries – something they could barely afford anyway.
Instead they relied on home-grown troops – but this could never make up
for their deficiencies. They were a failing minority among a numerous and
threatening subject population. On one side they were plagued by the
spectre of Messenian political consciousness and their desire for
independence. And on the other by the possibility of serf revolts which were
said to be the ‘nightmare of the hoplite class’. The intransigence of their
subject peoples, and the fear of helot uprisings were always a problem to
the declining elite. And all this was vitiated by continued anxieties about
their precarious relations with other city-states. Their attempt to preserve a
rich military caste necessitated in-breeding among fewer and fewer
privileged families. In the years immediately preceding their defeat by
Thebes at the battle of Leuctra (371 BC), the Spartans were probably still
able to field a cavalry of 1,500 and a hoplite force of 30,000 but this
possibly included only about 1,000 actual Spartiates. They were a dying
breed.
The decline of Sparta is inextricably linked not only with the diminution
of its population but also with its persistent archaism. It was defeated by
cultural insularity: its unwillingness to change was against the new trends
which were taking place in Greece. But perhaps most of all – despite the
enviable traits of strength and stability – Sparta’s real failure was not to live
up to its own imperialistic promise. It posed as a politically superior system
and proclaimed freedom from Athenian domination, and then proceeded to
oppress those that it had liberated. Greek disenchantment with the realities
of Spartan government was enough to dispel something of the ideal of the
disciplined and military state.
 3
THE CARTHAGINIANS
The enemy as economic rivals

Plutarch, the ancient historian, commented – with undisguised bias -that the
Carthaginians were ‘a hard and sinister people, cowardly in times of danger,
terrible when they are victorious. They hold on grimly to their own
opinions, are stern with themselves and have no feeling for the pleasures of
life’ (trans. Ian Scott-Kilvert, quoted in Harden 1971: 17). This is, of
course, something of an overstatement, but then, like virtually all
assessments of the Carthaginians, it was the view of an unfriendly observer,
in this case a Greek writing long after the great days of Carthaginian power.
Similar assessment problems relate to their parent Phoenician civilization.
Much of what we know about the Phoenicians comes from hostile Hebrew
sources, and almost all we know in documentary terms about Carthage
itself comes from her Greek and Roman rivals. But if a society can last for
over six hundred years as a viable entity, it must have something to
commend it. Admittedly, it is rather a sorry tale. In many ways, the
Carthaginians were an unsympathetic people, and deserve much of the
opprobrium that posterity has seen fit to heap upon them.
Carthage, located not far from modern Tunis, began as a Phoenician
colony. The Phoenicians themselves had been a minor maritime power in
the Mediterranean since at least the fourteenth century BC. They were
related to the Canaanites of the biblical records, and had their chief cities in
the Lebanon at Tyre and Sidon. There is some uncertainty about the
foundation date of Carthage itself. Archaeology cannot comfortably date the
beginnings of the city much earlier than 700 BC, but there is a persistent
literary tradition that puts the date in the late ninth century BC, and this
earlier date seems to have been generally accepted in antiquity.
The Phoenician penetration of the Western Mediterranean can be largely
attributed to the search for relatively scarce metals, especially silver and tin.
The small Phoenician colonies that sprang up, particularly on the north
African coast, were probably originally safe anchorages en route to Spain
where these metals were to be found. It is assumed that Carthage began as a
watering-place of this kind, and was later developed because of its strategic
position in the ‘narrows’ of the Mediterranean between the north African
coast and Sicily. Later, such settlements became trading centres for
Phoenician merchants who – according to the Odyssey, at least – had a
rather unsavoury reputation for greed and slave-trading. The Phoenicians
were intrepid explorers, and during the seventh century BC they founded
colonies in Sicily, Spain, and France, and in the sixth century BC the
Carthaginians extended their power to Sardinia and Ibiza. The Phoenicians
were extremely jealous of their trade-routes, and often took elaborate
measures to ensure that they were not discovered. There is an account of
how one Carthaginian captain, on finding that he was being followed by a
Roman vessel, deliberately grounded his ship and was compensated for his
loss – and rewarded for his astuteness – by the Carthaginian authorities
(sufets). There were, in fact, already hints of an embryonic anti-Semitism at
this time based partly, no doubt, on some accurate information about
Phoenician ‘closeness’ and sharp practices. But hostility probably also arose
as a result of Greek resentment that these people were monopolizing
potential markets. So the scene was set for an eventual conflict between
these two competing maritime societies.
The Spanish silver trade is a case in point. The Greek Phocaeans in the
fifty-oared penteconters were exploring the Balearics, especially Majorca,
as early as the mid-seventh century BC, but, as we have seen, it was not
long before the smaller island of Ibiza was under Carthaginian control.
There is still some debate as to who opened up the metals trade in southern
Spain, but the rivalry between Greeks and Carthaginians exerted an
increasingly decisive influence on the political and economic history of the
‘Western Sea’. By c. 520 BC Carthage had virtually put an end to all Greek
traffic in these waters by fortifying her settlements at Cadiz and thus
blocking access to the Tartessos river and its adjacent mining deposits.
Archaeological investigations confirm that after this date Greek finds cease
to exist in this area, and it is therefore assumed that the Carthaginians had
decided to eliminate all competition and secure the rich silver trade for
themselves.
Markets were the life-blood of the Carthaginians, and in c. 425 BC we
find a huge expedition of – disputably – sixty ships sailing through the
Straits of Gibraltar to the West African coast, possibly as far as Sierra
Leone. This was probably a colonizing venture, but almost certainly it was
also a search for gold, ivory, and slaves.
Phoenician settlements often conformed to a well-established pattern.
Colonizers usually favoured offshore islands or small peninsulas which
would afford them easy accessibility by sea, and which could be confidently
defended from the landward side. Tyre was a typical example, and was
virtually impregnable from attack. It is mentioned first in Egyptian
documents dating from the second millennium BC. Originally it was
situated on the coast, but was later extended to an island about half a mile
offshore. In 585 BC it was subjected to a thirteen-year siege by the
Babylonian forces of Nebuchadnezzar after which formal surrender terms
were agreed – probably as a face-saving arrangement for the invaders. It
finally fell to the Macedonian forces of Alexander the Great who took
several months to build a mole out to the island -an incredible
constructional feat – and then successfully stormed and sacked the city in
332 BC.
Carthage was built on a promontory surrounded on three sides by the
sea. The contours provided a sheltered double-harbour facility which was
ideally suited for the anchorage of both merchant ships and warships. The
fertile hinterland eventually supported an impressive walled city which was
dominated – as in so many ancient settlements – by a fortified hill where
archives and treasures were kept, and which also held the impressive temple
of Baal-Eshmun which was approached by a flight of sixty steps. Nearby
was the senate-house and the adjacent areas were used for residential,
commercial, and religious purposes. This was defended by a strong military
presence; the barracks are said to have housed some 4,000 cavalry and
20,000 infantry. This entire complex was protected by a series of elaborate
fortifications, especially across the narrow neck of the seven and a half mile
isthmus which was the most vulnerable point of attack. The advantage was
that it was open, flat terrain which made defence reasonably simple. The
sheer longevity of the city suggests that the site had been chosen with some
care. At the height of her power in the early third century BC, Carthage
proper probably boasted a population of some 400,000 including resident
aliens and slaves, and compares with Athens at her zenith in the fifth
century BC.
In its early days, Carthage was still very much influenced by the mother-
city of Tyre, but when Tyre was besieged by the Assyrians in 671 BC, a
number of Tyrians fled to Carthage, and it is from this time that the city
became markedly independent. By the sixth century BC Carthage was
becoming a force in the Mediterranean world, and was entering into treaties
with early Rome and the Etruscans, and about 500 BC entertained an
embassy from Darius the Great, King of Persia, the ‘world power’ at this
period. From this time onwards, its fortunes were established. It became
rich from its extensive trade networks -especially in the Western
Mediterranean – until its commercial supremacy was eventually challenged
by the Greeks later in the fifth century. It was left to Rome actually to
destroy Carthage in 146 BC after a protracted struggle lasting over a
hundred years.
Carthage had the unique distinction of being the only non-Greek state to
be studied in some detail by Aristotle and his associates in the fourth
century BC. And this was simply because it had a constitution – a practice
much admired by Greek political writers. Unfortunately, these records are
lost, and we now have to infer from later writers exactly what this
constitution was and how it worked. As far as we can reconstruct
Carthaginian political organization, it consisted of a ‘mix’ of monarchical,
aristocratic, and democratic elements. There is some evidence that it
changed during its history, with more power being vested from time to time
in the hands of certain influential families. But it was admired, nevertheless,
for its balance and stability.
The most powerful figures in the state were the sufets (sometimes
translated ‘judges’) who appear to have acted very much like Roman
consuls, whose election also depended on birth and wealth. There seem to
have been just two sufets at any one time, and they held office for one year
only. Their exact powers are unknown except that they summoned and
presided over the senate and the popular assembly, and also seem to have
been involved with the administration of justice, although they did not have
the authority to declare war or control the treasury. The sufets were aided by
a body of officials (including, apparently, a censor of public morals) who
carried out the practical day-to-day tasks of state. The senate had several
hundred members who were also drawn from the ranks of the aristocracy.
They held office for life, and replacements probably took place by simple
co-option. As part of the senate there was a permanent committee of
senators who were charged with the supervision of everyday affairs.
The citizen assembly itself had limited powers. Issues were often taken
to the assembly by the sufets and the senators if they were either
problematic or had wide-ranging implications. In general, though, it seems
as though the popular assembly was expected to endorse the decisions of
the executive. The evidence, such as it is, suggests that ordinary
Carthaginians were essentially non-political when compared, say, with the
Romans and especially the Greeks. They appear to have been generally
submissive to their leaders. Aristotle criticized them for being too
preoccupied with trade and the pursuit of wealth, and perhaps, therefore,
too concerned to obey the dictates of an oligarchy who represented the
financial elite.
In a very real sense, the Carthaginians were a peace-loving people. They
were primarily a trading nation. And they were, therefore, keen to protect
their merchant interests from upstart intruders, first the Greeks and later the
Romans. They were consequently a relatively rich state, but they were also
small, too small to counter the interlopers effectively with their own native
resources. So their leaders reached the hard-headed conclusion that they
could not control a vast trade network and embark on military enterprises
with only a citizen army. They therefore decided to disband a large part of
their own militia, and instead use their considerable wealth to hire a large
force of specialist mercenaries from various parts of the Mediterranean
world. These included native Berbers and Libyans from the African
hinterland, subject Iberians from Carthaginian territories in Spain, all
augmented by contingents of mainland and Sicilian Greeks.
At least, this is how it began. But with time it was not just a question of
protecting trade-routes and markets, but of defending their sources of raw
materials, especially the silver from Spain. The Carthaginians had few
natural enemies in Africa; the indigenous tribes were really no match for
this prosperous and tightly organized state. The real threats came from
overseas, from those who presumed to usurp her trading rights and general
political influence in the Western Mediterranean. So the expediency of
defence led to the inevitability of offence; it was just a short but perilous
step from conservation to conquest.
The Carthaginians seem to have adopted a separation-of-powers
approach to military and civil office. We find that although the army was
largely officered by Greeks, its generals were normally drawn from
distinguished Carthaginian families. But they were not elected to military
office as were, say, the magistrates for the year in the Roman republic. And
this led to all kinds of anomalies. As high-born citizens, they enjoyed
considerable social status, but as generals their political status was, at best,
uncertain. The state and its people obviously had ambivalent attitudes
towards the military – not an uncommon feature in other societies. They
both needed them and distrusted them. The military were the defenders of
their interests and the bulwark against their enemies, but they were also a
cause for concern, a force that might pose a threat to the established social
order. The evidence suggests that in Carthage this very rarely happened; in
the field Carthaginian generals were extremely loyal, although it is known
that some former generals tried to seize office. Successful generals, such as
Hannibal (d. c. 183 BC) in his earlier days, could be praised by the senate
and feted by the people, and retain their commands for years. But
unsuccessful generals could be treated unmercifully, even crucified, for
their failure. In 480 BC, coincidental with the battle of Salamis between the
Greeks and the Persians, there was a battle at Himera in Sicily in which the
Greeks who controlled the eastern area of the island defeated the
Carthaginians of the west. Besides considerable losses in men and ships,
this humiliation cost Carthage 2,000 talents (about 50 tons of silver) by way
of settlement. According to the Greek historian, Herodotus, the
Carthaginian general, Hamilcar, who had remained in camp making
sacrifices to the gods for victory, threw himself on the pyre and burnt
himself to death when he saw his men fleeing from the battlefield. His
death -albeit not exactly in battle – almost certainly saved him from a much
more shameful execution at home.
Later in this ongoing struggle between the Greeks and the Carthaginians,
an earlier Hannibal led an army of Spanish and Libyan mercenaries against
the Greek city of Selinus in Sicuy and brutally massacred the population, an
experience from which the city never really recovered (409 BC). He then
initiated a holy war against the Greeks by marching on Himera. The
Syracusan Greeks had military commitments elsewhere and were unable to
give effective support to their countrymen; a relief force was sent but was
only able to evacuate part of the population. Hannibal completely destroyed
the city and took 3,000 prisoners who were then tortured and slaughtered in
a vast human sacrifice to the ‘shades’ of Hamilcar. Again, it is noteworthy
that when the Carthaginians then went on to besiege the city of Acragas, an
epidemic broke out among their troops – of which Hannibal was one of the
first victims. The new commander, Hamilco, sacrificed both children and
animals in order to pacify the gods who had brought this judgement upon
them.
It is difficult to avoid the conclusion that in these instances the
Carthaginians had strong ideological motivations. Victims were offered to
Baal-Hammon for having granted them victories over the Greeks. The
Carthaginian attitude was that when the god favoured their armies he was
entitled to his share of the spoils. It was both politically expedient and
ideologically acceptable that the defeated enemy should be regarded as
subjects for sacrifice. Yet similar practices seem to have been in order for
the reverses, which were also – presumably – attributable to the negative
responses of the god; sacrifices were necessary to appease the god because
of the set-backs and epidemics which prevented them from occupying the
whole of the island.
The Carthaginian army was organized on much the same lines as those
of most other developed societies in the ancient world. The backbone of the
infantry was the customary heavily armed foot soldier, very similar to the
traditional Greek hoplite. Very important too was their cavalry which was
mainly composed of Numidian, and later Spanish and Gallic, horsemen.
When Hannibal’s army invaded Italy, the cavalry comprised about a quarter
of the entire force. The Carthaginians also made extensive use of chariots,
possibly with scythed wheels – as was still common in eastern warfare.
Diodorus says that as many as 2,000 were deployed in some engagements,
but many historians regard this as somewhat exaggerated. Eventually, the
use of chariots gave way to some extent to the use of elephants – another
eastern innovation, particularly associated with the Indian armies of Porus
and Chandra-gupta in the fourth and third centuries BC. Elephants could be
something of a mixed blessing. Perhaps up to a hundred might be used in
any one campaign, and they were employed successfully by the
Carthaginians in Spain and Sicily. But they were not always reliable. They
might easily turn on their masters when frightened, and they were
notoriously susceptible to adverse weather conditions; of the thirty that
Hannibal took over the Alps in 218 BC, all but one died of the cold.
One particular innovation which revolutionized siege-warfare was the
invention of the ballista (catapult) which could hurl stone balls several
hundred yards. It is said to have been first developed by or for the Greeks of
Syracuse early in the fourth century BC in their wars with the Carthaginians
and was certainly used thereafter to great effect by the Romans. Almost
certainly it was fear of this weapon that influenced the Carthaginians in
their construction of their fortress walls, especially after the town of Motya,
in Phoenician western Sicily, had been reduced to something approaching
rubble by Dionysus, tyrant of Syracuse, in 398 BC.
Although there is no firm archaeological evidence to support it, ancient
testimony has it that the port of Carthage had docking facilities for 220
ships. This reflects not only the mercantile activity of the state but also the
size of its war fleets. The people were famed for their navy and for the
prowess of their sailors: no doubt a legacy of their Phoenician origins. The
rowers appear to have been mainly Carthaginian citizens but there is no
evidence – as there is, for example, in classical Athens – that they were
members of the lowest social class. Perhaps they took the view that sea-
faring was the legitimate duty of a merchant people. It was part of their
tradition to serve in the fleet. In battles with the Sicilian Greeks, for
example, the tactical superiority of the Carthaginians in their smaller craft
was often too much for their opponents, and at Catania, in perhaps the
largest sea battle then known, they sank or boarded about a hundred
Syracusan vessels and took some 20,000 prisoners.
The Greek-v.-Carthaginian conflicts of the late fifth and early fourth
centuries BC afford particularly graphic illustrations of how warfare
between developed states was conducted. The Greeks had been in Sicily
since c. 700 BC when they had gradually subjugated the indigenous tribes,
whose origins are largely unknown. The Phoenicians, their closest
economic competitors, began their attempts to gain a foothold on the island
at about the same time, but Carthage itself does not seem to have made any
serious bid for territory until the early sixth century BC. From then onwards
there was a continuous struggle for supremacy. There were temporary lulls
in hostilities, the Phoenicians/Carthaginians confining themselves mainly to
the western side of the island and the Greeks to the eastern parts, but neither
side was really content with these divisions.
 Syracuse was the most powerful Greek state in Sicily, and its ruler,
Dionysus, who had risen from demagogue to dictator, was one of the most
colourful and unpredictable characters in classical history. The engagements
had a to-and-fro quality of siege and counter-siege with fluctuating fortunes
on both sides. Dionysus was able to deploy huge armies by comparative
standards, reputedly 80,000 infantry and 3,000 cavalry, with six-storey
siege towers for this attack on the island-city of Motya. It is said that when
it was taken, the Greeks had little thought of plunder – only revenge for
Himera. The carnage was terrible: what prisoners were taken were sold into
slavery, except the Greek mercenaries who had fought with the
Carthaginians; their treachery could only be expiated by crucifixion – pre-
eminently a Carthaginian practice.
At one point, the Carthaginian army appears to have been struck with
some kind of plague, perhaps typhus, and this enabled the Greeks to rout
the Carthaginians, few of whom survived. The Punic general, Hamilco, who
felt himself to have been abandoned by the gods, duly starved himself to
death to avoid the ignominy and condemnation that defeat would have
entailed. In Sicily, as a whole, the result was stalemate. On balance, the
forty odd years of war had really profited no one. It had been extremely
costly and cruel with atrocities on both sides. It had certainly brought no
benefits to the Carthaginians, who at the end of it all still had no more than
their original settlements. Not untypically, they acknowledged the efficacy
of the Greek Olympian deities, built a temple to the goddess Demeter, and
even hired Greek priests to officiate so that the elaborate rituals would be
carried out in the prescribed manner.
This superstitious awe of inexplicable supernatural forces, and the
elaborate attempts to placate or condition their seemingly capricious
behaviour, is altogether characteristic of the Carthaginians. This is
particularly evidenced by their attitudes to ritual sacrifice – especially
human sacrifice. The Phoenicians recognized a complex pantheon of
divinities, including Asherat, the goddess of fertility, and her consort El,
who appear to have been worshipped in Carthage under different titles,
Tanit and Baal-Hammon. The Baalim (Lords) were local deities, or perhaps
refractions of one main deity which were commonly associated with
specified functions. Originally El (Baal) seems to have been a storm-god
who controlled the weather and elemental, environmental conditions whose
very nature connoted anger and unpredictability. It was primarily to this god
that sacrifices were made.
What observers found particularly difficult to understand was that
sacrifice took the form of infant ‘holocausts’ – the burning of children. This
was a practice that had virtually died out in Phoenicia but was taken up in
Carthage, especially in times of national emergency. Diodorus records how
in sheer desperation the Carthaginians sacrificed 500 children of the
aristocracy in 310 BC in order to avert military calamity in the perennial
wars with Syracuse. Other sources suggest that infant sacrifice was an
annual practice, always of male children dedicated by the leading families,
which was simply ‘accelerated’ in times of crisis. Whether there was any
legal obligation on the parents to do this, or whether it was a voluntary
social act, is still uncertain, but it was a practice that certainly horrified
other Mediterranean peoples who were not above a little ritual bloodletting
themselves from time to time.
The Carthaginians were quite consistent about the relationship between
divine favour and military success; between the endorsement of the gods
and national greatness and economic prosperity. It is notable that when they,
in turn, suffered these reverses, this did not occasion any questioning of
their beliefs, only more sacrifices of children in Carthage to induce their
implacable deities to smile on them once again. It was quite in keeping with
their ideology that when they were defeated they should attribute this to the
fact that the gods had deserted them and that the mandate had simply passed
to their conquerors.
The critical test for Carthage came when she challenged the rising power
of Rome. Already weakened by the interminable on-off hostilities with the
Greeks, Carthage now felt herself forced to take on this young and vigorous
rival for dominance of the Western Mediterranean. Rome was a potential
threat to her monopoly of certain trading concessions, and a danger to her
political influence – especially in Spain. At first there were attempts to
come to terms; two treaties were signed in the fourth century which were
really politico-economic in nature. The second of these specified that ‘if the
Carthaginians take any city in Latium which is not subject to the Romans,
they may keep the property and the captives, but must surrender the city’
(Polybius 1981). A third treaty was signed in the third century which was by
way of being a convenient military alliance, but this agreement soon lapsed
in an atmosphere of mutual suspicion.
 The First Punic War (punk, from poeni=Phoenicians, the term used by
the Romans for the Carthaginians) broke out when a relatively
inconsequential group of Italian mercenaries appealed to both Carthage and
Rome for help against the Sicilian Greeks who were trying to wrest back
the town of Messana which the mercenaries, the Mamertini, had illegally
acquired. The Roman Senate felt no particular obligation to these people
but, fearing Carthaginian involvement so near to the Italian mainland,
decided to intervene. In this conflict, which effectively began in 264 BC,
the Romans were so successful that they decided to break Carthaginian
power once and for all both on land and – more formidably – at sea. This
entailed the building of a fleet – a new experience for the Romans – and the
eventual invasion of the Carthaginian heartland, north Africa itself.
Carthage was defeated in 241 BC with a loss of some 500 ships and a
reputed 200,000 men. Then Rome twisted the knife: the Carthaginians were
also compelled to surrender their Sicilian possessions and pay a huge
indemnity to their conquerors.
Carthage then faced a mutiny from its own mercenaries who were
demanding payment from a virtually bankrupted government. Rome
sympathized with its erstwhile enemies, the Carthaginians, and did a little to
help. It was a protracted and bloody business with horrific barbarities on
both sides. Roman attitudes then inexplicably changed, perhaps because
Rome did not want Carthage to recover too quickly. This time the trouble
was over Sardinia, and it was no contest. Carthage gave up Sardinia and
Corsica, and paid yet another crippling indemnity to Rome.
Carthage gradually recovered and turned its attention to Spain where it
began to build a new and profitable empire. Rome, ever willing to listen to
appeals for help when it served its interests, became embroiled in a dispute
which again brought it into conflict with Carthage. This time the
Carthaginians were looking for vengeance and nearly achieved it through
the flair and ingenuity of the famous Hannibal, who had the temerity to
invade Italy itself (218 BC). One way and another, he lost something like
half his army just in crossing the Alps, but was still able to inflict some
notable defeats on successive Roman armies.
The Second Punic War was fought in Italy, Spain, Sardinia, and Sicily as
well as north Africa. The Romans finally sacked Syracuse – ironically, the
old enemy of Carthage – and confiscated the art treasures. At this time they
also succeeded in killing one of the great scientific minds of the ancient
world, Archimedes, by all accounts when he was still working at his
calculations (211 BC). Eventually, they too produced a military commander
of genius, P. Cornelius Scipio – later termed Africanus -who wore down
what was virtually an unreinforcible Carthaginian army in Italy and
completed his conquests with the invasion of Africa and victory at the battle
of Zama (202 BC). The ultimate indignity was the infliction of yet another
predictable indemnity that was heavier than ever.
Carthage was now forbidden to make war on anyone except with Rome’s
express permission. This was all very well as long as Rome kept the rules.
But when Carthage appealed to Rome for help in a dispute, she
idiosyncratically ruled against Carthage, and thus precipitated the final
conflict – a very one-sided affair – in which the city of Carthage was laid
waste by the unnecessarily vindictive conquerors (146 BC).
 4
THE ROMANS
The enemy as uncouth barbarians

Sometimes the Romans are seen as a rather boorish people who were better
known for their roads than for their culture. Artistically, they were heavily
dependent on the Greeks who preceded them: architecture, building,
sculpture, and literature all owed much to their predecessors. Religion, too,
rested on a corpus of myth that is largely associated with the Greeks. On the
other hand, the Romans made significant contributions of their own, not
least of all in the areas of law and administration.
Any consideration of Roman military expansionism must take account of
the very long period of time in which the Romans were a dominant power
in the Mediterranean area and beyond, which, at a conservative estimate,
lasted for about six hundred years. But it is not only the impressive
longevity of Roman civilization which matters; the extent of that
civilization is also an important factor. By the beginning of the Imperial
period, that is, during the principate of Augustus (30 BC to AD 14), Rome
had one of the most extensive empires the world had ever seen. At their
zenith, the Romans controlled an empire which stretched from western
Spain and Portugal to the borders of Iran. By the first century AD, the
Roman Empire may have contained about 20 per cent of the world’s
population, and Rome itself was probably the largest city in the world. It is
perhaps worth noting that when so-called enemies of the state were indicted
for some offence, they rarely sought exile somewhere else – after all, where
could they go? As a punishment, a few might be banished to obscure
islands, but it was more usual for those in power to order their deaths, and a
number preferred to commit suicide because there seemed to be almost
nowhere to which they could flee that was out of the reach of Rome and its
client kingdoms.
The traditional date for the founding of Rome is 753 BC. During the
early days of Etruscan influence there was a monarchy – the Tarquins – but
these kings were ejected c. 510 BC and a republic was established. After the
necessary battles for recognition against other Latin tribes, Rome finally
came into its own with victories over the Carthaginians in the Punic Wars
which commenced in 264 BC. For the next 200 years or so there were
further wars of expansion both in the east, mainly against the Greeks, and in
the west, particularly in Spain.
As the Roman Republic began to break down in the first century BC
with the civil wars, first between the military dictators Marius and Sulla,
and then between their like-minded successors Pompeius Magnus (Pompey)
and Julius Caesar, the expansionist campaigns continued, especially in
northern Europe and – abortively – in the Middle East (Parthia). Eventually,
Octavianus (later Augustus) emerged as the obvious leader in Rome, and
the Empire or Imperial period began in 30 BC and continued with varying
fortunes until the sack of Rome by the barbarians in AD 410. This was not
the end, and certainly not for the Roman Empire in the east centred on
Byzantium (Istanbul) which survived until AD 1453 when it was taken by
the Turks. But by the fifth century AD the really great days were over; in
fact, although the ‘glory that was Rome’ was perhaps at its apogee in the
early second century AD during the reigns of Trajan and Hadrian,
expansionism had long ceased and a very slow erosion of the borders had
set in. The Imperial period was really a time of attempted consolidation of
the gains built up during the Republic. As much as anything, it was actually
a period of containment of Rome’s over-extended territories.
Military organization changed considerably over the centuries, so in the
present discussion it is intended to concentrate on that most critical
transitional phase in the late Republic when expansionism was at its height.
Carthage had been finally destroyed, Greece had been humbled, and Spain
had been made increasingly subject to Roman rule. Yet during the first
century, Rome became increasingly divided against itself and was not sure
of its own directions or certain of its future role in the Mediterranean world.
By this time, too, Roman social organization had undergone a long, and
in some ways painful, period of development. The two highest magistrates
of the Republic were the two consuls who were elected for one year and
given the Imperium, that is, full military and civil power to administer the
state. This was done on an equal authority basis, and each had the power to
veto the measures of the other, and, of course, those of the lower
magistrates. They were men of some political experience, and it was not
usual to elect a man to office under the age of 42. Once a consul’s term of
office was over he was subject to ‘examination’, in which case he might be
impeached for crimes or infractions alleged to have been committed during
his administration. Generally speaking the office was monopolized by the
nobilitas, the aristocratic patrician families, although in theory the lower
classes – the plebeians – had had the right to elect consuls from the fourth
century BC. The election was conducted by one of the higher Assemblies of
the Roman people (the Comitia Centuriata), and once appointed it was
normal for a consul to spend his year of office in Rome, after which it was
not uncommon for him to proceed to the provinces to take up duties as a
proconsul. From the third century BC, when Rome often had several armies
in the field at the same time, officials might retain their commands for
several years. During these campaigns, it was they alone who knew the on-
the-spot situation and who were therefore in a position to take executive
action. These provisions facilitated the emergence of the militarily brilliant
but often quite unscrupulous commanders who characterized the last days
of the Republic.
The consulship was the highest prize of Roman political life during the
Republic. It was the office to which ambitious men aspired, and it often
offered lucrative military opportunities. In the field, the consul had the
power of life and death in the army and in the provinces. In cases where
cowardice was displayed or suspected in a regiment or detachment it could
be punished quite ruthlessly on a corporate basis.
Magistrates might also be elected to the lesser office of praetor. These
were not normally under 39 years of age, and were also elected for one year
only. During the third century BC, there had only been two praetors, who
were mainly charged with judicial duties, but by the end of the Republic (30
BC) this had increased to sixteen. Praetors, too, often had provincial
responsibilities, and might continue this work as propraetors after their year
of office had elapsed. Praetors were assisted by aediles, who were largely
responsible for the management of the city itself, and by quaestors whose
duties were mainly concerned with financial administration. In addition,
there were censors whose civic responsibilities included taxation and
property rights, citizenship and, especially, military recruitment.
The supreme council of magistrates was the Senate. Originally, this
probably consisted of the leaders of the traditional tribal groups (gentes),
but later comprised men from both patrician and plebeian families who had
held consular or important administrative offices of some kind. Senatorial
rank was thus by selection rather than election. Until the early first century
BC, there were some three hundred senators, but this was doubled by the
military dictator, Sulla, in 81 BC. The functions of the Senate which were to
become seriously curtailed under the emperors were quite extensive during
the Republic. It was customary for the Senate to discuss all significant
affairs of state before they were brought to the attention of the Assembly.
The Senate assigned provinces to consuls and arranged the finances of their
administration; it fixed the tribute for dependencies, sent embassies on
diplomatic missions, and received embassies from Rome’s allies. It also had
civic and religious responsibilities; it awarded building contracts, and
consulted priests about ritual matters including public festivals. Not least of
all, it played a decisive part, once war had been declared, in the direction of
military operations and the negotiations for peace. In short, virtually
everything the magistrates did was done on the advice or direction of the
Senate with the formal ratification of the Assembly.
The Senate was largely the preserve of the Roman aristocracy although
in time many provincials were numbered among its members. Large
expenses could be incurred in the course of a senatorial career, yet senators
were not officially allowed to profit from state contracts or maritime
enterprise, although this did occur – sometimes on a vast scale – as with the
exploitation in Sicily under the governorship of Verres who was eventually
prosecuted by Cicero. There were, in fact, all kinds of opportunities for
enrichment, either in the wars – often at the expense of provincials – or
through the highly suspect tax-farming system that operated in many
subject territories. The tax-farmers, the publicani, were given concessions to
raise taxes in the provinces providing they paid the designated amount to
the government. It is known that they often over-taxed people in various
ways and pocketed the difference; with this extra cash they could then also
double as money-lenders. These monies were often levied with great
brutality: Caesar (1967) points out how ingenious they were at devising
new forms of rapacity including a poll-tax on slaves, equipment taxes,
transport taxes, even column and door taxes, ‘anything which had a name
attached to it provided an adequate excuse for levying money’. Such
exactions were particularly difficult for ordinary people to resist because
they were done in the name of Roman authority, and were thus a form of
legitimized imposition. Unsurprisingly, such a system lent itself to all
manner of abuses by unscrupulous Roman officials and their delegates.
The Senate obviously had its weaknesses. But whereas magistrates -
including consuls – could only hold office for a year and therefore had a
very limited tenure in which to initiate new schemes and carry out new
policies, the Senate represented the continuity principle within the system.
They alone had the experience and expertise, and the continuation of office
which ensured the perpetuation of Roman patrician traditions.
The several Assemblies of the Roman system consisted of either
patricians or plebeians or – in some cases – both. The patricians were the
elite class and they derived from long-established aristocratic families. In
the early days, they claimed the highest offices of state and their superiority
was generally accepted and respected. Nevertheless, among the four
property classes of Roman society, it was the plebeians who comprised the
majority of the citizens, and they had their own special officers, the
tribunes, representing their interests in the higher echelons of the state.
Tribunes had the power to impose fines on patrician magistrates if it was
found that they were acting unjustly. But they could not leave the city
during their year of office – perhaps because it was feared that they might
act against the interests of the ruling class. Needless to say, the history of
these two strata was a long and often bitter one with the plebs gradually
winning grudging concessions from a reluctant aristocracy.
The plebeian populations consisted mainly of small farmers who eked
out a precarious living on their meagre and often unproductive plots of land.
There were artisans engaged in rudimentary industry, but this was
essentially an agrarian economy which functioned only fractionally above
the subsistence level. As Rome’s military conquests increased, there were
considerable changes in the economy occasioned by the large influx of
foreign slaves. Many of these were employed on vast estates (latifundia) in
Italy and Sicily which were able to produce grain at consistently
competitive prices. The farmers found themselves undercut by cheap
labour, especially from the second century BC onwards when the market
became glutted with slaves from the conquered territories. High recruitment
for the army also affected the size and efficiency of these small farming
units, and owners found it difficult to compete. They often ran into debt,
and were sometimes bought out by the large estate owners to increase their
already extensive holdings. Eventually many of them joined the swelling
ranks of the landless proletariat, and were reduced to casual agricultural
labour and the doles of food which derived from the latifundia themselves.
It was a spiral of destitution which was ultimately to lead to many of
Rome’s urban problems.
Rome’s expansionist practices do not seem to have derived from any
carefully concerted plan or programme. Originally, there was no considered
policy of expansion. In the very early days of the Republic, it was simply a
matter of survival. Wars were fought against neighbouring Samnites,
Sabines, and Etruscans, and also against invading Gauls, just to secure a
place in the Latin world. But with success came ambition. In order to
extend its territories, Rome inevitably found that it had bigger and better
competitors, and this rivalry eventually led to the conflict with Carthage
which set it on the path to imperialism.
This discussion is therefore going to concentrate on what was probably
the most critical phase of this process when the late Republic was breaking
down and there was a very uncertain and violent period of transition. It was
a time of opposing warlords and ad hoc proscriptions; a time when Rome
was busily conquering the world overseas, but was also so ridden with civil
strife at home that it took some seventy years of conflict before the
problems were resolved. And this only occurred when military dictatorship
became respectable and was transmuted into monarchy; when Augustus
founded the Empire.
With changes in political structure went changes in military organization.
In the early Roman army, recruitment was based upon citizenship. As in so
many armies at a comparable stage of development, the aristocracy
comprised the cavalry and the remaining property classes were equipped
according to the kinds of armour and weapons that they could afford. The
very poor acted either as slingers or in a menial ‘pioneer corps’ capacity.
Rome’s allies (subjects?) in Italy enjoyed a kind of intermediate citizenship
status which put them under an obligation to provide auxiliary contingents,
especially of cavalry – in which Rome was rather weak – for Rome’s
increasingly ambitious military programme.
 During the third century BC, after the successful defeat of an invasion by
the Gauls, there were modifications in the military set-up. Greek models
were adapted; new tactical formations were developed involving the
‘coupling’ of the units known as centuries, each commanded by a centurion,
and these were deployed in more innovative ways. Pay for service was also
introduced, and this served to reduce some of the distinctions between the
property classes and therefore increase recruitment. Military ranks –
especially at the intermediate levels – came to be based more on merit than
on wealth or position, although when auxiliaries were raised among the
allies, care was taken that they were led by Roman officers. Equipment, too,
became increasingly standardized, and the weapons which were to make the
Roman army invincible for years to come were adopted for general use: the
pilum, a long heavy spear; the gladius, the short cut-and-thrust sword
probably of Spanish design; and the large oval shield which was, in fact,
changed over time.
The Roman army was nothing if not adaptable, and by the first century
BC – in many ways the most interesting and significant century in Rome’s
long history – further reorganization took place. By this time, Roman arms
had crushed both Carthage and Greece, and had been successful in warding
off invasions from various hosts of barbarians from the north. Roman
military supremacy was now unquestioned, but with increasing power came
increasing problems. The legions were being led by aspiring military
dictators – ambitious commanders who would brook no rivals. Rome was
dominant abroad, but the Republic was beginning to fall apart at home. A
struggle had developed in Rome between two political factions, the
Optimates (the ‘best men’) who represented the senatorial aristocracy, and
the Populares who represented the equestrian class, the rising rural and
urban proletariat and Rome’s Italian allies. Eventually there was a social
war between Rome and some of her allies which lasted two years, and
resulted in a negotiated settlement in Rome’s favour, but also gave
enfranchisement to the allies. After this, it became a matter of Rome against
Rome. It no longer paid to belong to the wrong party or back the wrong
military leader. The fratricidal see-sawings of Marius and Sulla are a case in
point and were marked by proscriptions and bloodletting on a frightening
scale.
Marius, an equestrian by birth and thus a man of the people, was not
only a gifted military commander, but something of a populist with
particular political ambitions. His reputation was largely built on military
success against Numidian (North African) tribesmen in the Jugurthine Wars
(111–105 BC) and later against various coalitions of northern barbarians
(104–101 BC). He was supported by the patronage of certain influential
senators, and – contrary to tradition – was elected consul year after year, but
later suffered a temporary eclipse and spent a time in exile in Mauretania.
When he eventually returned to power in 87 BC he adopted a much more
radical stance, repudiating many who had formally supported him and
executing a number of Optimates who were opposed to his political
aspirations. He died a year later having just been elected consul for the
seventh time. The mantle of military despotism was then taken up by his
one-time quaestor, L. Cornelius Sulla, whose politics became increasingly
reactionary. He, too, had had notable military success, especially against
one of Rome’s most notorious enemies, Mithridates of Pontus, a Roman
client kingdom in Asia Minor. In 88 BC, in order to extend his own
burgeoning empire, Mithridates had ordered the death of all Romans and
Italians in Asia, an edict which was taken up with alacrity by his subjects -
such was the popularity of Rome – and which resulted in the massacre of
some 80,000 people. After crushing this rebellion (85 BC), Sulla punished
the people by quartering his army of 40,000 troops on them, and then
imposing a virtually unbearable indemnity of 20,000 talents for which –
ironically – they had to turn to Roman bankers for loans. When the
triumphant Sulla returned to Rome from the east with his legions in 83 BC,
he completely disregarded constitutional precedent and had huge numbers
of his opponents put to death. These are said to have included some 1,600
equestrians and 70 senators (Keaveney 1982), but this may be a
conservative estimate. He confiscated their goods, declared their children
and grandchildren ineligible for office, and released their slaves. Such was
the penalty in the most powerful state on earth for incautious political
preferences.
Sulla, and particularly the less pedestrian Marius, were keen to
‘modernize’ the army, and this reorganization was both tactical and social.
Equipment was modified: the Roman soldier was – in general – more
heavily armed and protected, and certainly made more self-reliant in that he
had to carry everything necessary for an extended campaign, including
cooking utensils and entrenching tools. Furthermore the tactical
organization was tightened so that the development of units based upon the
century, the cohort (six centuries), and the legion (5,000–6,000 men) could
be more flexible at the operational level. The system of banners and
standards was also modified. These symbols were central to the whole ethos
of military activity; nothing was more ignominious than to desert one’s
standards, and the threat of losing a standard often galvanized legionaries to
greater efforts to achieve a victory.
But just as important was the social reorganization of the forces. As we
have seen, the Roman army had originally been a citizen army composed
largely of farmers, but as the state grew, wars became more prolonged and
more distant, and more recruits were needed. To some extent these had to
be drawn from Italian allies who became enfranchised, and from foreign
contingents from overseas. Increasingly, the right to serve in the army was
extended to the proletariat, and this was formalized by Marius. The days of
the citizen militia were over. From this time onward, Rome had what was,
in effect, a professional army that was no longer based on obligatory
service. Sentimental attachment to the state and its citizens began to
decline. The emphasis switched from civic concerns to the profession itself
and the profits which might be derived from it. The focus of authority was
not the Senate so much as the commander and his personal influence and
ambition. The legionary looked to his leader for rewards and for a grant of
land – possibly in the provinces – which he might expect when he retired. It
was these developments which made possible Sulla’s march on Rome, and
the subsequent dictatorship of Pompeius and Caesar.
With expansion, it became increasingly difficult to restrict the exercise
of power to the traditional consuls and praetors. With the Republic in an
almost continuous state of war, it was often through the proconsuls and
propraetors who had control in the provinces that continuity of command
was ensured. Delegation of authority was also facilitated by the
appointment of legati (senior officers), who acted for the consuls in a
military capacity. This could be a profitable venture for the ambitious
subordinate; Pompeius began a successful military career as a legatus of
Sulla who retired to write his memoirs in 79 BC, and died the following
year.
Now that Rome was on the military treadmill, conducting both offensive
and defensive wars not only in the interests of expansionism but also to
contain the conquered at the margins of the ‘empire’, the scene was set for
the power struggles which plagued Rome for a further fifty years. Neither
the Senate nor the Assembly any longer had the power to curb the men who
had effectively been thrust into authority by the needs of the system. The
dangers of civil and foreign wars compelled the Senate to confer military
power on men of recognized ability even though they distrusted their
ulterior motives. And even this was waived in the case of Julius Caesar,
who was something of a maverick politician of no proven ability who was
given his first important command simply to get him out of the way for a
few years.
It is interesting to trace the careers of some of these men and look at
their implications for Roman military ambition. Pompeius first crushed the
Populares whom he had once befriended; after accepting their surrender at
Mutina, he had many of them executed. The Senate, beginning to sense that
they might regret their choice of champion, sent him to Spain where he
further distinguished himself against the armies of renegade Populares who
had – possibly out of expediency – allied themselves with the cause of
Spanish nationalism.
In effect, this was a kind of postscript to the civil war of Marius and
Sulla, and gave the continuing pursuit of political ambition the air of
legitimacy. This was a time of extraordinary commands, when the
Imperium, special authority, was vested in particular individuals who
sought military achievement as a foundation for – or a validation of -high
political office. There was a reaction to Sulla’s measures by those who
supported the policies of the Populares, but these met with only limited
success. Campaigns were recommenced in Asia after a further insurrection
by Mithridates and his followers. But here the Roman commander,
Lucullus, although militarily successful, made few friends by his attempts
to ease the burden of taxation and debt which had been incurred, as we have
seen, because of previous Roman demands for indemnity. Roman financial
interests won, and he was deprived of his command in 66 BC. Meanwhile,
that much less scrupulous military parvenu was making his way from
battlefield to battlefield. Nothing seemed too difficult for Pompeius
Magnus.
Perhaps the least laudable episode in the eyes of posterity was that of the
campaigns of the slave war, sometimes termed ‘the revolt of the gladiators’,
which lasted from 73 to 71 BC. Slaves had been pouring into Rome in huge
numbers. We do not know the exact figures, but we can make reasonable
inferences from the few facts that we have. For example, in 177 BC, some
80,000 people were killed or enslaved from Sardinia, and ten years later the
Senate ordered the enslavement of the entire population of Epirus (north-
west Greece), amounting to about 150,000 people. Public works employed
large contingents of slaves, and they were to be found particularly on the
latifundia in Italy and Sicily, in the mines in Spain, and in the gladiatorial
schools which supplied the circuses. The games might take the form of
beast hunts, or the public butchery of criminals or other proscribed
recalcitrants (in the later Empire period, these were not uncommonly Jews
and Christians), or they might simply be combats between matched pairs of
prisoners or between trained gladiators, or between combinations of the
two. It was, therefore, not surprising when a group of gladiators led by a
Thracian, Spartacus (who may have once been a Roman legionary), broke
out of a private training school at Capua and eventually attracted some
90,000 followers to their cause. At first, they had considerable success. In
one engagement, two of the legions sent against them were severely
defeated, and many of the soldiers fled, leaving their weapons to the enemy.
Crassus, a wealthy colleague of Pompeius who had overall responsibility
for the campaign, punished the offending units by decimation, a recognized
Roman military punishment in which one man in ten, selected by lot, was
beaten to death. But the slave army was heterogeneous, ill-disciplined, and
not very well armed, and ultimately succumbed to the superior armies of
Crassus and Pompeius. After the initial slaughter on the battlefield, the
victors lined the road from Capua to Rome with 6,000 crucified survivors,
and enjoyed a triumph in the capital – a singular honour afforded only
meritorious military leaders.
From this time onwards, Pompeius went from triumph to triumph. He
cleared the Aegean and Adriatic seas of pirates, and pursued his conquering
destiny through much of the Near and Middle East. He saw himself as
another Alexander the Great; no one else had brought so many nations
under Roman subjection. When he returned home to yet further celebrations
in 61 BC everyone was jubilant. Banners proclaimed Tompey the Great has
conquered the world’, and he led nearly 300 kings and princes in his
triumphal processions to prove it.
But it couldn’t last. He had celebrated three triumphs; he brought an
unprecedented amount of wealth into the Roman coffers, yet within twelve
months public adulation began to die away, and he came to be increasingly
distrusted by the Senate. They had a number of scores to settle with him,
and were less intimidated once he had disbanded some of his units and no
longer had an army to support him. Pompeius had effectively become a
victim of his own success and his mantle was about to be taken over by a
charming but coldly impersonal opportunist ‘whose chief claim to fame was
his ability to borrow money and to spend enormous sums on public games
to increase his own popularity’ (Payne 1962). The stage was now set for the
advent of Julius Caesar.
Julius Caesar was a very young man – probably only about 18 -during
the most turbulent year of the civil wars, but not young enough to prevent
his name being added to the proscription lists during Sulla’s reign of terror
merely because he happened to be married to the daughter of one of the
dictator’s bitterest enemies. But this was a time when the innocent often
suffered along with the guilty – or what despotism deemed to be guilty.
Some men divorced their wives in similar circumstances (and some wives
betrayed their husbands), but Caesar was not so accommodating and was
forced into hiding in order to elude marauding bounty-hunters. Fortunately
he was not without influential friends; he eventually received a pardon and
soon began to make his way in Roman political life.
The absence of Pompeius, who in the 70s and early 60s BC was away
campaigning most of the time, left something of a power vacuum in Rome
itself. Crassus who had made a vast fortune, possibly – indirectly – as a
result of Sulla’s confiscations, aspired to office and military glory, and
initially found a willing ally in the ambitious Caesar. Together they tried to
counter Pompeius’ growing popularity, but when he returned they decided
on an uneasy rapprochement which – in the short term -served their several
yet mutual interests.
This political coalition, or triumvirate, was largely based on ‘military
force, mob rule and money’ (Warry 1980: 160). There was even some
strategic intermarriage to cement these arrangements, but despite this
politically incestuous manoeuvring, inevitable cleavages began to appear in
the alliance. At first, Pompeius was the senior partner, and Caesar had to
content himself with a governorship in Spain from which he raised enough
money to pay off his most outstanding debts, not least of all those incurred
in bribing officials to get him the job in the first place. In 59 BC he became
consul, and in the following year he was due for a proconsular appointment,
so the Senate tried to fob him off with a harmless province rather than give
him the opportunity to win fame and esteem through a military command.
At this time, Caesar was relatively untried as an army leader, but he decided
to make the conquest of Gaul his own. In middle age, he embarked on a
series of campaigns which marked him out as a gifted, strenuous, and
ruthless commander.
The Roman invasion of northern Europe was not entirely gratuitous.
Italy had long had to face the menace of migratory tribes who threatened
her borders, and it could be argued that some offensive operations were
necessary in order to check this danger. But it is disputable whether the
extent and severity of the campaign can be wholly justified in purely
defensive terms. Personal ambition and aggrandizement seem never to have
been far from Caesar’s mind. Nor indeed was the sheer love of
campaigning: the poet Lucan says of Caesar that he was ‘furious for war’,
and one has only to look at the grandiloquent way in which he describes his
own success in his Commentaries to see that there is much truth in this
remark. In clear and dispassionate prose, Caesar graphically recounts how
he reduced the Swiss tribes of the Helvetii and the Germanic Suevi, and
particularly various combinations of Belgic tribes who stubbornly resisted
the Roman incursions, and how he organized punitive expeditions against
the Britons who had been lending support to their continental neighbours.
Caesar’s Commentaries, written some time after the events in question,
is the main record we have of these particular campaigns. Because there is
no other contemporary material it is difficult to know if his recollections
were sometimes at fault, or even whether there are any deliberate
distortions. However, what is clear is that there is no real self-criticism –
but then this is hardly to be expected in an account which was largely
designed to justify his actions to the Roman people. The campaigns were
carried out with both skill and pitiless efficiency; particular actions such as
those against the Veneti on the Atlantic seaboard and some of the German
tribes were tantamount to organized genocide.
Caesar showed great personal courage in these operations, and his
enterprising leadership combined with the greater skill and discipline of the
often outnumbered Roman soldiers proved too much for the enemy. The
Gauls fought with uncoordinated desperation against better weaponry and
superior siegecraft tactics with the result that the carnage was often fearful.
Caesar tells how on one occasion he let his cavalry loose and killed an
estimated 430,000 refugees. Organized massacre of this kind often took
place as part of a policy to stem the possibility of further insurrection,
though sometimes it was mere retaliation. Caesar reports another instance
when ‘the name of the Nervii [on the Franco-Belgian frontier] was almost
blotted from the face of the earth’ (Caesar 1951: 88). Of some 60,000 men
capable of bearing arms, only about 500 survived. Failing this, there was
always starvation and slavery. When Caesar’s legions defeated the
Aduatuci, also in Belgium, the 350,000 survivors were all sold into slavery.
The gifted head of the Arveni tribe, Vercingetorix, finally led a revolt of the
Gauls against the Romans in 52 BC, mainly resorting to guerrilla tactics
against Caesar’s lines of communication. But after a long siege at one of his
fortresses, he was captured, imprisoned for six years, and eventually
paraded in Caesar’s triumph in Rome with many other notable captives; he
was then executed. The Gauls were not exactly noble savages, they could be
quite merciless with their own prisoners, but is is disputable whether they
merited this kind of treatment.
Many of these figures may well be exaggerations – but that is significant
in itself. It can – and has – been argued that Caesar’s operations in Gaul
were indirectly related to the security of the Roman state. But it can
likewise be shown that they were also calculated to increase Caesar’s
personal wealth and prestige, and give him an established power-base from
which to make his future claims to military dictatorship.
By the middle of this fateful century, Caesar’s claim to fame equalled
that of Pompeius, and this precipitated the inevitable civil war. Crassus, in
an attempt to emulate his militarily successful colleagues, had already lost
his own life and an army of 30,000 in a calamitous campaign against the
Parthians in 53 BC, and it was now time for a trial of strength between his
senior partners. Caesar emerged victorious after a protracted struggle with
Pompeius which lasted from 49 to 46 BC, and after ‘settling affairs’ in
Egypt, he returned home to Rome where he was assassinated in 44 BC by
political opponents, ostensibly because they feared for the future of the
Republic.
The social unrest which followed involved the emergence of a second
coalition (triumvirate) of political opportunists, and was accompanied by
the predictable proscription of political enemies and yet further civil strife.
This resulted finally in a showdown at Actium in 31 BC between the main
contenders, Antoninus (Mark Antony) – not so fresh from his escapades
with Cleopatra – and Octavianus, the young adoptive son of Julius Caesar.
Victory went to Octavianus who then assumed the title of Augustus and
inaugurated the period we now know as the Empire.
Rome never had such a large army as during the civil wars when there
may have been as many as sixty-four legions, and Augustus may still have
had fifty legions at his disposal when peace was concluded. Such numbers
were no longer really required, and many legions were therefore disbanded.
But this could only be done by taking quite radical measures. Money was
taken from vanquished opponents, land was confiscated, and military
colonies were established in order to settle the veterans. Even the auxilia
(auxiliary troops), who were drawn largely from the provinces and who
constituted about half the Roman army, were given citizenship on their
discharge, and also had to be found somewhere to live. The economy
demanded a much reduced military force, but a powerful professional army
was still required. There would be many more wars, although, in the main,
they were no longer wars of expansion. Those days were over. From this
time onwards, most of Rome’s energies were to be expended simply on
holding the Empire together and retaining what it already had.
In some ways, the Romans are one of the great paradoxes of history.
They sought conquest, but also saw themselves as bringers of peace and
civilization. They were ready to exploit, but they were also prepared to
bestow the benefits of their own culture. Many of their enemies were
uncouth barbarians. They did, of course, conquer some cultured peoples
such as the Carthaginians and the Greeks, but the majority of their great
territorial successes were against the relatively uncivilized peoples on their
far frontiers. They vanquished numerically greater armies with their
superior skill and equipment, and especially with their military discipline
and experience which carried them through some truly daunting campaigns.
Barbarians were simply grist for the military mill. But the Romans were
also great unifiers, and were prepared to bring others – albeit gradually –
into the Roman fold. Provincials and even former enemies could be given a
stake in what was arguably the greatest empire the world had ever seen. Yet
this had all been accomplished at a terrible cost. Immense sums had been
expended and treasures dissipated; whole countries had been laid waste and
innumerable people needlessly killed. There was no compelling economic
motive, no fight for survival once the very early days of the Republic were
past. By and large, the wars had been waged for territory, plunder, and
glory, and – not least of all – an intoxication with the exercise of power. As
Appian said in his preface to the history of the civil wars, Ί have written this
in order that future generations might learn the measureless ambition of
men, their dreadful lust for power, their unwearying perseverance, and the
countless forms of evil’ (Payne 1962: 19).
 5
THE EARLY ISRAELITES
The enemy as ritual outlaws

Many societies – particularly historical societies – were informed by a

pervasive religious ethic. This often meant that they regarded others as
infidels and unbelievers, or – as in the case of Israelite society – as those
who were ritually proscribed. Where others did not or could not share their
beliefs, they were necessarily excluded from normal, even humane,
considerations. The ideological outsider was someone with whom it was not
easy to come to terms. Indeed, any understanding might not even be
thought desirable except in extreme emergencies or, of course, where the
outsiders in question were members of a particularly powerful state. What is
especially interesting about the formative phases of Israelite society is
whether its considerations were really ideological or simply territorial, and
what exactly constituted grounds for a ‘holy war’.
In order to appreciate Israelites’ attitudes to their enemies it is important
to look in broad terms at their social and political organization, and relate
these to military systems generally. Only in this way can we see the all-
embracing nature of their religious perspectives.
Since early times, Palestine’s position in the Eastern Mediterranean had
compelled its inhabitants to maintain an efficient war machine in order to
maintain independence. This can be seen in the relatively developed armies
and fortified cities of the Canaanites and, later, of the Israelites themselves.
The very size of the country had always set serious limits on its population,
and its natural boundaries made its people exploit its resources to the full. It
also encouraged, where possible, the acquisition of further territories,
especially to the south and east. This is not to make a case for geographical
determinism, but merely to point to the fact that its geographical adjacency
meant that Palestine was destined to experience constant pressure from
covetous neighbours who – unlike Israel – did not always look beyond
immediate economic advantage.
In using the term ‘Israelite society’, we are thinking of the period
covering about 600 years, from the beginning of the tribal settlement in
Canaan in the late thirteenth century BC to the Babylonian conquest in the
early sixth century BC. This was a period of varying fortunes for the
Hebrews. The Exodus or escape from what was biblically regarded as
captivity in Egypt probably took place c. 1250 BC during the reign of
Pharaoh Rameses II, although this is greatly disputed, some scholars giving
a date as early as 1450 BC. The subsequent conquest and settlement of
Canaan was followed by the time of the ‘Judges’ (leaders) which was
characterized by both success against the indigenous peoples and disunity
among the invading tribes. In certain respects, this was somewhat like the
period of heroes (and myths?) found in many other societies – particularly
Greek society. It included such worthies as Gideon and Samson – warriors
who may well have a real place in history – and their exploits in subduing
non-Hebrew tribal groups who were competing for possession of the land.
Gradually, consolidation took place, but not until after there had been a
basic change in tribal organization in which heroic leadership reluctantly
gave way to monarchy. At first, this was opposed by the priestly caste, but
eventually a united kingdom was established under Saul, c. 1020 BC. After
a rather shaky start, and much scheming and plotting, including a revolt
engineered by his son Jonathan and his son-in-law David, he died at the
hands of the – by now – traditional enemy, the Philistines. David assumed
the throne c. 1000 BC and made Jerusalem, which he had wrested from the
indigenous Canaanites, his capital. He was followed by his son, Solomon,
who expanded Israelite influence even further and brought the nation to the
status of a minor Near Eastern power. But this was not destined to last for
very long. Wars continued spasmodically against certain resistant peoples,
particularly the Philistines in the south who had invaded Canaan about the
same time as the Israelites, possibly from Crete, and always threatened the
uncertain stability of this tiny state.
This high-water mark of Israelite military and political supremacy was
very brief, probably no more than fifty years, during which time the first
Temple was built in Jerusalem, and Israel established important political
and economic relations with some of her more powerful neighbours such as
the Egyptians, the Syrians, and the Phoenicians. When the united monarchy
broke down, the kingdom was divided into the ten tribes of Israel in the
north and the two tribes of Judah in the south, who, with varying fortunes
and intermittent periods of enmity, survived until the re-emergence of
Mesopotamian power. The Assyrians destroyed Israel in 721 BC and
deported a large percentage of the population, and then the Babylonians –
who had defeated a declining Assyria – crushed Judah in 597–583 BC and
also deported a number of its people. There was a revival in the fifth
century BC with the advent of Persian power when many Jews returned
from exile in Babylonia and rebuilt the Temple and the walls in Jerusalem –
albeit on a more modest scale.
Canaan-Palestine-Israel, however we wish to refer to it, has always been
an area of high economic and strategic importance, principally because it
lies on one of the main trade-routes in the Mediterranean and on the main
caravan route to Mesopotamia. As such, it has always been vulnerable to
attack by more powerful neighbours. So a revival of Jewish nationhood was
a precarious affair. After the Persians came the Greeks in the fourth century
BC, and after them the Romans who, with growing impatience against the
ever-fractious and rebellious Jews, sacked Jerusalem in AD 70, destroying
the Temple, and killing perhaps as many as a million of its inhabitants.
Any characterization of the Israelite state must be something of an
approximation to the truth. As with so many other systems with a long
history, it is only possible to give an incomplete composite picture of its
social and political organization.
At the height of its prosperity, Judah-Israel can hardly have had a
population of more than a million although some records (e.g. 2 Samuel
24.1–19) suggest that it was much higher than this. While the Hebrews were
still a nomadic society, there was simply a division into tribes, including
prominent families. But with settlement and urbanization, the structure of
the society was transformed. Even so, it is arguable whether there were ever
social classes in anything like the modern sense of groups who were
consciously concerned to further their own class interests. But there were
recognized social divisions. The king’s officials constituted a kind of caste
which was largely detached from general municipal interests; these appear
to have been in the hands of elders in the villages and towns. These elders
often held lands from the king and therefore did his bidding, but they also
seem to have enjoyed some esteem among the people. In the larger towns
where the influence of the councils was particularly strong, we find that the
king often found it necessary to negotiate with their most important
representatives (Jeremiah 38.24–5). They were men of ‘good families’, in
effect a kind of ruling class of minor – and not so minor – administrators,
but they were not a nobility as such, merely the possessors of civic
privileges. Closely associated with these were those of military rank, the
warriors, who, even if they had little property, owned their own equipment
and enjoyed a certain standard of living.
Below these in the social hierarchy were the people themselves. The
term ‘people of the land’ is often used in the Old Testament, and this can
mean variously the general body of citizens as distinguished from the
priests and nobility, and even resident aliens; much depends on the specific
period of Hebrew history in question. A distinction was also made between
the rich and the poor; between – broadly speaking – the independent
producers, farmers, stock breeders, etc., and the ‘small men’, the labourers
whose cause was sometimes taken up by the prophets (e.g. Amos 4.1). In
order to aid the destitute, the gleanings of the harvest were left, and every
sabbatical year the produce was left for their use. However, it would be
misleading to equate the poor with a modern proletariat; ‘rich’ and ‘poor’
had no overt moral connotations – neither constituted a party or social class
in the current sense. Located within this rich-poor continuum were
merchants and craftsmen, and outside it – in a special category – the
resident aliens, who could hold property but who did not hold full civic
rights, and the slaves who were frequently of foreign origin. In the ancient
world, slaves were usually either war captives or those who had become
slaves through their own or their families’ debts. Israel was no exception in
this respect, but there is no evidence of any large-scale traffic in slavery
among the Hebrews. Indeed, in Hebrew society, slavery seems to have been
a relatively humane institution, and the death penalty was prescribed for the
crime of abducting an Israelite for the purpose of selling him as a slave.
Female slaves came into a special category: they were often domestic
servants or concubines, and were not normally released in the seventh
(sabbatical) year, as was quite usual with male slaves. Runaway slaves –
male or female – were often treated well, in contrast with, say,
Mesopotamian society, where they might be either killed or maimed.
 The territory that the Israelites conquered consisted of small, sometimes
warring, principalities. The Israelites established a very different system
based upon twelve traditional tribes which formed a union centred on a
number of sanctuaries. When this federation became a national state with
the establishment of the monarchy, it inevitably involved the development
of new institutions of administration and new systems of allegiances. With
the separation of the two kingdoms, Judah opted for divinely sanctioned
dynastic succession, but this was slow in coming to Israel where, at first,
each succeeding monarch had to be subject to the necessary approval. After
the return from Exile, the idea of monarchy was less popular, and power
usually lay with the priests under the suzerainty of one or another of the
dominant powers. It was really religion which preserved the unity of the
nation; the view was that whoever ruled only did so with Yahweh’s (God’s)
authority.
The administration of the state was conducted largely on a tribal basis,
with subject territories being laid under tribute, and still sometimes
controlled by petty vassals. The main task of local governors, besides
maintaining order, was to ensure the collection and dispatch of the
necessary revenues for the state coffers. Little is actually known of the
fiscal system of Israel or of the resources at the disposal of the state. During
the monarchies, there seems to have been no clear distinction between the
revenues of the king and those of the kingdom. The king bore all the
expenses of maintaining the army, public works, and the like, but he also
enjoyed complete control of the monies available. Similarly, there was only
a theoretical distinction between the state treasury and the sanctuary
treasuries as far as the disposal of revenue was concerned. In times of
extreme need, the king would have no compunction in using money from
either Temple or palace treasuries. Revenue derived from commercial
enterprises, taxes and tithes, tribute money from vassals, besides the
produce of the royal estate. Some projects were run on forced labour – a
common phenomenon in the ancient world, but it is interesting that the Old
Testament makes clear that the small post-Exilic community rebuilt the
walls of Jerusalem with volunteers and not the forced labour of earlier times
(Nehemiah 3.5). In addition, there might be presents from foreign
embassies, or special tax revenues which were usually only exacted in an
emergency, e.g. to buy off the threats of powerful neighbours such as the
Assyrians and Egyptians.
 It would be useful, at this stage, to look at the Israelite approach to legal
matters. The legislative codes are all to be found in the Pentateuch, the first
five books of the Bible; they contain the basic behavioural precepts for
religion and morality. There were some variations of time and place, but in
general the different versions of the same laws remained the essentials for
conduct throughout Israelite history. The Law was the charter of a Covenant
with Yahweh and contained all the obligations to be undertaken by the
people. It was designed to safeguard the Covenant, and therefore contains
many injunctions against idolatry and blasphemy, although its punishments
– in the main – are probably more humane than those prescribed by other
contemporary systems. There were a number of capital offences, but
flogging was limited, and leniencies were shown towards the
underprivileged, the poor, the widows, and the orphans. Furthermore,
generous exemptions were given from military service. Even the lex
talionis, the law of ‘an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth’ – though
frightening in its possible applications – only actually demanded
proportionate compensation and not the life of the offender.
Jurisdiction might be given by the king, though often through appointed
judges, elders, or priests. Justice was usually administered in public, at the
gate of the town, or in a holy place or sanctuary. The king gave his
judgements in the ‘porch of judgement’ which was open to all. In a capital
case, the prosecution required at least two witnesses, and in the event of the
death sentence by stoning, it was these who threw the first stones. If their
evidence was proved to be false, they had to suffer the same sentence as
would have been given to the accused. According to the historian Josephus,
women and slaves were not allowed to give evidence at trials. Even the
judge was more an arbitrator than anything else; it was the court that
normally made the final decision. Where a decision could not be made for
lack of evidence, the accused might be required to take a solemn oath as to
their innocence (1 Kings 8.31), but there was no casting into the river ordeal
as was common in Mesopotamian society. Penalties were often severe:
capital offences included sins against Yahweh and against parents, abuses of
sexual relations, as well as homicide. Even so, they were probably not as
extensive as those found in many neighbouring societies, most notably in
cases involving sentences of bodily mutilation. Material restitution or
compensation was required in some circumstances, but there were no
prisons as such until after the Exile. Some kind of self-help seems also to
have been practised, and was given implicit recognition by law. Asylum
was possible for the person who had killed involuntarily, but those who
were deemed guilty of premeditated murder could be dragged out of a
sanctuary and executed, apparently without trial (Exodus 21.13–14), or
even killed at the altar itself (1 Kings 2.28–31).
The entire land of Israel was technically regarded as being the property
of Yahweh, it was the Holy Land (Psalm 85.2 etc.). A form of feudalism –
common in neighbouring states – may have been practised. A fief was
possibly given to a local lord or chieftain in return for services which were
usually of a military nature. In nomadic times, pasture and watering places
were the common property of the tribe, and when the tribes became settled
the same system apparently applied to the arable land. The use of the
common lands was divided among members of the group who cultivated
the land for their own benefit. The annual tithe of the produce that was
given to Yahweh and the tithe every third year for the poor attest the ways
in which religious laws limited the rights of the human occupants of the
land. With the passage of time, however, there was a tendency for the rich
to acquire further lands at the expense of others, and the practice of renting
of lands began. In this way the rich were emulating the king whose royal
estates were managed by stewards and worked by a levy of free men and
state slaves.
Ancient Israel has been designated a ‘seed-bed’ society (Parsons 1966)
for the simple reason that, although its influence in its own time was
limited, it has had an enormous influence on posterity. This is due
preeminently, of course, to the contribution its religion has made to western
culture and western thought-forms. And it is to religion that we must now
turn if we are to have any real understanding of Israelite society.
Ancient Israel was surrounded by nations with polytheistic beliefs, and
its strict monotheism was wholly exceptional at the time. Tradition holds
that the foundation of Hebrew monotheism dates from the days of the desert
wanderings after the Exodus from Egypt. It was then validated by
revelations to Moses on Mount Sinai, and subsequently codified as the Law
as it is found in the Pentateuch. Various prophetic books and wisdom
literature were later added to the historical narratives found in such texts as
Kings and Chronicles which together make up the corpus of the thirty-nine
books of the Old Testament. This together with the New Testament has
become the scriptural basis for religious, moral, and even legal teaching in
the entire Judaeo-Christian tradition.
The moral edicts found in the Law have certain features in common with
the famous Code of the Amorite Hammurabi (or Hammurapi) in eighteenth-
century BC Mesopotamia, but this too may well be based on the even
earlier code of the Sumerian Ur-Nammu dating from the third millennium
BC. It was not just the specific injunctions of the Law which made it so
singular, but the ways in which it was wedded to an unyielding
monotheism. There were, of course, periods of spiritual declension when
other gods were either worshipped or at least recognized, but by and large
the very special nature of the religion was retained. When the priests
became too secular in their political roles or became too preoccupied with
the need for ritual observances, inspired prophets such as Amos, Hosea, and
Isaiah arose to remind the people of their moral and spiritual obligations.
Ancient Israel always remained essentially a theocracy.
Perhaps the key to any true appreciation of Israelite religion is to be
found in the idea of Election. Indeed, it could be argued that the concept of
the Chosen People, that is, the conviction that Israel had been ordained by
Yahweh to carry the message of the Law to other peoples, is one of the
main clues to any theological understanding of the Old Testament.
Israel owed its sense of national identity to the belief in a special
relationship with Yahweh, and it was held that this had been demonstrated
in such unique historical events as the Passover and the Exodus. Election
and its implications were given formal shape in the Covenant (or
agreement) at Sinai where, it is believed, Yahweh revealed his will for the
people through the Israelite leader, Moses. This affected every aspect of
their social and political life; they saw it as a real event which transformed
all of their subsequent history.
The Covenant carried with it both conditions and obligations. The people
were to shun idolatry and keep to the social and ritual requirements of the
Law. If this was done, Yahweh would vindicate them in the eyes of others –
a promise reiterated time and time again by the prophets. Many biblical
passages make it clear that Israel’s Election was not prompted by her
righteousness or merit (Deuteronomy 9.5), but was ordained because of the
task which she had to accomplish to be a ‘light unto the Gentiles’. This
compares unfavourably, as we shall see, with the ways in which some of
those Gentiles were actually treated. Israelite religion – not unlike other
religions – was subject to interpretation and rationalization, but in its purest
prophetic forms it was unique among the contemporary societies of the
ancient world.
Our information regarding the military organization of Israel is far from
adequate. No single relief or drawing of a military kind has come down to
us; perhaps there never were any. This contrasts interestingly with the
situation in many contemporaneous societies such as the Egyptian and
Assyrian where a great deal has survived. The weapons and remains of
fortifications that have been brought to light by archaeology are mainly
those of the Canaanites whom the Israelites largely displaced.
It may be that nothing changes in any society quite as rapidly as its
military organization because it is affected by so many extraneous factors.
Military organization is influenced by changes in governments, and their
various policies, by the different kinds of enemy a society is called upon to
combat, and, of course, by the relatively slow innovations in armaments and
tactics. In the case of Israel there was the other crucially influential factor of
religion. Where war is regarded as a sacred undertaking, military enterprise
will necessarily take on a particular complexion. This concept may undergo
many transformations over time, but it always conditions the nature of war
and military preparation.
In their early nomadic phase, the Israelites probably had little real
organization. What we know of this, and the subsequent phase of the Judges
when the conquest of Canaan was gradually taking place, is preserved in
later writings which tended to give the impression of a united force fighting
in a common cause. But the source material does vary on this issue. The
most complete picture of Israelite military organization can be found in the
Old Testament book of Chronicles, and this reflects the state of affairs
which we find in the period of the united kingdom and afterwards when the
threat from Assyria became an ominous reality.
In the early days the divisions in the army reflected those of the clans.
The men were poorly armed and were no match for the Canaanites and
other indigenous tribes in a pitched battle, but by stealth and cunning, with
small groups of highly trained warriors, they were often able to overcome
their opponents. Even in the first years of the monarchy, during the battles
against the Philistines, we find that by the stratagems of skilled leaders the
Israelites were often triumphant over the superior numbers of their enemies.
Sometimes the issue was actually decided between small chosen groups
from the opposing sides (e.g. 2 Samuel 2.14ff.) or even between especially
selected champions as can be seen in the famous story of David and Goliath
(1 Samuel 17).
The first kings of Israel found it necessary to establish a standing army
to combat the professional armies of their traditional enemies. The armies
were composite units made up of free men, various partisan groups, and
even detachments of mercenaries who were not technically free men but
who were exempted from certain taxes and forced labour. With increased
prosperity, the state was able to develop a chariot force. This was a
particular innovation of Solomon, though in this he was emulating the
Canaanites and others who had long perfected the use of light two-wheeled
vehicles. By 835 BC, in the reign of Ahab, it is reported that the Israelites
were able to field as many as 2,000 chariots, although these may have been
largely ‘bought in’ from neighbouring Egypt. These forces were housed in
‘chariot towns’, and involved considerable supply problems concerning
fodder etc.; in fact, excavations at Megiddo have shown that the stables and
training areas there probably catered for some 450 horses, many of which
may have been imported from Anatolia (Turkey). With the division of the
kingdom, these chariot garrisons mainly went to the northern state of Israel,
although we find that by the eighth century BC Judah too had built up
similar mobile forces (Isaiah 2.7). This was frowned upon by the prophet,
Isaiah, who deplored the new dependence on armaments. The chariot force
was of no avail in countering Assyrian aggression. In 701 BC, the Assyrian
armies under Sennacherib captured every town in Judah except Jerusalem
without fighting a single battle in which chariots were engaged (note 2
Chronicles 35.34).
Cavalry was largely an innovation of the semi-nomadic Indo-Aryans
who probably emanated from southern Russia. It was never an important
feature of the armies of the Near East, particularly Egypt and Israel where
horsemen were usually dispatch riders or scouts of some kind. Much later
even, in the second century BC, during the Maccabean wars of resistance
against the Greek occupying powers, there was no cavalry to speak of to
combat the massed forces of enemy cavalry and elephants.
We know relatively little about such things as strategy and tactics. Those
recorded for us mainly concern the period of the conquest and the early
monarchy when, presumably, the Israelites were dictating the moves. But in
the later defensive wars against superior forces, the initiative no longer
belonged to the home side. By and large, it was a matter of trying to
anticipate the other’s moves, and respond in whatever ways seemed
possible. We do know that usually the professional or experienced troops
fought in the front line, and that the conscripts were held in reserve; when
and how chariots were used depended entirely on the situation, and
especially on the terrain.
Neither the Bible nor, indeed, archaeology gives us much idea about the
weapons used by Israelite soldiers, but it must be assumed that they were
much the same as in other Near Eastern armies. Besides various kinds of
light defensive armour, there was the sword/dagger, the pike/spear, and, of
course, the bow which was introduced rather late in its composite form.
This was almost certainly first introduced in Mesopotamia in the third
millennium, and probably reached its most refined form among the
Scythian tribes of southern Russia in the seventh century BC.
It can be assumed that for the greater part of the history of Israel and
Judah, the armies were conscript armies. The men would be recruited by
districts which – especially in the early days – would be roughly
coterminous with tribal areas. There would be the usual exemptions where
men were needed, say, for essential tasks on the land, and there were
unusual deferments for newly-weds. In pre-monarchy days, men were
expected to bring their own arms, but later on these were supplied from
central arsenals. The officers were normally important tribal heads, and the
king assumed command of the entire force which was organized in various
multiples of ten (i.e. 10, 50, 100, 1,000) – a system which dated back to the
period of desert wanderings after the Exodus.
This national army seems only to have been mustered in times of war.
Mercenaries may have been retained for more permanent tasks such as
bodyguards and guards at frontier posts. Conscription based on a register
was, at first, deplored as it was regarded as Yahweh’s prerogative to decide
who lived and who died. But, as time went on, in the face of more and
graver national emergencies, it was increasingly viewed as right and
necessary for national salvation.
Towns of any size and importance were normally fortified with walls
and ramparts. This was certainly the Canaanite practice, and it was later
followed by the Israelites. People were encouraged to retreat to the
comparative safety of the towns during times of invasion or attack. These
centres were generally impervious to assailants armed only with light
weapons, although they might be forced to surrender if their water and food
supplies were cut off. Where people could not be starved into submission,
the towns could usually only be taken by treachery or by some ruse such as
a feigned retreat which tempted the inhabitants to open their gates and give
chase to a well-prepared enemy. However, when they were assaulted by
really powerful forces, they might fall victim to sophisticated siege engines
or other well-tried techniques such as the use of ramps and tunnels. On the
other hand, they might be made to surrender through sheer intimidation;
this happened when the Syrian forces under Benhadad besieged Ahab’s
capital at Samaria and forced a capitulation (1 Kings 20).
The Hebrews themselves never used siege engines such as catapults,
siege towers, etc., until the Maccabean wars of the second century BC, and
in this they were merely copying their Greek opponents. Nevertheless, the
armies of Israel did besiege towns, and here the ethico-religious rules were
clearly laid down (Deuteronomy 20.1–20). If the town lay in foreign
territory, it had to be offered peace terms, and if the people surrendered,
they were still subject to the possibility of forced labour. But if the people
refused to open their gates and the town had to be invested when and if it
was captured, everything -people and property alike – were regarded as
being the spoils of war, and then men might well be put to the sword.
Indeed, when the town in question was a Canaanite town inside the frontiers
of what was regarded as the Promised Land, all the inhabitants were to be
killed without giving them a chance to surrender.
It has been argued that the early wars of Hebrews were really defensive
(de Vaux 1973), but this is disputable inasmuch as they were fought to wrest
territory from various Canaanite tribes who naturally resented these
incursions. Having once taken possession of extensive areas of Canaan, it
then became a matter of defending them against both the indigenous
peoples and, often, competing forces such as the Philistines. This happened
after David’s capture of Jerusalem – certainly an offensive action – which
was followed by defensive actions against Philistine intervention (2 Samuel
5.17–25). Such actions were a particular feature of the monarchic period of
Saul and David, although it should be added that there is no record of any
war waged by Solomon. After this, when the kingdom was divided there
were wars with hostile neighbours such as the Aramaens of Damascus,
especially during the ninth century BC. Both Israel and Judah were also
subject to the depredations of more powerful states such as Egypt and
Assyria who exacted tribute and taxes as nominal overlords of the land.
Subsequently, the two kingdoms had a chequered career under Babylonian,
Persian, and Greek domination in which a war of national liberation gave
the Jews a breathing space before the occupation and final devastation by
the Romans in the first century AD.
Although it was not normally the policy of the Israelite armies to
massacre those they had conquered, there were very many exceptions to the
rule. Indeed, in general terms, the treatment of the vanquished – by what
appears to have been common consent – was pretty awful. At the very least,
the fortifications of an enemy town were dismantled. But this was rarely the
limit of a victorious army’s activities. War had to profit someone, so before
a town was burnt it was usually pillaged; property was despoiled, flocks
were taken, and even the dead were stripped of their possessions. The
possibility for plunder was often the point of the exercise. Men fought for
what they could get; they had a right to everything they could lay their
hands on (1 Kings 20.39–40) providing – where necessary – the correct
royal and ritual donations were made. The king reserved the most precious
articles for himself and for the sanctuary.
The Israelites never matched the Assyrians in calculated ferocity, but we
find that they were capable of barbarous atrocities, especially when it
involved ‘holy war’. In the campaigns for the conquest of Canaan attributed
to Joshua, the successor of Moses, we find the holy war in its purest form.
The warriors had to be ritually cleansed before battle, which included a
period of sexual abstinence. After victory, as, for example, at the cities of Ai
and Bethel, the final act was the pronunciation of anathema (herem) on that
which had been taken. All the ‘accursed’ (literally, separated) living things
were put to the sword, almost as a kind of thank-offering for the victory
(Joshua 7–9). Similarly, in the subsequent consolidation during the period
of the Judges, there were acts of extermination for a mixture of ritual and
political purposes. For instance, after Gideon’s successful night attack on
the rival Midianites, which was much like an elaborate commando raid, we
find that there was the mandatory execution of the Midianite chiefs (Judges
7.25) and the incidental – almost casual – trampling to death of ‘the men of
Succoth’ whose only apparent crime was a wish to remain neutral (Judges
8.16).
Once the kingdom had been established, similar policies were adopted. A
case in point would be the fate of the Amalekites. Because, ostensibly, they
had hindered the passage of the ‘children of Israel’ to the Promised Land
more than two hundred years before, Saul, the Israelite king, was instructed
by the priest Samuel in the name of ‘the Lord of Hosts . . . [to] defeat
Amalek, massacre him and all that belongs to him, do not spare him, slay
both men and women, child and infant, ox and sheep, camel and ass’ (1
Samuel 15.3 – Moffatt trans.). But apparently, Saul only destroyed what
was common and worthless, and kept not only the best livestock for himself
but also spared the life of the Amalek king, Agag. This was eventually
discovered by Samuel, and such was the ritual authority of the priest, that
Saul was reprimanded and told, despite his contrite protestations, that the
Eternal had rejected him (1 Samuel 15.26) and that he was no longer to be
king of Israel. As a postscript to all this, we are informed that Samuel
quickly made up for at least one of Saul’s oversights by personally hacking
Agag to death Refere the Eternal’ at the sanctuary of Gilgal (1 Samuel
15.33).
David, Saul’s eventual successor, proved to be more assiduous in dealing
with the victims of his raiding parties. And this involved some confusion of
loyalties. Whilst operating in the Negev as a kind of freelance guerrilla
chief on behalf of the Philistines, the traditional enemies of Israel, he seized
the flocks of a particular tribe and ‘left neither men nor women alive . . .
such was his practice’ (1 Samuel 27.9–11). And his son, Solomon, likewise
did not always reserve his ire for the recognized enemies of the state;
indeed he secured the throne by the common expedient of eliminating rival
claimants – particularly his brother Adonijah (1 Kings 2) – and carrying out
a few revenge killings, apparently with the benediction of his father. All of
which again raises the question of ritual versus political imperatives.
Things did not really improve with the break-up of the kingdom. Various
political and religious rivalries resulted in an assortment of bloodletting.
This takes us from Zimri, the Israelite king who murdered the entire
household of his predecessor (1 Kings 16.11), to the prophet Elijah who
ensured the liquidation of 450 prophets of Baal who were functionaries of
an imported faith and were, admittedly, doing their best to exterminate the
prophets of Yahweh (1 Kings 17–19).
Life was just as precarious for the unwary in the southern kingdom of
Judah, where similar internecine struggles for succession also took place.
Not untypical is the case of Amaziah who, we are reassured, ‘did what was
right in the eyes of the Eternal’. After killing the men who had murdered his
father, he embarked on a series of campaigns against the Edomites which
culminated in the death of ten thousand of the enemy in battle and another
ten thousand prisoners who were simply thrown off the cliffs in an act of
wanton slaughter. This received no condemnation from the prophets of
Yahweh, although Amaziah was severely censured for bringing back
Edomite gods which he had adopted, not because they were useless idols
but because they had not been efficacious enough to prevent the massacre in
the first place (2 Chronicles 25).
And so the sorry catalogue goes on. Even humanitarian acts were as
much due to expediency and pragmatism as they were to feelings of mercy.
The community stood to gain by keeping prisoners alive: they could be
used as slaves or as forced labour. Women particularly could be taken as
wives or concubines, and virgins were in particularly high demand as
‘rewards’ for the fighting men (Judges 5.30). The policy of substituting
deportation for slavery, a practice especially associated with the Assyrians
and the Babylonians, was never taken up by the Israelites, possibly because
their territories were not extensive enough to make it a practicable
proposition.
The association between war and religion was particularly common in
the ancient world. War was normally accompanied by ritual acts such as
libations and sacrifices and a preoccupation with what were considered
good and bad omens. It was often believed that war should be waged at the
behest of the gods, and certainly that it was carried out with their aid and
inspiration. As we have seen, all the institutions of Israel were invested with
a sacred character, and nowhere is this better illustrated than in the conduct
of war. Not every war was, in the strict sense, a ‘holy war’ symbolized by
the presence of the Ark of the Covenant, although every war had its
religious aspects. Certainly, it did not take the form of the Islamic ‘jihad’
where war is waged in the promotion of a particular ideology. Rather it was
the defence of the claims of Israel as a chosen people with a specific
mission: as Roland de Vaux (1973: 262) rather protectively puts it, ‘it was
Yahweh who fought for Israel, not Israel which fought for its God’. In some
ways, though, the end result was much the same. Other peoples were
oppressed and sometimes exterminated to demonstrate the superiority of a
particular people with a particular faith. It was religion – either directly or
indirectly – which determined not only how the enemy was perceived, but
also the patterns of conquest and the mode of occupation of his territory.
One’s enemies were the enemies of the faith, and this was evidenced by the
ways in which others treated the people of that faith. To those who
competed for a place in the Promised Land there was, at first, only one
response – war. Later, for good or ill, the tribal groups reached an uneasy
accommodation with their neighbours, a policy dictated by both tolerance
and expediency.
When the situation changed in the subsequent divided monarchy period,
the opportunities for aggression were neutralized by the powerful forces
ranged on the borders. The view that ‘Yahweh your God . . . marches in
front of you [and] will fight for you just as you have seen him do in Egypt’
(Deuteronomy 1.30; Revised Standard Version) had to be modified in the
light of political exigencies. The armies of Israel and Judah, even in
coalition from time to time with other states, were not enough to ward off
the incursions of the highly predatory Assyrians and Babylonians who, to
use the imagery of the prophets, descended like locusts and devoured the
land. The Israelites had originally taken the land by force at the behest, so
they declared, of their god. Eventually, after an uneasy occupation of some
twelve hundred years, they were removed by the superior forces of those
who did not come to settle but to plunder and despoil, or – like the Romans
– to administer the territory as just another intransigent province.
There is some evidence – both biblical and extra-biblical – to support the
contention that at least some tribal groups of Hebrews (Habiru?) occupied
Palestine in pre-conquest days. But it was the conquest itself which
established them in strength in this much coveted country. The question of
their ‘right’ to the territory will go on being debated. What we can say is
that, despite the means employed, it is probable that only a people imbued
with such religious zeal and a steadfast belief in a divine decree could have
developed the necessary endurance not only to cherish and sustain such an
ideal, but also to keep that hope alive over the tragic centuries.
 6
THE CRUSADER KNIGHTS
The enemy as unbelievers

As we have already seen, religious ideology is an extremely potent force in

human affairs. What people believe affects what they do. To see the enemy
as unbelievers may be an irrational basis for hostility and even cruelty, but
it has frequently seemed to justify this kind of treatment. Ideology has a
cohesive quality; it unites people in a common belief – no matter how
‘false’ that belief may be – and this may well metamorphose as a common
cause or crystallize around a common goal. This is a process which can be
seen very clearly from a study of the Crusaders in the Middle Ages.
Long before the Norman Conquest, the disruptions brought about by the
barbarian invasions, especially from Scandinavia, had given rise to a new
class of knights. These were, in effect, professional fighting men who
possessed their own horses and accoutrements of war. The need for defence
was acute and pressing, and consequently by legal grant from either kings
or nobles – or sometimes by informal usurpation – more and more land was
given over to support these ‘new men’ who might be mobilized at the local
or national level. So by the Conquest, Europe could boast a comparatively
numerous knightly class who acted as protectors of society as a whole. This
all had to be paid for, but it was not all done at the peasants’ expense. There
was growing economic development and quite rapid urban expansion; new
industries and agricultural improvements resulted in the emergence of
rudimentary capitalism, and with it some degree of political consolidation.
The Middle Ages are commonly associated with feudalism which, in
turn, tends to be seen in terms of the manorial system where an estate was
cultivated by peasants for a local lord in exchange for small strips of land
for their own use. It is also linked with what is technically termed a
seigneurial system where full administrative and judicial authority is
localized under one person who also controls all economic rights in the
area. But neither of these is peculiar to feudalism only as can be seen, for
example, in Spanish America. Strictly speaking the term ‘feudalism’
connotes far more than this. European feudalism was a system of feuds or
fiefs, given as compensation – in a contractual arrangement – for military
services rendered by chiefs or lords and sublet by allotments to their
subordinates or vassals. It is thought to have originated after the wars in the
eighth century AD between the Franks and the Saracens. The victor, Charles
Martel, decided to copy the Muslims and increase the numbers of his
cavalry. This necessitated the confiscation of many church lands in order to
provide forage for the horses. And these lands were given as endowments
(estates) to nobles and knights in exchange for a pledge of military duties.
Failure to comply automatically meant the forfeiture of the lands. In what
was then only a rudimentary money economy, gifts of land constituted a
kind of payment for services rendered.
At the first level, the contract was between the monarch and the nobility
whereby they agreed to supply soldiers – particularly mounted knights –
when required on condition of a generous benefice or fief. A benefice
involved income, whilst the holding of a fief was very much bound up with
status and honour. Furthermore, a benefice need not be hereditary, and
might not involve political powers at all, and was more usually associated
with the clergy rather than secular vassals. A lord could revoke a benefice or
promote a benefice-holder; this was not the case with a fief which always
involved land held by the vassal for the lord. Each swore obligations to the
other; it was hereditary on both sides, and the ‘contract’ was renewed when
an heir took over, and new oaths of fealty were sworn. Although, for
instance, in France the lord had the authority to freeze the rights of a vassal,
he could not prevent him from passing on the fief to his heir – but the vassal
certainly could not pass it to anyone else. There were mutual bonds of rights
and duties that were recognized by both sides.
European feudalism also involved an estate system of stratification, the
term ‘estate’ being a legal category – in practice, somewhere between a
class and a caste – which allowed for minimal social mobility. There were
exceptions to this as is evidenced by the considerable mobility in the lower
orders of knights in English feudal society. There was no high degree of
rational economic organization; entrepreneurs were discouraged where
there was arbitrary rule and interminable power-struggles. Merchants and
traders tended to constitute a rising class within this hierarchy, and there
was an appreciable degree of decentralization of judicial and administrative
authority. This was vested instead in an autonomous nobility; consequently
we find that in European feudalism there were no highly organized
bureaucracies. A complex administrative machine was largely unnecessary,
and probably could not have been sustained anyway. So in the absence of
strong central government, every man who had anything worth having had
to worry about whether he had enough strength to keep it. In these
circumstances, the powerless submitted to the powerful for protection, and
this meant to their local lord.
A key stratum in an estate or feudal system is the priesthood, and this
presents us with certain anomalies in relation to medieval society. There
must surely be some doubt as to whether the founder of Christianity would
have recognized very much of his teachings in the policies and practices of
the medieval Church which, in many ways, was enveloped in the political
anarchy that affected society generally. Some of the abbeys and bishoprics
were in a sorry state: the higher clergy often acted as feudal lords, and many
of the lower clergy were ignorant and illiterate, giving rise to the suspicion
that they were little more than dealers in spells and incantations. Yet despite
all this it remained a centralized organization which kept alive the essential
ingredients of the Christian tradition. Although riddled with benefice
practices and nepotism, it was still the great rationalized mechanism of
administration in medieval society, and eventually it was to become a
salutary counterweight to the increasingly monolithic power of the state.
The Church was also a welcome channel of social mobility. People of
intellectual capacity found a niche in its structures and advancement
through its activities. Indeed, the Church was the only repository of learning
of any kind in medieval society. There was no education outside the
Church; salvation – both intellectual and spiritual – was only to be found
within the Church. Consequently, men of ability such as Peter Abelard, who
was both promoted and persecuted by the Church, could find within it their
ambition and their vocation.
What must never be underestimated is the power of the medieval
Church. Its wealth alone was colossal – although the idea that it owned
about a third of European lands is almost certainly an exaggeration. During
the eleventh century, an energetic programme of reforms was initiated
which aimed at establishing its true independence from any form of secular
rule. The papacy, under Popes Leo IX and Gregory VII, began the conflict
which was to influence European history, in one way or another, for several
hundred years; the struggle to create a papal sovereignty to which all
Christendom was subordinate. But in trying to extricate itself from the
domination of secular rulers, the papacy had to take upon itself the mantle
of secular power. In its efforts to supplant secular authority with spiritual
authority, it merely succeeded in instituting a morally questionable
ecclesiastical authority. Inspiration had inevitably succumbed to
institutionalization.
Despite the inconsistencies and ambiguities of organized religion, the
life of the spirit was still important to many ordinary men and women. It
may have been mingled with superstition and an undue reverence for ritual
and relics but it evidenced the moral concerns which were very much alive
in the community. In general terms, medieval man had little time for
original ideas or speculative thought. The Church had always taught him the
essentially evil character of the material creation. His body was just a
temporary habitat for the soul, so it had to be kept in permanent subjection
lest it became contaminated by fleshly lust or worldly ambition.
This all made for a static society in which change and innovation were
regarded with apprehension and even suspicion. Yet within this apparently
unyielding structure which derived its authority from the unquestioned
verities of Scripture, there was a moral and intellectual concern – a spirit of
enquiry which sought coherence in a reasoned faith. It may, therefore, be no
coincidence that it was just at this time that the politically astute Pope
Urban II called for a Holy Crusade. This enterprise was to be led by the
nobility and the knights, and it is to them and their ethos of chivalry that we
must now turn if we are to appreciate what has been cynically described as
‘that total apparatus of elegant futility’.
The idea of knighthood as the bulwark against social disorder is a central
theme of medieval literature. This justified the knight’s right to lead, and
sanctified the use of arms; although the right to bear arms was not enough –
they had to be used correctly in what was regarded as a worthy cause.
Knighthood, as such, was originally bound up with personal status rather
than economic (i.e. landholding) status; but with the passage of time, the
warrior caste increasingly reflected the demands of the feudal order. Indeed
a warrior in his capacity as a vassal might hold fiefs from several lords but
swear special allegiance to only one to whom he would give homage in
precedence to all others. This naturally affected the ways in which he could
be mobilized, especially for such ventures as Crusades.
There were also the special demands of medieval warfare. Weaponry and
horses were expensive, and only the prosperous were able to equip
themselves in this way. So a new ‘class’ was created; a kind of military
bourgeoisie. But knighthood was not necessarily confined to the nobility,
though men of low birth were rarely knighted. Knights tended to come from
well-established families with recognized feudal responsibilities, and by the
end of the twelfth century, knighthood and nobility had virtually become
synonymous terms. Gradually knighthood became a hereditary right.
Knights were not only warriors, but often also landowners and
administrators as well, and their legal status as ‘knights of the shire’ made
them key figures in local and central government. In fact, in France the
‘king’s service’ was one of the bases of bureaucracy, and knighthood
became the key to a political rather than a military career. It was
developments such as these that seriously undermined the strictly feudal
basis of knighthood by the early fourteenth century.
In their heyday, however, the knights’ primary functions can be seen in
essentially military terms. Their predominance was virtually complete in the
eleventh and twelfth centuries when the economic monopoly of agriculture
had not yet been challenged by the growth of the towns and the
development of industry. Political power was almost entirely based on force
of arms, and knightly influence increased with the waning authority of
central government. Monarchs were not infrequently at loggerheads with
their nobles, and it was perhaps to counterbalance the unflagging
aspirations of successive secular rulers that knightly institutions appear to
have enjoyed the unqualified blessing of the Church.
In effect, it was the Church that ‘made’ the knight. As part of the
consecration ceremony, the knight’s sword was laid on the altar as a symbol
of dedication; it was then sanctified by prayers which called upon God to
ensure that its bearer would use it successfully against ‘the scourge of the
pagans . . . and other evil-doers’. By the twelfth century, this simple service
of dedication had become an elaborate ritual that involved the blessing of
each piece of armour, and the ceremonial brandishing of a sword with the
invocation that it should never be used in an unworthy cause. The candidate
was given a light token blow with the hand or sword – a mysterious but
essential part of the service -and presented with his spurs and, where
appropriate, a banner, and then duly declared a knight. There was a return to
simplicity when knighting took place in the field immediately before battle.
This was not unusual for poor squires who could earn more as knights, and
it would possibly ensure that they were handsomely ransomed in case of
defeat. More commonly, however, knighting in the field took place after
battle as a reward for valour; even the Black Prince ‘won his spurs’ this
way.
Whatever form this solemn act took, in submitting to it the knight had
effectively become a member of a quasi-religious order which acted as the
secular arm of the Church, ostensibly to protect it and to defend the weak. It
was carefully controlled so as to exclude undesirables from the knightly
ranks. A peasant could hardly aspire to knighthood, but it was not
unattainable for a man from the lower gentry. On the other hand, it was not
easy for, say, a merchant; making money by trade had always been a
suspect occupation.
What probably distinguished the knightly ethos more than anything else
was the notion of honour. In theory, a knight’s word once given could never
be retracted, although a vow could be annulled by ducal or royal command.
Exceptionally, this only occurred where someone had made a rash or trivial
promise as happened with the Duke of Burgundy who overrode a vow made
by one of his knights that he would not turn his horse’s head back until he
had killed an infidel. For knights generally an oath was sacrosanct. The very
concept of honour had a mystique and a solemnity which could be neither
defined nor denied. Honour was the key to the chivalric code, yet its
applications were shrouded in ambiguities. Perhaps its ‘essence’ can best be
discerned in particular circumstances or settings, as in the Arthurian
romances or the chansons of the medieval troubadours; it can also be seen
in the tournament ethic and the knightly attitudes to women. But,
complementarity, its inconsistencies were all too evident as well,
particularly in the organized barbarism of medieval warfare, not least in the
Crusades.
The techniques of warfare had shown some advances from the crudities
of the Dark Ages. These were especially notable in the use of cavalry.
Horses were now shod – a great improvement on rough terrain. And the
development of the stirrup – an innovation of nomadic Asian tribesmen –
made it possible to use a heavy lance by reducing the probability that the
rider would be unhorsed in the charge. There was also the development of
the long-bow and the cross-bow which greatly increased the distance at
which the initial engagement could be fought. These had a devastating
impact on warfare, and they were condemned by Pope Innocent II in AD
1139 as a ‘deadly art, hated of God . . . which should not be used against
Christians and Catholics’. At this high-water mark of crusading zeal, it is
worth noting that non-Christians (infidels) are conveniently excluded. Not
least of all were the changes in protective armour which became more all-
enveloping yet allowed the warrior to fight either mounted or dismounted.
Ultimately, it became so heavy that a reductio ad absurdum situation was
reached in the fifteenth century when knights had literally to be winched on
to their steeds, and once unhorsed were at the mercy of lightly armed
troops.
In the Crusades themselves it is interesting to compare the tactics
employed by the Franks and the Turks. The Franks relied on their heavily
armed knights to force a breach in the enemy line. Timing was crucial. If
the attack was mistimed, the elusive Turkish cavalry would scatter and then
counter-attack the now vulnerable Franks who had lost their tight
formation. The Turkish cavalry were essentially mounted archers who had
great speed and agility. They were no match for the Crusaders in hand-to-
hand combat, but usually they could maintain their distance and often
wreak havoc on the ponderous and more easily exhausted knights.
When wars were not available, there was always surrogate military
activity. Medieval tournaments were like mimic wars, but it would be
misleading to suppose – as some chroniclers have suggested – that medieval
wars were little more than mimic tournaments. Admittedly, the scale of
warfare was comparatively small by both earlier (e.g. classical) and later
standards; most medieval armies rarely numbered more than 10,000 men, of
whom less than a fifth would be knights. Pitched battles between evenly
matched armies were relatively rare; Henry II, for instance, never fought a
battle in the whole of his life. Battles were risky affairs, and were not
normally undertaken without very careful deliberation. It has been argued
(Barber 1974) that although war was a kind of unreal game for the
professional warrior, it was also much rougher and bloodier than is often
believed. Strategies were limited, and tactical innovations were few, so the
general approach to battle followed a fairly predictable course. But it was
not all cut and rush by a mêlée of colourfully accoutred knights.
Considerable skill was displayed in the choice of terrain and the disposition
of the forces, as well as in the use of the weaponry itself.
The general strategy in much medieval warfare was’concerned with the
control of the countryside. The common directive was, ‘First destroy the
land.’ In practice, this meant manoeuvres designed to deprive the enemy of
their fortresses. Thus a great deal of time and effort was expended in
siegecraft, and a typical knight might well spend more of his active life in
sieges – either as an attacker or a defender – than in actual battles. Even so,
it was rather unusual for a well-fortified town to be taken by direct assault;
intrigue and betrayal were not uncommon solvents of resistance. Knights,
by both temperament and training, were rarely inclined to a defensive role,
and it was their relative lack of discipline which often had disastrous
consequences, especially in the Crusades. Their encounters with the infidel,
whom they were often disposed to treat as their military inferiors,
sometimes led to rash and reckless attacks which resulted in unacceptable
losses. A typical example was the Templar Gerard of Ridfort who
impulsively decided to engage a large Muslim force at Cresson in AD 1187
and ended up as only one of three survivors. Tactical prudence and a greater
willingness to listen to sage advice might have prevented a number of
catastrophes of this kind. Yet not even defeat was always enough to curb the
impetuosity of those who felt themselves to be fundamentally superior to
their enemies. They had the stomach for it, they had the knightly esprit, and
they alone had right on their side – ultimately, they believed they had to
win.
The conduct of war was conditioned by its context, and the exercise of
chivalry was graded in accordance with the social position of the
participants. The ground-rules were normally established at the outset of
any engagement, although circumstances might decree that these were
subsequently ignored. For example, pillaging and burning were technically
forbidden between Christian states, but in certain conditions this might be
waived, as can be seen where commanders were either unwilling or unable
to restrain their troops in the final stages of a battle.
Amidst all the anger and confusion, soldiers might be let loose – say at
the culmination of a siege – to ravage the town and take revenge upon the
enemy. Normally sieges were governed by quasi-legal provisions. If a siege
had been formally declared the besieged were in a position to make terms at
any point prior to the storming of the town. If they refused and were
defeated, their goods and possibly even their lives were forfeit. It was
entirely up to the discretion and disposition of the conqueror whether this
power would be exercised compassionately. Technically, churches and
clergy were immune, but even this discriminatory concession might well be
ignored in practice. This can be seen in the invasion of Cyprus by the
Crusader Reynold of Chatillon who became Prince of Antioch. Regardless
of the fact that the citizens were Christians who had helped the men of the
First Crusade, he decided to sack the island even though it was really part of
the Byzantine Empire. For three weeks his troops carried out a campaign of
pillage and murder; shops were looted, animals stolen, and property burned.
Women were raped and the old and the very young had their throats cut.
Nothing was sacrosanct, not even the churches. Chivalry took second place
to sheer lust and brutality.
Alternatively, devastation might occur where there was an unintended
escalation of hostilities. This happened on one occasion in the interminable
battles between the French and the English, where what began as an
expedition to intimidate the local population, ended as the battle of Poitiers.
Usually, the conditions of a medieval battle were understood from the
beginning. At the battle of Crécy, for instance, before the fighting began the
French signalled that no quarter was going to be given, and all prisoners
would be killed. In other engagements, where it was understood that quarter
and ransoms would be allowed, the combatants often fared reasonably well;
it was the non-combatants who suffered from the rapacity and devastation
of the contending armies. A contemporary account records:

The march begins. In front are the scouts and incendiaries . . . after
them the foragers to collect the spoils. Soon all is tumult. The peasants
hurry back from the fields with loud cries . . . shepherds drive their
flocks into the woods to save them. The incendiaries set the villages on
fire, and the foragers sack them. The terrified inhabitants are either
burned or led away ... for ransom. Fear sweeps the countryside.
Wherever you look you can see helmets glinting in the sun, pennons
waving in the breeze . . . horsemen are everywhere.
(From the ‘Chanson des Lorrains’, quoted in Gillingham 1978:118)
It was comparatively rare for a captive with some social standing to be slain
where lucrative deals for their return could be arranged. But the fate of the
common people was altogether a different matter and massacres could
occur as the result of uncontrolled aggression or simply as the outcome of a
calculating and cynical expediency. Things changed somewhat in the later
Middle Ages, notably during the Wars of the Roses, when it was the
nobility who had the most to fear, especially from their fellow nobles.
War to the death was usually reserved for the infidel. Christians, despite
the conviction that theirs was the true faith, were often very apprehensive
about Islam. At the Council of Clermont in 1095, Urban II spoke of ‘our
tiny portion of the world . . . pressed by warlike Turks and Saracens [who] .
. . hope to devour the rest’. This directly derived from the prevailing
attitudes to Islam and all that it represented. Yet, interestingly, this varied
considerably at different levels of society. In the literary and scientific
communities, there had been profitable contacts with Islam since the
eleventh century, and these became quite developed in the next two hundred
years. So we find that during the period of the Crusades when Muslims and
Christians were enthusiastically slaughtering one another for ideological
reasons, some members of their respective intelligentsia were sharing ideas
on all manner of erudite matters ranging from medicine to astronomy.
Similar contradictory attitudes can also be seen in the same period in the
relations between Christians and Jews: at one level there was co-operation -
especially in works of translation – but at another there were hysterical
outbursts of violence towards the Jewish communities in several European
cities.
There was undoubtedly an economic dimension to the Crusades. The
Asia of Islam was seen as a place of incalculable wealth and exotic delights
– besides being a haven of the unconverted. Lesser knights and
impecunious adventurers alike found the prospect of overseas riches both
alluring and exciting – even if it was all something of a gamble. Greed was
tempered by uncertainty. Later, after there had been some limited successes,
more campaigns became necessary to try to retain that which had already
been possessed.
It was, however, the religious factor that was probably most important.
Avarice was accompanied by a righteous indignation at the Muslim
desecration of the ‘Holy Places’. Christians wanted to curb what they saw
as Muslim abominations in Palestine, and liberate their shrines which they
felt had unique Christian significance. In the furtherance of this cause, they
were promised absolution and remission from sins. At the inauguration of
the First Crusade in AD 1095, Pope Urban enjoined the Christian states to
cease squabbling among themselves for temporary territorial advantages,
and to concentrate on seeking eternal glory in an expedition against the
infidel. So the rewards that were offered to those who took the cross were
considerable. On a profit and loss basis, they could hardly lose. At the most
mundane level, while they were on crusade, their property was taken under
the protection of the Church, and the repayment of any debts they owed was
postponed until their return. As a bonus, there might be rich pickings from
plunder and ‘appropriation’ in the Holy Land. For some – perhaps for many
-what was more critical was that they were granted a plenary indulgence
which freed them from the terrors of purgatory and hell, and held out the
promise of eternal life in heaven. According to Bernard of Clairvaux, a
great contemporary divine, they were being offered ‘an amazing bargain
that [they] could not afford to miss’.
The development of such ideas is interesting to trace. The traditions of
the primitive Christian Church appear to have been opposed to war of any
kind, but things changed after the adoption of Christianity as the state
religion by the Roman Emperor Constantine in the fourth century AD. By
the fifth century, perhaps under the pressure resulting from the barbarian
invasions, the notion of the ‘just war’ had evolved. Within another hundred
years, the idea that it might be legitimate to wage war for the forcible
conversion of the unbelievers was being discussed, and by the eighth
century this had become politically feasible. So by the time of the first
Islamic invasion of southern Europe, mass was being said before battle and
saints’ relics were being carried as a mark of piety and as a form of spiritual
insurance. The era of the soldier-saint had arrived.
The faith and the growing wealth of the Church had to be protected, so
there was an increasing involvement of the Church in secular affairs. State
interests became ecclesiastical interests, and some popes actually marched
to battle alongside the troops. The defence and promotion of the Christian
ideal became a sacred duty, and the warrior who espoused the cause
received the endorsement of the Church. This does not mean that the clergy
encouraged unqualified expansionism or normally resorted to warfare to
advance their interests, but it does mean that in numerous situations, most
notably those concerning infidels – Muslims and possibly Jews – necessary
violence might be sanctioned.
Given that the necessary rationale had been evolved, it is instructive to
look at the ways in which it influenced the origination and progress of the
Crusades themselves. The Muslims had held Jerusalem since AD 638, but it
was not until the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was destroyed by a
particularly fanatical caliph in AD 1009 that Christians became really
alarmed. A new climate of opinion developed; uncertainty bred suspicion,
and this eventually generated even more hostile attitudes among Christians.
The papacy had already sponsored expeditions against the Muslims in
Spain some thirty years before the First Crusade began, and had encouraged
other quasi-religious causes such as that of the Normans vis-à-vis the
English in AD 1066. It was therefore quite in keeping with ecclesiastical
policy to initiate and support a campaign against the Muslims of Outremer
(a term literally meaning Overseas which was popularly applied to
Palestine). The response was overwhelming, yet the expedition itself was
marked by unexpected disappointments and disasters, and one suspects that
it might have been abandoned long before it was had it not been for a
virtually unshakeable conviction that it was divinely inspired. But it was
also marked by a mindless cruelty which cannot easily be squared with the
much vaunted code of chivalry. For example, in one of the earlier sieges at
Antioch, the Crusaders were welcomed by the Greek and Armenian citizens
who hated their Muslim overlords, and who were only too willing to join in
the massacre which followed the fall of the city. It was a barbarous affair in
which no one was spared, and Turkish women and children were butchered
along with their men. By midday not a Turk was left alive, and the streets
reeked with the smell of rotting flesh. Another infidel stronghold had been
won for Christ.
If anything, the subsequent carnage at Jerusalem in AD 1099 was even
worse. The Crusaders had been camped in the desert for a month and for
some time had been suffering from hunger, thirst, and disease. Frustration,
anger, and questionable convictions combined to bring about yet more
wanton slaughter. Nothing was regarded as being too bad for ‘the pagan
cattle’, the ‘unbelieving black-faced brood’. They were seen as hated of
God, profaners of Holy Places, and incorrigibly degenerate. The Crusaders
killed every man, woman, and child whom they could find in the city. The
massacre went on unremittingly throughout the day and night and even
included some Jews who were herded into a synagogue and then burned
alive. It is testified that when the Crusader chaplain, Raymond de Aguilers,
visited the Temple next morning he was hardly able to move for the corpses
‘which reached up to his knees’. In fact, the only people who were known
to have escaped were the governor and his bodyguard who had paid the
chaplain a huge bribe and surrendered a considerable treasure. When it was
all over the triumphant Crusaders went to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre
to give thanks for their great victory over the ‘servants of anti-Christ’.
The First Crusade can hardly have been considered a success, and
eventually a Second Crusade became necessary. Thanks largely to a fervent
sense of mission generated by the eloquence of Bernard of Clairvaux,
various armies set off for the Holy Land from AD 1146 onwards. As usual
there were fratricidal tensions among the Crusaders themselves, particularly
between different national groups. In making their way to Palestine, they
were plagued by logistical problems and difficulties over supplies. They
had either to buy what they needed or to rely on the generosity of those
through whose territory they had to pass. But not infrequently they just
decided to live off the land, and this simply meant taking what they wanted
when they wanted it. Consequently there was the kind of pillaging and
atrocities among the indigenous peoples – who were often Christians – that
was normally reserved for the infidel. This happened, for instance, when the
Germans got out of hand in Byzantine territory; their killing and looting
even included the burning of a monastery and the murder of all the monks.
Further anomalies can be seen in the treatment of one class by another.
After defeat by the Turks in AD 1148, there were not enough ships to
evacuate the whole army, so the French embarked the king and his retainers
and the best part of the cavalry (knights) whilst the infantry had to make
their own way as best they could. Deserted by their leaders, many died from
disease, and many more were picked off by marauding Turks. A final
campaign to take Damascus ended in failure, and the Second Crusade
petered out amidst bitter rows and recriminations.
The Third – and perhaps best known – of the Crusades was probably
also the best organized and best led of all the ventures to the Holy Land.
Although its nominal leader, Frederick Barbarossa, died accidentally en
route, it was ably but divisively generalled by Philip Augustus of France
and Richard I (Coeur de Lion) of England. Their opponent was the fabled
Saracen leader, Saladin, who had recently annihilated a Christian army at
Hattin. Other Crusader-controlled cities had soon surrendered including
Jerusalem in AD 1187. Both fortunately and unfortunately for the
Europeans, Saladin had a reputation for never breaking his word to either
friend or foe, which was unusual even by Muslim standards, and earned
him enormous respect, especially among his enemies. When he made
promises, they were kept, so when he promised the lives of those captured
after his siege of Jerusalem, it was honoured by his troops. But, by the same
token, he had all the Hospitallers and Templars who were captured at Hattin
killed without giving them a chance to be ransomed, and it is said that he
watched the slaughter with a joyful face because it was an act of
purification.
Keeping one’s word has its problems, at least it did for Coeur de Lion.
As the epithet suggests, Richard was a man of considerable prowess and
personal charisma; unlike Saladin, he was physically impressive – the
personification of the warrior-knight. Nor were his virtues all of the
machismo variety; his chroniclers speak of his great sensitivity to the arts,
especially music and poetry. But he also had his dark side. Even before the
Crusade, he had shown how his enemies in France ought to be treated:
blinding and drowning were quite fit punishments for rebels. And this was
only an indication of what was to come. After the siege of Acre, Richard
vowed that he would kill all the prisoners if they were not ransomed in the
prescribed time. When Saladin was apparently unable to raise sufficient
money on time, Richard had 3,000 captives led out and massacred, and only
spared their commanders -possibly for ulterior reasons. One eyewitness
says that the soldiers delighted in the butchery as revenge for their
comrades who had died in the siege, and perhaps also for those who had
been coldly exterminated by the Muslims at Hattin.
So after all the reciprocal slaughter, nothing was really achieved. The
failure of the Third Crusade was particularly significant because even
though the great national leaders of Christendom had made common cause
and had commanded a greater army than ever before, they were still no
nearer success. The Fourth Crusade which followed was even more of a
disaster because the overall objective became lost among the welter of
subsidiary aims. There was an inevitable clash between the various
interested parties which involved the commercial gain of the Venetians and
Italians, the imperial ambitions of the Franks, and the hopes for
ecclesiastical reunification between east and west which were vainly
entertained by the Vatican. Ultimately nothing was gained except the papal
excommunication of the entire Crusade.
Despite the almost predictable failure of further Crusades, the ideal was
still retained. It could be argued that they were really only a manifestation
of papal ambition in the Near East and an attempt to extend ecclesiastical
power in another secular domain. Yet this tends to overlook the response of
knightly chivalry and the resonance which these ventures had among the
common people. Eventually there were murmurings about their
purposefulness, but the prospect of the liberation of the Holy Land and its
sacred places retained a considerable popular appeal. They also had the
diversionary function of forcing men’s minds away from their parochial
squabbles by giving them a greater cause and a nobler objective. But their
main problem was the disparity between principle and execution. The ideal
of the Crusades was reasonably unambiguous, but its actual implementation
was riddled with anomalies.
This discussion has tended to stress the shortcomings of the Crusaders,
their national differences, their mixed motives, and, above all, their
brutality. But very similar accusations could be made against the Muslims;
in the calculated cruelty stakes there would be very little to choose between
them. Furthermore, we can see the internal dissension which vitiated their
whole approach to war. This was particularly marked among the Europeans,
and we are often treated to the spectacle of Christian slaughtering Christian
ostensibly in the pursuit of a common religious goal. Finally, in the
thirteenth century, we have the irony of finding Muslim Saracens ousted by
Muslim Turks, who, as Mamelukes, had taken control of Egypt, and
Christians in league with Mongols in an effort to neutralize Muslim power.
These wars culminated in the destruction of the Abbasid Caliphate in
Baghdad with the general massacre of its inhabitants, and the invasion of
Syria which became a vassal state of the Mongol empire.
So the outcome of the Crusades was a far cry from the glorious ideals
which had originally inspired them. Similarly with the noble institution of
knightly chivalry. It became increasingly elaborated and was ritualistically
organized with codified – even mystical – rules and regulations. Gradually
it degenerated into little more than a social code – a means of distinguishing
the fighting aristocracy from their peasant inferiors. At first, this code
mitigated some of the extremes of feudal society, but eventually the
knightly class became a victim of its own ideology.
 Knighthood was a relatively closed system with limited fraternal
possibilities for those outside its orders. It thrived within its exclusive
metier. In its own way it reflected the dichotomous attitudes of medieval
society with its simplistic division between believers and unbelievers which
culminated in the theory and practice of the holy war which might be justly
waged against the infidel. In the eyes of the Church, the lives of unbelievers
were of little account. They were doomed to hell anyway, and there might
even be some virtue in accelerating the process. ‘The Christian glories in
the death of a pagan’, said Bernard of Clairvaux, ‘because thereby Christ
himself is glorified’ (quoted in Gillingham 1978: 183).
For some knights religion obviously acted as a convenient ideology to
justify their material ambitions. Others were suffused with a genuine
religious zeal. Yet the literature makes clear that it would be a mistake to
settle for such a simple distinction. Men can rarely be categorized in this
way – and this is certainly true of the knights. The majority were clearly
rapacious and religious, superstitious and commonsensical. They were
avaricious, they did want to line their own pockets, and seek out lands and
titles for themselves. On the other hand, they could still be exultant when
they believed that they had discovered the lance that had pierced Christ’s
side, and still clasp bloodstained hands in prayer in the Church of the Holy
Sepulchre after the butchery of Muslim prisoners.
The Crusades were not really undertaken because of either resource or
position scarcity. Nor were they directly waged in the promotion of an
ideology, or in the attempted destruction of a rival ideology. No efforts were
made to convert the Muslim; it was not a question of the Islamic ‘submit or
die’. The Crusades and the Crusader ideal were directed towards the
elimination of strategically placed adherents of a faith that threatened to
engulf the known world and whose territorial acquisitions happened to
include the most sacred shrines in Christendom. In the furtherance of these
aims there was a happy coincidence of motives. Greed and glory make a
potent combination – and there was always eternal bliss as an added
incentive. There is nothing better than serving God and Mammon at the
same time.
 7
THE MONGOLS
The enemy as effete degenerates

With the possible exception of the heavily armoured mounted knights, the
feudal armies of medieval Europe were no real improvement on the armies
of classical times, whereas all kinds of revolutionary innovations were
being developed in certain contemporary Far Eastern societies. In China,
for example, forms of gunpowder were being made as early as the ninth
century AD by rather esoteric Taoist alchemists, and within a hundred years
primitive flame-throwers were being used. By about AD 1000, simple
bombs and grenades had been developed, and so had incendiary arrows
which were launched from wheelbarrows. In effect they were a rudimentary
form of mobile rocket from which the prototype of the barrelled gun
evolved in the twelfth century. There was no heavily armoured cavalry in
China, the strength was in the infantry, and these weapons merely
supplemented the conventional arsenals, and their proving grounds were the
interminable wars against the Mongols.
By the thirteenth century, the Mongols may have had the best army in
the world; its organization and training, its tactical principles and structure
of command were quite different from those of their opponents. Indeed,
they probably had more in common with the barbarian hordes that had
ravaged Europe in the fourth and fifth centuries than with the effete
civilizations which they regarded as ripe for conquest. In fact, there is a
sense in which it is possible to view history, down to the fifteenth century,
as a long-drawn-out struggle between nomads and city-dwellers; between
the hardy tribesmen and the cultured but indulgent urbanites.
 The societies of wandering herdsmen do not normally produce written
histories; only a few folk-memories remain, embedded in the traditions of
their victims – the developed peoples that they have conquered. Even from
these it is hard to assess the amount of human suffering caused by the great
waves of barbarian invasions, although it has since become fashionable in
some quarters to entertain a more generous appreciation of these peoples,
looking upon them as vigorous invaders almost deservedly taking over the
remains of a decaying civilization. This kind of reassessment may apply to
the early Aryans and the later Arabs, and even the Teutonic invaders of the
declining Roman Empire, but it is hardly true of the Mongolian tribes who
poured out of the wastes of central Asia to devastate the continent and
beyond.
The original home of the Mongols was in the region of Lake Baikal, and
in their early days there was little to mark them out from other Asiatic
nomads of the eastern steppes. They formed an essentially feudal society;
each tribe was led by a khan with a group of lesser ‘nobility’ who, in effect,
constituted a kind of ruling aristocracy. The tribes were divided into clans,
each of which established its own independent ordu (English=horde) or
camp in which each family occupied its own yurt (tent). Even for the better
placed families, life was hard -especially in winter – when the most
important consideration was their survival, and this meant the preservation
of the herds. It was nothing for tribesmen to spend several days, sometimes
without food, searching for pasture and game, and men developed hunting
skills in this constant competition for existence. Prior to the emergence of
the Mongols as a united force, the commonest way to increase the size of
herds was to steal animals from others, so the hunters also developed their
warrior potential in frequent inter-clan raids. And these were not confined to
the acquisition of cattle and horses, but extended to the capture of able-
bodied men as slaves and presentable women as wives, as the rules of this
polygamous tribal society forbade endogamy, that is, marriage between clan
members. Loyalty and endurance were encouraged, and any show of
weakness was not tolerated among clan members, and certainly not in their
enemies to whom the Mongols could be ruthless in the extreme.
These loose and fluctuating alliances among the tribes changed with the
advent of Chingis (Genghis), a clan leader, who united the tribes in AD
1203 and assumed the title of Khan three years later. By an impressive
combination of force and persuasion, he brought about a high degree of co-
operation between the tribes. Loyalties were widened by interspersing clan
members among different units of the army, and other previously alien
tribes were incorporated into the structures of this new military society. In
this way, bonds were strengthened, and fidelity to the central authority was
reinforced. Chingis enforced a code whereby it became illegal to hold other
Mongols as slaves, and theft and kidnapping both became punishable by
death, as were also spying, bearing false witness, black magic, adultery, and
sodomy. Tribal cohesion was a necessary part of the military ethic. As he
put it, ‘The greatest joy a man can have is victory ... to conquer one’s
enemies . . . to reduce their families to tears . . . and make love to their
wives and daughters’ (quoted in Fryer 1975: 130).
All men over the age of 20 except physicians, priests, and those who
cared for the bodies of the dead, were liable to call-up for military service.
When messengers brought the orders to mobilize, trained men would collect
their weapons from the armoury of their ordu, select their horses, and set
out to join their units. The army was divided into multiples of ten: no one of
these might leave the others, and no one was allowed to abandon a disabled
comrade. Above these there were squadrons of a hundred, regiments of a
thousand, and divisions of ten thousand which had leaders appointed by the
Khan himself. These, and the senior army commanders, the ‘eleven orloks’,
carried authorized insignia of office which were instantly recognizable by
the largely illiterate troops. There were well-organized groups of support
personnel such as Chinese and Persian physicians, supply and
communications sections, besides the auxiliary units of engineers and
artillery. But the main arm was the cavalry which may have numbered – at
its height -a quarter of a million men. Mobility, not gunpowder, was the
secret of Mongol success; they relied on the extraordinary speed and
paralysing savagery of their horsemen to achieve the victories which
instilled such terror among the neighbouring peoples.
The cavalry was divided into heavily armed and lightly armed units. All
were well equipped with fur-lined clothes and boots against the winter, with
differences in trim and decoration according to rank. A heavily armed
trooper wore a helmet and coat of mail with a cuirass made of ox-hide and
iron scales, whereas a lightly armed trooper might only be protected by
lacquered leather strips or just a quilted coat. All wore loose undershirts of
raw silk which, in conditions of limited hygiene (bathing was forbidden by
Mongol rules), virtually rotted on their backs. But the shirt was very
important as it was often capable of ‘trapping’ a penetrating arrow in such a
way that it could be effectively removed without making the wound much
larger. Each man carried a leather covered wicker shield and a lasso, and a
dagger was strapped to his forearm. The lightly armed troops also carried a
small sword, and the heavily armed troops a scimitar, axe, or mace together
with a 12-foot lance. All men carried two bows which were unquestionably
their most important weapons. One was for short range, and the other – a
composite bow with a pull of some 120 pounds – was a formidable weapon
by any standards. It was made of horn and wood, and had a more
impressive performance than the famed English longbow, having a range of
about 350 yards. In addition, each horseman carried quivers containing
sixty arrows of various kinds: armour-piercing arrows, incendiary arrows,
and even whistling arrows for communication purposes. Needless to say,
training with such equipment began at an early age, and mature warriors
were able to use these weapons with terrifying skill.
In effect, every man was an independent ordnance unit, carrying
everything he needed for both welfare and warfare from his cooking-pot to
an inflatable waterproof saddle-bag which could double as a crude life-
jacket when crossing rivers. Even his indispensable horse was thickset and
strong, and was purposely bred for its courage and stamina. Herd instincts
were deliberately fostered by training so that both mares and stallions
would follow each other to battle. Different army units liked to have
distinctive colour combinations in their horses, but white was reserved for
the nobility. Each man probably had at least three horses, and although
these appear to have been relatively well treated, it could be argued that the
warriors literally lived off their mounts. The mares – which were prized for
their versatility – supplied milk, and both mares and stallions were bled for
sustenance, and eaten when necessary. Horses, therefore, provided
everything that a warrior needed to survive, but a horse that was ridden in
battle was not normally used for food, and when a warrior was slain his
favourite horse was usually killed too so that their spirits would ‘ride
together’.
By law, a man was trained from boyhood to become a warrior. He was
instructed in archery and horsemanship, and took part in the ‘great hunt’
which in practice involved the whole army and took several weeks to
complete. In both training and warfare competitiveness among the warriors
was encouraged. No man was regarded as fit to command unless he had
first served in the ranks, and appointments and promotions were made
strictly on the basis of merit.
One of the most outstanding features of the Mongol army was its unity
of command. Enemies wondered at the almost inexplicable coordination
which was achieved over wide expanses of terrain. It was actually
accomplished by a complex signalling system using coloured pennants
during the day and burning torches at night. This was combined with an
extensive courier service with regular, well-maintained staging posts.
Couriers had their bodies bandaged for support against the rigours of the
ride. They might cover as much as 120 miles in a day over rough terrain,
sometimes actually sleeping in the saddle. On occasions they were prepared
literally to ride their horses to death to ensure that vital messages were
delivered.
When it took to the field, the most common tactic of the Mongol army
was to engage the enemy with its lightly armoured troops before bringing
up the heavy cavalry. This might be done in one of two main ways, either
by engaging the flanks at a distance with flights of arrows, or by trying to
break the enemy’s main line by ‘suicide’ tactics of frontal assault and
retreat. This left the enemy in some disarray and therefore open to an attack
from the heavily armed cavalry which more often than not proved decisive.
Expansionism means that armies have to master siege operations, and
the Mongols became increasingly sophisticated in the use of artillery. They
employed various forms of catapult and ballistae to hurl rocks and
incendiary bombs. There is no evidence that they actually used cannon, but
towards the end of the thirteenth century they were using gunpowder balls
and primitive bamboo rockets which though apparently inaccurate and
unreliable were quite frightening and sometimes actually destructive.
Chingis Khan first launched his army against the Chinese saying, ‘Let’s
kill all the men who are taller than the axles of our wagons.’ The Chinese
relied principally on their foot soldiers and on their excellent fortifications.
Many of the cities were walled against attack (later -towards the end of the
fourteenth century – these were monumental and dwarfed their European
counterparts with walls as much as 70 feet high and 50 feet thick at
Nanking and Sian), but even these and the Great Wall itself did not deter the
invaders. For a time, the Mongols had a working agreement with the
southern Chinese, but still took some eight years to defeat the Kin dynasty
in the north after seasonal depredations of the countryside. A vast tribute
was paid and, as part of the humiliation terms of capitulation, Chingis had
demanded 500 boy slaves and 500 girl slaves in addition to a herd of horses
and large quantities of silk and gold. The emperor hoped to buy off the
Mongols but simply succeeded in fomenting a rebellion among his own
supporters, whereupon he had to flee to the south. The success of the
Mongols was complete, and in 1216 Chingis married into the royal family.
The southern Chinese took much longer to subdue. The reasons are
largely geographical: the Mongols were used to operating in the steppes, in
northern fastnesses, not in rice fields for which their horses were not really
suited. Also the population density was far higher, and the people fought
with considerable courage – some cities withstanding sieges for several
years. But in the end they too succumbed to Mongol tenacity.
Their army operated like a modern panzer force. They appear to have
moved twice as fast as their enemies, and were often victorious when the
odds were at least two to one against success. The Mongols sometimes
spread rumours among their enemies that their numbers were far greater
then they really were. This often gave them a real advantage. Yet in most of
their campaigns they were actually outnumbered by their opponents. In
their initial onslaught on the Chinese they had an army little more than
100,000 strong, about a quarter that of their enemies. Even at the height of
his power, Chingis probably deployed a force not much larger than this. The
core of the army was the Imperial Guard of 10,000 men which was formed
after a sifting of the entire Mongol horde. To be a mere private in this elite
unit was the equivalent of being a commander in any other Mongol
regiment. They expected no mercy from their enemies, and they certainly
showed none to their enemies. The inhabitants of some Chinese cities, for
example, were massacred to the last infant. All captives west of the Great
Wall, except artisans and scholars, were put to the sword. Sometimes even
the cattle and other animals were slain in a seemingly purposeless orgy of
killing. The army probably won less by fighting than from the horror it
inspired in its enemies.
Their success was undoubtedly based on superior skill and tightness of
organization. But it also had a strong psychological dimension. The
Mongols aroused abject fear in most of their enemies – and not without
reason.
The Mongols knew little of culture or the arts. Arguably they would have
been content to see much of China as grazing ground for their herds, but
they were astute enough to realize that the efficient organization of the
ancient kingdom meant a continuation of the tribute which they demanded.
They therefore encouraged a modified administration and allowed life to go
on much the same as before providing there was no hint of rebellion.
Although they had turned many a city into a wilderness, they somewhat
incongruously fostered religious toleration – perhaps because it was
regarded as ‘harmless’. Indeed there was a real measure of freedom so long
as subjects obeyed the laws of their masters, but a complex and demanding
system of exacting taxes increased their sense of subjugation. The Mongol
generals had advocated exterminating most of the northern Chinese, and
turning their lands over to grazing, and it was with some difficulty that their
chief minister persuaded them that it would be more profitable to impose
taxes than to slaughter the inhabitants (Dawson 1972).
Chingis had a restless conquering spirit. He reputedly claimed to have a
divine mission to subdue all peoples. So he turned west, to the rich pickings
to be had in the developed Islamic empire of Khwarizmian which stretched
from the Persian Gulf to the Himalayas. The Mongols were not deterred by
the army of nearly half a million men supported by cohorts of trained
elephants. They were more concerned about another empire with full
treasuries that was ready for devastation. The fabled magnificence of the
shah and his court was a byword in the east, and the supposed
impregnability of his domains bred an overconfidence that was to prove
disastrous. As usual, the Mongol intelligence was excellent, and an
expedition was mounted using widely separated columns whose marches
eclipsed those of Hannibal and Alexander the Great. By a cunning series of
diversionary moves, Chingis disguised his true intentions, and when the
main thrusts came from three different directions, the shah’s territory was
severed, and he was forced to flee to his western territories still pursued by
the Mongol army, and ultimately died of exhaustion. Eventually countless
cities were captured and mercilessly looted including Bokhara, Tashkent,
and Samarkand. In the mosques, Chingis had himself proclaimed the
Scourge of God. Everyone had good reason to fear him: only technical
experts who could be of use to the Mongols were spared; the remainder of
the population was slaughtered. It is said that at Herat there were over a
million corpses; huge pyramids of skulls were left to warn any surviving
enemies that resistance was useless.
 Chingis Khan must go down as one of the great warriors of history. His
territories were so great in breadth that – as he put it – it took a year to
reach their centre from either end. With the help of competent officials he
administered his vast but unwieldy empire with considerable skill. Trade
continued, the arts and medicine were still encouraged, and the Yassa, the
Mongol code, protected certain freedoms – particularly freedom from
religious bigotry. But there was a price – an awful price – to pay for
Mongol domination, and to achieve it perhaps as many as 18 millions were
massacred in China alone.
Though occupation policies differed with places and people, they
accentuated cultural differences in China by introducing a form of caste
system. Mongols naturally comprised the highest caste, other non-Chinese
(Persians, Turks, etc.) the second caste, and the Chinese the third and fourth
castes who were subject to curfew and generally had an inferior legal status.
They could not bear arms and merited little compensation in the case of
murder. According to Marco Polo, the whole population of Chinkiang was
massacred in reprisal for the Chinese killing of just one small group of
drunken Mongol soldiers.
There was no real pause after Chingis’s death in 1227. The Mongol
hordes rolled on. He left three ‘recognized’ sons, the second of which,
Ogdai, succeeded his father and was accepted by the Mongol tribes. The
policy of expansion continued, and everywhere it was the same story. There
were campaigns against the not entirely suppressed Chinese. Revolts were
put down in Georgia and Armenia, and Mesopotamia was so ravaged that it
was little more than a desert for six centuries. The Mongols now held vast
territories in the east: Korea, Burma, and parts of Iran and Afghanistan. In
the west, Ogdai and his nephew and future king-maker, Batu, ravaged
Russia from Moscow to Kiev, perpetrating the most fearful atrocities
everywhere. From Russia in 1241 they turned to Hungary and Silesia with
similar results, and it seemed as though nothing could prevent Europe from
being overrun. But at this point there was a reprieve. Europe was spared a
predictable fate because Ogdai drank himself to death. This precipitated a
crisis in the succession which postponed the intended invasion indefinitely.
Europe seemed largely deaf to the appeals of those who were
immediately threatened, and indifferent to the pleadings of its more far-
sighted nobility who sensed the true extent of the danger. The pope might
have been capable of mobilizing a crusade had it not been for other political
preoccupations. He piously pinned his hopes on the possible conversion of
the Mongols and sent friars to the Great Khan, Batu, in 1245. Needless to
say, this mission failed, although it did provide the west with more
information about Mongol culture and possible Mongol intentions.
After a period of consolidation under more of Chingis’s successors,
expansionist activities were recommenced, and in 1258 the city of Baghdad
fell; here the ferocity of the Mongols was such that not only was the last of
the Abbasid caliphs tortured to death, but perhaps as many as three quarters
of a million of his subjects suffered as well. Muslim power now seemed to
be irretrievably ruined. Yet within a few years the Mongols had their first
serious reverse. The army that was sent against Egypt in 1260 was defeated
by the Mamalukes, and this led to a resuscitation of Islam and to the
liberation of Syria soon afterwards.
With the advent of Khublai Khan, a grandson of Chingis, a more
constructive period of Mongol rule began. Khublai himself became a
Buddhist, and education and the arts were encouraged. A much admired
system of courier communications was established, roads and canals were
built and restored including the Grand Canal which stretched for a thousand
miles, and a new capital was built at Peking. But the taxes were still
demanding and the labour levies were increasingly resented. There were
numerous uprisings, and within fifty years of Khublai’s death the empire
had begun to break up. The successful overthrow of the conquerors in
China and the establishment of the Ming dynasty heralded the end of this
phase of Mongol power.
In their time, the Mongol’s success had been phenomenal. They had
carved out one of the greatest empires known to history. Generally
speaking, they preferred the riches of Persia, India, and China to the
comparative poverty of the west in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.
Consequently, neither Chingis nor his successors – including the later
Tartars under Timur – made any permanent impression on the west. But by
giving a semblance of unity to Asia, they did facilitate a degree of contact
between the east and the west. Asia had been less politically fragmented
than the west, and this meant that the invaders had only to strike a critical
blow at its huge settled empires to reveal their military impotence. With the
initial shock of invasion they were paralysed and really had no answer to
the terrifying efficiency of the Mongol armies. Chingis had once said that
‘to crush your enemies and see them fall at your feet, that is best’, except
that in this case the ‘enemy’ was rarely a threat to anything but Mongol
expansion and greed.
But the Mongol empire could only be ephemeral. There was no unifying
ideology to bind its disparate elements. True, it had its code, but this had
nothing like the force or universal acceptability of, say, Islam. It was an
empire that was hastily won – carved out by the sword among weak peoples
of a superior cultural level. It was ultimately based upon naked force and
had no real foundation except fear. Mongol rapacity took, but put little in its
place. Unlike the rulers of other great empires, the Mongols contributed
little to the civilizations they conquered. For a time they were adequately
administered, but the devastation was such that real recovery was slow and
painful. Wherever the Mongols rode they left ruined economies and
political wastelands. Although they once dominated from the Danube to the
China Sea, they left no permanent legacy. When their power waned they
eventually returned to the obscurity of the steppes, and there is now only
the remote memory of a very efficient killing machine which once cast its
lethal shadow across half the known world.
 8
THE AZTECS
The enemy as ritual fodder

There has never been a system of institutionalized human sacrifice which

compares with that of pre-conquest Meso-America. It is not known just
how it arose or by whom it was first introduced or established. It was
certainly known by the Maya in southern Mexico, Honduras, and
Guatemala, probably before their classic period from about AD 300 to
about 900. But among the Maya, it seems to have been used sparingly,
mainly in times of great emergency or national disaster. Human sacrifice
may well have been characteristic of the early Olmec civilization which
flourished in the area of Veracruz in the first century BC, but it did not
become really extensive until much later, around AD 1000, with the
emergence in northern Mexico of the Toltecs and their successors, the
Aztecs.
The Spanish – admittedly a biased source – estimated that the Aztecs
sacrificed about 20,000 people a year. But it was not just the scale on which
it was practised that was so horrendous, it was also the mode of sacrifice
and the ostensible reasons given for it which both horrified and intrigued
the Conquistadores. The complex rituals, which were well documented by
Catholic priests soon after the conquest, showed that sacrifice took a
number of forms, including strangling, decapitation, and execution with
arrows. But it was the strange yet widely used practice of extracting the
heart of a living victim and offering it to the gods which was such an
unusual feature of Meso-American society.
 The rationale for human sacrifice was linked with Aztec history and
cosmology. Their traditions indicate that, after a long series of tribal
wanderings which were punctuated by uneasy alliances and sporadic
warfare (somewhat reminiscent of the early Israelites), they finally settled
in the valley of Mexico under the guidance of their tribal god,
Huitzilopochtli. Their capital of Tenochtitlan (Mexico City) was established
c. AD 1325 amidst swamps and shallow lakes which were partly drained
and ‘sculpted’ with considerable ingenuity. This inhospitable territory was
skilfully farmed and eventually supported about 40 per cent of an estimated
valley population of a million people. Efficient provisioning was possible
by the reclamation of the swamps, by terraced irrigation, and by the
ingenious creation of artificial island-like gardens (chinampas) in which
were grown the staple crops of maize and vegetables. Every acre had to
count. It was only through a system of intensive cultivation that labour
could be released for specialist -often cultural – occupations, or diverted to
public works such as roads, and temples with their paved, open plazas.
The modern Mexico City has been largely built over the old city of
Tenochtitlan which covered about 5 to 6 square miles. Excavation is
therefore difficult, and has to be carried out when and where circumstances
allow. However, what can be ascertained is that the Aztec capital was
divided into four quarters which intersected at a great walled plaza, about
500 yards square, which was dominated by the stepped pyramid temple
some 150 feet high. This was surmounted by blood-caked shrines dedicated
to Huitzilopochtli and the rain-god, Tlaloc. The plaza, which included other
temples and administrative buildings -perhaps some eighty in all – was the
centre of the main religious rituals and festivals. Outside this enclosure
were the markets and the common dwelling areas. According to
eyewitnesses, the entire central layout gave the impression of light, colour,
and space, a tribute to rational planning. It evidenced an immense
architectural effort all expressing religious themes. The Conquistadores
found the total effect overwhelming: ‘we saw pyramids . . . that looked like
gleaming white towers . . . a marvellous sight’. But on further investigation,
they were repelled by the shrines. When they examined the figure of
Huitzilopochtli at the summit of the pyramid Templo Mayor, they found a
grotesque idol decorated with gold, precious stones, and seed pearls, but
even the pervasive aroma of copal incense could not disguise the
overpowering stench of the dried blood which had been splashed all over
the walls.
The precinct also housed the ball court, the military arsenals, musicians’
schools, and guest accommodation, but did not contain the ruler’s palace
and administrative offices; these occupied some 6 acres that had been
carefully differentiated from the ritual area. In effect, Tenochtitlan presented
a Venice-like appearance. There were at least six main canals through the
city besides a maze of major and minor waterways. An impressive system
of dykes and causeways connected the city with the shores of the lake
beyond which there was a rural area dotted with farming communities.
Considerable activity and a seemingly limitless supply of unskilled labour
had combined to construct a capital that was known throughout pre-
conquest Meso-America.
The government of the Aztec state was hierarchically organized. Control
lay with the ruler who was selected from a leading family by a highly
placed elite of nobles and priests. In practice, there were strong dynastic
elements in all this: a successor was usually related to a deceased ruler –
perhaps a son or brother – but he had to be vetted and approved for his
personal and political qualities. His coronation was a momentous and
solemn affair, involving ritual bloodletting, fasting, and prayer over a period
of four days. As supreme ruler he controlled a number of separate –
sometimes semi-independent – rulers (tlatoani) in a confederation of allied
and vassal states that really constituted an Aztec empire. He had the power
to appropriate labour, land, and resources, and allocate them at will. He was
the ultimate arbiter in matters of law as all appeals went to him for final
judgement. Preeminently, he was responsible for defence and the waging of
war to subdue enemies and to take prisoners for sacrifice.
The ruler governed with the aid of four advisers who were all members
of his own family. These operated through a council of 12–20 further nobles
and a military committee. Except for his immediate entourage, the ruler
lived in something like splendid isolation, in a palace set among gardens
and aviaries, taking his sumptuous meals virtually alone, attended by
members of his harem and entertained by jesters, hunchbacks, and singers.
He alone was permitted to wear cotton in the palace; others might attempt
to but only on pain of death. Even nobles were not allowed to look him in
the face; they had to approach him barefoot with abject obeisance, attired
only in common dress, of wool or maguey fibres. Indeed, it was they who
carried Montezuma in his litter to his first meeting with the Spaniards, and
who threw their cloaks in front of him lest his feet touched the ground.
In practice, the government consisted of two interlocking bureaucracies:
the secular bureaucracy of officials, judges, and tax-collectors which
comprised the general administrative machinery, and the religious
bureaucracy of priests and their assistants who exercised extraordinary
influence within the system. The power of the government was both
pervasive and decisive. Punishments for crimes and even what we might
regard as moral infringements were swift and severe. Not only was
homicide punishable by death – usually either by hanging or stoning – but
so were theft, military disobedience, and adultery. In their policies towards
vassal states, the Aztecs operated a repressive system designed to ensure an
ongoing flow of tribute into the state coffers. These contributions of quilted
garments, cloaks, feathers (much used in all forms of decoration), gold, and
cacao (cocoa), were a continual burden to these subject states. Perhaps most
resented was the tribute of workers for state projects, and particularly slaves
to satisfy what has been described as ‘the insatiable maw of the gods’
(Fagan 1984).
Besides tribute, the Aztec economy was sustained by a highly organized
network of commerce, both within the empire, and outside with the
neighbouring states with which the Aztecs often had rather strained
relations. The currency of trade was normally pieces of copper and cacao
beans; bronze and iron were unknown, and gold and silver were only used
for decorative objects. Craftsmen who worked with precious metals and
stones – and particularly with feathers – were highly esteemed, and there
were guilds to perpetuate and guard this kind of expertise. Merchants, too,
were an important ‘class’ within Aztec society; they were even allowed to
hold their own ceremonial feasts and sacrifices. Their entrepreneurial role
left them free to conduct elaborate trading arrangements, and they
sometimes acted as diplomatic and even espionage agents on behalf of the
state. In reporting back what they had witnessed abroad they became an
invaluable source of information for the military strategists. They were
often the best people to discern the rumblings of revolution in the Aztec
dependencies, or to bring back intelligence which indicated that yet another
foreign state was ripe for invasion.
The social structure of Aztec society followed a fairly conventional
pattern. Stratification was based on birth and occupation, and, although
there was some mobility through personal achievement, the astrological
birth omens of any particular individual were held to determine his future
life chances. The main distinction – as in most traditional societies – was
between nobles and commoners. It has been argued that one of the main
weaknesses of Aztec society was that it was top-heavy with priests and
nobility who were creaming off the best of the available resources. This
may well be the case, and it probably generated resentment among the
poorer classes who had little chance of redress for any actual or supposed
injustices. On the other hand, the nobility were subject to special
applications of the law. The ruler could make his own disciplinary
arrangements just for them, and there were even occasions when he had
members of his own family executed for quite minor infringements. It is
probably always true that those who have most to fear from arbitrary
despotism are those who are closest to despotic power.
At the other end of the social scale were the commoners and the slaves.
The commoners consisted of free peasants who were very poor, and who
sometimes paid tax/tribute in goods, but more usually in the form of manual
labour or military service. There were also landless serfs who were – for
various reasons – deprived of descent group (calpulli) membership, and
worked on estates for local lords. They were also liable for military duties,
but were exempted from paying tribute. At the bottom of the social ladder
were those who had become slaves, possibly through debt or the inability to
pay tribute, or perhaps because their parents had sold them into slavery.
They were allowed to own land and to marry, in which case their children
would be born free. They might even earn manumission, but one suspects
that their chances were rather slim as they were normally engaged in
extremely menial work, sometimes actually doubling as pack animals.
There were lucrative slave markets in Mexico which were always prepared
to negotiate terms with the estate managers and, of course, with those who
felt that they had no alternative but to sell either themselves or their families
into slavery. A very special type of slave was the war captive who was often
destined for sacrifice because his life was already forfeit to the gods.
The literature on Aztec society gives the impression of a hard-working
people characterized by conformity and moderation. This was enhanced by
their structural arrangements in which kinship was a critical factor. Most
people belonged to a descent group which might number several hundred
members, and which would generally have its own temples and their
attendant schools. This was the basis of territorial organization and of
military recruitment, and had its own elected headman who reported
regularly to the tribute officers for orders about labour and services to the
state. Kinship recognized primary patrilineal obligations, although due
emphasis was given to matrilineal concerns. But there were ambiguities.
Polygyny was practised, but normally only among the nobility; perhaps the
distinction served to reinforce a sense of social distance between the
respective social orders. There were moral strictures against prostitution,
and a strong emphasis on female virginity and the sanctity of marriage.
Women could own property and enter business contracts, but their main
task was seen as the care of the home. Generally speaking, they
commanded considerable respect in Aztec society and those who died in
childbirth were accorded a reverence second only to that given to warriors
slain in battle. Yet among the nobility they might be expected to follow their
deceased husband as a voluntary act of renunciation.
Socialization processes were carefully ordered and monitored among the
Aztecs. Children were reared into what was regarded as a strange and
uncertain world; life was hard and discipline was unremitting. There was
considerable regard for age and seniority. Children were taught to respect
and obey their parents and elders. By extension, this meant the authorities
and the gods as well; all was calculated to produce and maintain a
conforming and co-operative society.
Boys customarily worked from the age of 5 in the fields and on public
works, but also had an elementary schooling. Girls, on the other hand,
received little formal education outside the home, so in domestic terms they
were ready for marriage in their early teens. Both boys and girls between
the ages of 12 and 15 attended the ‘house of song’ which was attached to
the local temple. Here the curriculum consisted largely of music, singing,
and dancing, as preparation for their part in the religious festivals. Much
was done by rote learning. Except for a kind of pictographic script which
was interpreted rather than actually read off the codices, the Aztecs were
not literate in the commonly accepted sense of the term, and this meant that
children were required to memorize and recite the ‘essence’ of the texts.
Boys of the nobility received a higher training, especially in military
matters, and were sometimes encouraged to accompany warriors on their
expeditions. This was complemented by manual labour in the fields and on
public works, and rounded off with the necessary religious instruction.
Again, discipline was harsh; minor offences were severely punished, and
serious offences might even merit a death sentence. Compulsive gambling –
which was apparently a common vice – might well lead to slavery as the
result of debt.
Probably the feature of Aztec society which most fascinated and repelled
the early Spanish explorers was their religion. What the Conquistadores
could never resolve was the apparent contradiction between the cultural
sophistication and architectural grandeur on the one hand, and the
frightening nature of many of the religious rituals on the other, particularly
the practice of human sacrifice. Furthermore, there seemed to be a serious
moral inconsistency between Aztec industriousness and sobriety and the
unfeeling way in which they treated others. These issues require some
investigation as they are inextricably bound up with the nature and purpose
of war.
The Aztecs inherited a number of religious ideas which were common to
various parts of Meso-America. There were traditions associated with the
northern and very ancient city of Teotihuacan, the ‘place of the gods’,
which was founded about a thousand years before the Aztecs appeared on
the historical scene. Teotihuacan, which set the pattern for Tenochtitlan both
in layout and in temple construction, included the incredible Pyramid of the
Sun which was over 200 feet high and almost 700 feet at the base. Its
society displayed ritual features which provided a legacy for the Aztecs,
especially the worship of the rain-god Tlaloc and the culture-deity
Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent who appears to have been revered as a
Lord of Creation, in one guise or another, throughout Meso-America.
To these and the extensive pantheon of deities, the Aztecs added
Huitzilopochtli, the god of war, possibly via their immediate predecessors,
the Toltecs; this god became their supreme tutelary deity. Huitzilopochtli
(literally, ‘the hummingbird wizard’) became increasingly identified with
the sun, with military ambition and expansionism, and the souls
(hummingbirds) of those who died in battle. Since the bad harvests of 1455,
human offerings had multiplied considerably in order to ensure the fertility
of the land. This necessitated almost continuous warfare to guarantee an
adequate supply of victims. And when the Temple of Huitzilopochtli was
dedicated in 1487, the ruler, Ahuitzotl, gathered hundreds of prisoners-of-
war for sacrifice. To these were added hosts of slaves ordered from visiting
chiefs. The festivities and the bloodshed went on for five days in which it is
recorded that several thousands died in honour of the god and for the glory
of the Mexica.
The Aztecs developed highly elaborate forms of religious symbolism.
Life was seen as a dream; the real world lay beyond. Men simply existed to
serve the gods, and their destiny was largely determined by their mode of
death. Their cosmology was therefore concerned with those natural forces
which were believed to be beneficial to mankind. Complementarily, it tried
to allay or repel the forces that were feared. It had no marked redemptive or
ethical elements which are characteristic of ‘high’ religions. Instead, it
concentrated on devising complex and symbolic rituals which would ensure
that the divine powers would work for the public good. This, in turn, was
associated with a cyclical view of history. As part of their corpus of
mythology there was a story, preserved on the great, 24-ton sacrificial Stone
of the Sun in the temple of the war god, which depicts the cosmos locked in
a never-ending struggle between the forces of good and evil. This conflict
had already destroyed four suns, and the present, or fifth, sun merely
represented a temporary world order which had to be sustained by human
sacrifice. This same idea was also reflected in the companion myth which
told of the sun being devoured by a monster of the deep who then disgorged
it, a not uncommon theme in ancient mythologies. The Egyptians had an
account of how the sun-god, Ra, traversed the heavens in his ship-of-
millions-of-years, and did battle every night with Apophis who lived under
the earth, but rose triumphant at every dawn. The marked distinction
between the Egyptians and the Aztecs, which some bizarre theories suggest
are connected, was in the ritual forms which were held to ensure celestial
stability.
Cosmologies are rarely coherent affairs. People seldom work out the
exact relationships of one myth to another, or one myth-character to another
– as, say, in the Greek myths. This was no less true of the Aztecs, although
some attempts were made to rationalize the sequences of the many religious
festivals. The calendar year of 365 days was distinguished from the sacred
year of only 260 days; each week had its own specific deities, and there
were some gods that were particularly associated with the day whilst others
were associated with the night. The great Aztec ceremonies were based on
the calendar or solar year which was composed of 18 months of 20 days
plus a 5-day ‘unlucky’ period when there was fasting and lamentation;
people destroyed their furniture, pregnant women were shut up lest they
changed into animals, and children were kept awake in case sleep would
cause them to turn into rats. Most of the ceremonies involved sacrifice of
some kind. For example, during the 8-day feast to celebrate ‘the adoration
of the ripening corn’, women were required to wear their hair loose,
presumably as a form of sympathetic magic to symbolize the healthy plant,
and a slave girl – impersonating a goddess – was slain. Only after this were
the people allowed to eat the new corn. The calendars coincided in 52-year
cycles, at which points time was seen as having ‘ended’. This was regarded
as potentially cataclysmic. The whole created order was in jeopardy. People
were filled with apprehension, demons might be let loose which would
destroy the world, and so the appropriate steps had to be taken to avert the
impending catastrophe. Needless to say, these steps involved self-
immolation, personal penance and mutilation with knives and sharp spines,
and yet more human sacrifice.
The understandable fear that the Aztecs had of natural and supernatural
forces – ‘of the gods who laugh at us’ – involved them in the most complex
rituals. These were organized and carried out by a hierarchy of several
hundred priests who appear to have been both respected and feared by the
bulk of the population. Children – including some girls – could be dedicated
to the priesthood from infancy, and trained for their vocation at the temple
schools. Adult priests continued to live within the temple precincts,
although some did not make lifelong vows but served for a limited period
only. They dyed their bodies black, did not cut their hair, and practised
sexual abstinence. In addition to making the customary prayers and
offerings they were particularly punctilious about penance and the
accompanying self-mutilation. The records suggest that they were given to
supererogatory bloodletting, thrusting spines through their ears, lips, and
tongue to attest their devoutness.
In effect, the priests constituted the state literati; they were the teachers
of the sacred law and traditional lore, and the interpreters of signs. They
combined the functions of diviners, magicians, and sorcerers. They had to
be meticulous in adherence to the rules of good behaviour which were
strictly enforced on pain of hanging. Quite apart from the main ceremonial
occasions, they were required to offer incense four times a day and five
times a night, besides making quail sacrifices every morning. They often
had a military role, and were allowed to take prisoners of their own for
sacrifice, although normally it was only the high priests – chosen by the
ruler or his advisers – who actually wielded the sacrificial knife.
Almost all the principal Aztec festivals included human sacrifice. It was
regarded as having been ordained by the gods. Usually the victims were
either slaves or warriors taken in battle; the blood of warriors was
predictably thought to be more efficacious than that of slaves. Sometimes,
at specific ceremonies, women and children were also sacrificed. Whoever
the victims were, they usually had very little choice in the matter, although
on occasions there were sacrifices of a voluntary nature. In general, the
mode of sacrifice required that the victim was led to the summit of the
temple pyramid where he was pinioned by four priests whilst a high priest
ripped open the chest with an obsidian knife, tore out the still pulsating
heart, and offered it symbolically to the god. The body was usually then
thrown ignominiously down the temple steps where it was often
dismembered, the skull sometimes joining others on the temple rack.
All manner of ritual refinements were involved as a whole array of gods
had to be honoured and placated at the appropriate times. Furthermore, the
‘instrumentality’ of sacrifice was only thought to be effective if the correct
symbolism was employed. So, for example, in the ceremonies in honour of
the fire-god, prisoners of war and their captors took part in a rather macabre
dance after which the prisoners were bound and cast into a specially kindled
fire. Before death, they were wrenched out with large hooks and, as a last
ritual requirement, and as a kind of merciful coup de grace, the hearts were
torn from their blistered bodies. In a rite in honour of the sun-god, a
captured warrior might be tethered to a circular stone, armed with dummy
weapons, and required to fight a mock duel with selected eagle and tiger
‘knights’ – elite Aztec troops – in which he was inevitably killed. This was
held to symbolize the triumph of the sun over those malevolent forces
which threatened to overwhelm it. In yet a further ritual, this time in honour
of the Tezcatlipoca (Smoking Mirror), the chief god of the pantheon, a
particularly brave and handsome captive was selected as a surrogate deity a
year in advance. During this period, he was feted by the people and treated
like a ruler before being sacrificed with great jubilation and feasting. In
deference to his ascribed status, his body was not cast down the steps, but
his head still joined the other skulls spitted on the rack beside the temple.
Yet more attenuated forms of symbolism characterized the bizarre rites
associated with Xipe, the god of seedtime and planting. After sacrifice, the
victim was flayed and his skin was worn by the priests for twenty days. In
this there seems to have been some symbolic representation of new growth;
the god of spring was honoured and ‘stimulated’ by the flayed skin which
became the covering of new vegetation.
The fertility theme in Aztec religion was much more poignantly
expressed in the rites relating to one of the principal deities, Tlaloc, god of
rain. In this case the victims were children who were painted black, adorned
with simple ornaments, and either drowned or decapitated. Young children
were preferred as their crying on the way to sacrifice was regarded as
particularly propitious; there was held to be a magical correspondence
between the expected rainfall and the amount of tears shed.
Where dismemberment of the victims took place, there appears also to
have been some ritual consumption of the flesh, presumably in the belief
that to partake of the victim is to partake of his nature and attributes. So if
he happened to be an esteemed warrior or a surrogate deity, his flesh was
particularly beneficial. There is a theory that war was really conducted by
the Aztecs for this specific purpose (see Harris 1978). The view holds that
the common people were short of meat-protein, and that the flesh of
sacrificial victims helped to make up for this grave deficiency. This has
been largely refuted by many modern authorities as being quite unnecessary
as dogs and turkeys were a regular part of the Indian diet. Anyhow, the
evidence suggests that it was not the common people who shared in these
delicacies but the captors who saw them as part of their prize.
As we have already noted, human sacrifice was not peculiar to the
Aztecs, but can be found in many antecedent societies, but it was refined
and institutionalized by the Aztecs as part of their state policy. All the
evidence shows that it flourished with the expansion of the empire. Indeed,
the pursuit of aggressive policies became an increasing obsession as
attempts were made to obtain yet more victims to please the gods and make
the Aztecs a greater power. Warfare was the most effective way of securing
a tribute of slaves and prisoners for sacrifice, so the Aztecs became locked
into a syndrome of conquest, sacrifice, and more conquest in order to fulfil
their destiny.
Immediately prior to the Spanish conquest, war had become the prime
raison d’etre of the state. Boys were socialized for war from birth, and
mothers who died in childbirth were themselves regarded as warriors by the
state because they had been trying to produce warriors for the state. The
greatest exploit was to capture at least one enemy in battle; until this time
youths could only wear a fibre cape, and might even be subject to a certain
amount of derision. These ‘virgin’ soldiers wore a lock of hair at the nape of
the neck which was not cut until they had taken their first captive; after this
they were allowed to grow their hair long over the right ear as a form of
display. Seasoned warriors were entitled to wear special regalia and to share
in the booty of a victory which, in effect, often meant sharing the body of
an enemy. Military prowess was an avenue of social mobility, and
successful warriors might rise in the hierarchy and join the elite societies of,
say, eagle or jaguar ‘knights’, and attend military councils. In the higher
echelons, there seems to have been no clear distinction between civic and
military offices. War chiefs and their subordinates appear to have been civic
dignitaries.
Military service was compulsory for free men. There were officials who
were responsible for recruitment and training, and usually the regular Aztec
forces were supplemented by drafts from vassal states. This was necessary
in order to make up the appalling losses which came from almost
continuous warfare. In one battle alone, it is recorded – perhaps with some
exaggeration – that 20,000 were killed, including 80 per cent of the elite
troops.
The army was organized in bands of 20, 200, and 400, though smaller
detachments were commonly used for scouting and reconnaissance. The
larger divisions were commanded by clan and tribal chiefs. Troops were
equipped with very rudimentary weapons such as swords, clubs with
obsidian blades, feather-decorated wicker shields, and helmets with plumes.
Their armour was in much the same category: quilted cotton soaked in brine
to give it some small degree of resilience, though, interestingly, the Spanish
were quite impressed with how light and effective this form of body
protection could be. These armaments were supplied from central arsenals
which were maintained in many of the larger towns.
Military expeditions usually took place after the harvests, and were
relatively short affairs for simple logistical reasons. Transport was the
problem. There were no beasts to drag or carry the food and equipment so
everything had to be borne by the troops themselves. Furthermore, it was
not considered prudent to live off the lands of the vassal states en route for
fear of inciting revolt, so the actual campaigns usually only lasted a few
days. This all made siege operations virtually impossible; but then few
towns were actually fortified, being mainly dependent upon their strategic
positions for safety. Defensive strongpoints such as temples were very
difficult to take, and once some prisoners were captured the attack would
often cease and the army would retire. Sometimes temples were destroyed,
but usually sacking and looting were discouraged. It was enough to win the
battle, to take some captives for sacrifice – the more high-ranking, the
better – and to reduce the enemy to tribute. This was the object of the
exercise. On occasions, policy demands would go further and the worship
of Huitzilopochtli might be instituted, but normally the conquered state was
allowed to retain its own government and its own customs providing it paid
its dues every eighty days. Refusal or rebellion meant swift and frightening
reprisals.
When the Aztecs had to face the Spanish Conquistadores they were
overwhelmed by an entirely different battle strategy. Although the
Spaniards themselves only numbered about 600 men, they were able to
deploy horses and cannon, which were altogether unnerving to the Aztecs.
In addition, they had the aid of Indian allies who hated their Aztec overlords
more than they distrusted the Europeans who had made a very shrewd
assessment of the Mexican situation. The evidence suggests that the Aztec
empire was beginning to creak immediately prior to the conquest; the
tribute-oriented nature of Aztec imperialism had made them a lot of bad
friends and discontented neighbours. Very strangely, too, the arrival of the
Conquistadores coincided with predictions concerning the return of the
culture-god, Quetzalcoatl, and this initial identification of the Spanish with
the gods temporarily neutralized Aztec hostility. When the rapacity of these
only-too-human invaders became evident, the war began in earnest. But
obsidian-bladed clubs and wicker shields were of little use against Spanish
steel, and the cut-and-rush tactics of the Aztecs in trying to take prisoners
were no match for the disciplined expertise of their enemies who fought
ferociously to avoid the certain fate of Aztec captives. In the end, probably
no more than 60,000 of the 300,000 defenders of Tenochtitlan survived.
The Aztec ideology of war and death is, in some ways, reminiscent of
that of traditional Japan. War was not only a duty, it was a privilege.
Successful warriors were feted and praised, but the valiant death was the
ultimate act. Young men were enjoined to ‘die like blossoms’. An Aztec
poem applauds the ritual: ‘there is nothing like death in war . . . so precious
to the Giver of Life. . . . My heart yearns for it.’ Warriors were primed for
death from the sacrificial knife. When captured they were well received and
well treated, virtually as guests, in preparation for their great day. To
attempt an escape – normally the duty of a good soldier – was considered
an act of cowardice. When killed, it was held that their spirits journeyed to
the sun and then returned to earth as hummingbirds. Civilians, who did not
have such a heroic end, were not so honoured; they had to travel through
the nine layers of the underworld to the void of the ancestors, and even this
was regarded as hazardous for those who had not led lives of requisite piety.
As the gods grew more ravenous, so more campaigns had to be mounted.
When there were insufficient victims from legitimate warfare, the Aztecs
contrived tournaments to ensure that supplies were maintained. The ‘Wars
of Flowers’ were festivals of fighting held in honour of the Aztec deities,
and could be either intra-state or inter-state affairs which involved the best
fighting men available. These ceremonial combats sometimes escalated into
genuine hostilities if there was an underlying political rivalry, but their main
purpose was not to maintain a precarious balance between contending states
or even to display the prowess of their warriors; it was rather to provide yet
more sacrificial fodder for the gods.
The Aztecs were a militaristic society, they coveted lands and goods, and
saw military activity as the best – or easiest – way of achieving these things.
Furthermore, they were a highly status-conscious people. They had come
from nothing, and they were out to show the neighbouring tribes that they
were a power to be reckoned with. Theirs was not so much a question of
resource scarcity as position scarcity. They wanted a place in the Meso-
American sun. But none of this completely explains their history and their
culture, and particularly the bizarre beliefs and practices associated with
them. These they shared – to a greater or lesser degree – with many of the
neighbouring peoples, but in their case it was much more highly developed.
For them, war and sacrifice were something of an art form. One was not
possible without the other. War affected all their other institutions; indeed,
all other institutions were subordinated to the need for war. They believed
that it was a passion awakened by the sun to ensure its own continuance.
The sun could not survive without its diet of human hearts, so the capture
and sacrifice of prisoners became a ritual act.
In trying to make sense of all this, it would be a mistake to think that
religion here provides a form of post facto explanation. Religion was not a
dependent, but an independent variable – it really determined actual courses
of events. Similarly, it would be misleading to think of religion as a means
of self-justification; for the Aztecs, the requirements of the gods were clear
and self-evident.
To interpret these practices in purely economic – possibly Marxist -terms
would be a mistake. The economic argument does not explain why war took
the form it did, nor why human sacrifice should be so institutionalized when
the enslaved and the prisoners might have constituted an invaluable labour
force, as they did in so many other pre-industrial societies. For the Aztecs,
war was an ideological imperative. Indeed, in one sense it was virtually war
without aggression. It was a dispassionate, sometimes artificially contrived
undertaking, as in the Wars of the Flowers, which had admitted political
benefits but was not waged simply for political reasons. It was a cosmic as
much as a commercial enterprise. It had supramundane as well as mundane
implications. The rationale was not just that the Aztec nation must survive
and flourish, but that the future of the whole world was somehow dependent
on this particular sacrificial activity. The sun must be replenished with
blood, or all would die. Thus the enemy was not regarded as an infidel or an
inferior who had to be exterminated at all costs, but a valiant opponent who,
when captured, was greeted rapturously by the people who would benefit
by his death. A sacrificed enemy might ensure that the cosmos would
endure for just a little longer.
 9
THE ZULU
The enemy as colonial intruders

The question as to whether specific social practices are generated by

particular environmental conditions or identifiable politico-economic
exigencies is of special interest to students of warfare and aggression. There
is also the question as to whether specific social practices are related to
cultural diffusion or independent development. These are intriguing
problems which admit of no clear or generally acceptable answers, and both
are particularly relevant to the Zulu situation. Here we have what was
originally a relatively insignificant clan which consciously developed an
unusual form of social organization early in the nineteenth century with the
deliberate intention of subduing their immediate neighbours and carving out
a minor empire for themselves in south-eastern Africa: a policy which
eventually brought them into confrontation with the Dutch and British
intruders who presumed to contest their supremacy.
Anthropological and historical evidence – such as it is – points to the
fact that the indigenous inhabitants of southern Africa, the primitive
Bushmen (San) and the Hottentots (more correctly, the Khoikhoi), were
gradually ousted by invading bands of Bantu from central and East Africa
from about the time of our Middle Ages. From what we can gather, the
Bantu had no more respect for these nomadic peoples than the Boers and
the British had after them, despising their uncertain, ‘stone age’ existence.
Some were made serfs and others migrated westwards to the desert of the
Kalahari and beyond to eke out their precarious living from grubs, rodents,
and occasional game.
 Folk-myths and travellers’ tales give us some idea of the settlement
patterns of the Bantu. They were divided into a number of not always
harmonious tribal elements, and it was from a minor clan of the extensive
Nguni people that the Zulu derived as a distinct social grouping. The Nguni,
a generic term which included the Xhosa, the Swazi, and the Ndebele (more
popularly known as the Matabele) as well as the Zulu, were mainly
pastoralists who also did some tilling, hunting, and trapping. They spoke a
variety of dialects and their clans were largely autonomous political units of
disparate sizes; 9ome contained only two or three hundred people, whilst a
few clans had several thousand. They lived in circular kraals, loosely fenced
enclosures, which comprised cattle pens and dark, cockroach-ridden bee-
hive huts that housed patrilineally organized extended families. These
kraals varied considerably in size, and could range from modest settlements
housing, say, a patriarch with two or three wives, together with his
unmarried children and his married sons and their families, to a huge
enclosure, perhaps a mile in diameter, for a king or paramount chief. These
vast kraals would include accommodation for an extensive entourage
including a harem, indunas (senior officers) and servants, and a personal
bodyguard who – particularly in the case of the more despotic kings such as
Shaka -might also double as a corps of executioners. At the height of Zulu
supremacy, there were a number of specifically designated military kraals
which housed various combinations of Zulu regiments, and were sometimes
dignified with colourful names such as the Place of Endless Worry, or –
more ominously – the Place of Killing (Bulawayo), which was Shaka’s
headquarters kraal.
The division of labour in Zulu life was characteristic of most pastoral
societies. Women were occupied with agricultural and domestic chores, and
men were concerned with herding and hunting, and, of course, developing
and displaying their prowess as warriors. The training of the young
highlights the clear differentiation between the sexes. Girls assisted their
mothers; boys, on the other hand, were subjected to the most rigorous
training and initiation within their age-set system in order to prepare them
for their place in this warrior society. Girls were also organized in age-
regiments, and were technically regarded as wards of the king. When male
regiments were disbanded after completion of the period of service, their
corresponding female regiments were also dissolved and their members
given as wives to the retiring warriors. Those on active duty were forbidden
to enter into permanent sexual relationships under pain of death. It is little
wonder that the Zulu are sometimes referred to as ‘black Spartans’.
Military valour was a prime determinant of prestige and was reflected in
the regalia that a warrior was allowed to wear. But wealth was also
important. In what was, in effect, a propertyless society, a man’s wealth was
largely assessed in terms of the size of herds. Cattle was the nearest thing to
currency in Zulu society, and payment in cattle was the recognized form of
bride-wealth (lobola), the ‘gift’ that was made in exchange for a wife. Cattle
were prized for their milk and their hides rather than their meat, although it
was customary to kill them for ritual sacrifice. They were not normally bred
for their quality but it did become a practice – one might almost say an
artifice – to breed them for their colour. It is said that cattle-keepers could
distinguish every one of their beasts, and some kings liked nothing better
than having their herds paraded before them. An early visitor to Shaka’s
kraal, Henry Francis Fynn, counted one herd of precisely 5,654 cattle, but
no one believed him because he hadn’t used his fingers in making the
calculation. Cattle was the main form of booty from inter-tribal warfare,
and it is estimated that some hundreds of thousands were taken in this way.
At the intra-tribal level also, when, say, someone was executed for some
real or imagined offence, it was the confiscation of their cattle that was the
real prize. It is worth asking how many of the accusations of witchcraft at
the highest levels, for which the punishment was automatically death, were
actually made with a view to increasing the size of the king’s herds.
In the pre-Shaka era, the military system of the Zulu was relatively
simple. There was almost continuous warfare but – from what can be
discerned – it was conducted in a somewhat casual way. Objectives were
usually immediate and therefore limited. Disputes were frequently over
cattle or grazing rights, and forces – such as they were – fought as
unrehearsed groups in the interests of their tribe or clan. The contest itself
made few concessions to strategy or tactics, but was usually decided on the
basis of numbers. Bows and arrows were rarely used; the main weapons
were throwing-spears which could be hurled with accuracy for some 60 or
70 yards, a knobkerrie which was a kind of club, and a large ox-hide shield.
The conflicts themselves were often prearranged, and warriors were
frequently accompanied by their families whose supplementary duty was to
yell support from the sidelines. The battle usually began with an exchange
of taunts and insults followed by threatening movements of the ‘line’, all
calculated, of course, to intimidate the opponents. The outcome was often
decided by a successful charge; afterwards some kind of settlement was
made in terms of cattle and land, and sometimes captives were duly
ransomed. In these pre-expansionist days, it is said that crippling damage
was rare and extermination unknown. Kraals themselves were not
defensible; it was quite a simple task to erect a new enclosure elsewhere.
The worst that could happen was that a clan might be forced off its land and
compelled to find living space elsewhere – an omen of things to come.
This all changed with the development of Zulu power. The amaZulu, ‘the
people of the Heavens’, began as a small clan, and by the time their
neighbouring clans to the south were first encountering the Boers, they may
have numbered only about 1,500 people occupying a territory of about a
hundred square miles. At this time, they were known to be a contentious
people, but there was no hint – as yet – of a will to rule; they were still very
much overshadowed by other, more powerful tribes.
There had been several generations of minor Zulu chiefs before the
advent of Shaka, the main architect of Zulu power. He was the illegitimate
son of one such chief and a girl from an adjacent clan. In Zulu society,
certain forms of sexual indulgence were permitted outside marriage, but
they were not supposed to result in illegitimate births. This particular liaison
was eventually regularized (iShaka was the name of the supposed intestinal
beetle which was conveniently held to account for menstrual irregularities),
but Shaka’s mother was never really accepted by either clan – a matter
which Shaka himself never forgot.
Shaka was born in about 1787 and because of his domestic
circumstances had something of a chequered childhood. He apparently
developed a powerful physique which he was later to display when
opportunities arose, but there is a certain amount of indirect evidence to
suggest that he may have been a latent sexual deviant. Despite his huge
seraglio he was most probably impotent, as there was not one recorded heir
among all of his 1,200 women. Whether, or to what extent, this can be held
to account for his cruelty and capriciousness, is still a matter of debate. The
story is told of how, on one occasion, Shaka decided to test the ‘piety’ of
one of his regiments who had been away campaigning, and had therefore
been deprived of sexual relations for some time. The warriors were lined up
naked while hundreds of scantily dressed girls danced provocatively in
front of them. Shaka warned the men that those who had erections would be
executed. Many of them – physiologically at the mercy of their autonomic
nervous system – began to erect despite their fears and were urged by the
girls to hit their own penises in order to detumesce rapidly, but, apparently,
without much success. Consequently, some were executed (Ritter 1967).
Shaka served his apprenticeship in the age-set system, and eventually in
one of the regiments (impis) of the dominant Mtetwa clan. It was here that
he came to prominence, and here that he honed and refined his military
philosophy which was to shape Zulu thinking for the next seventy years.
Basically, he disparaged the idea that a battle was simply a show of force
for some kind of tenuous or temporary gain. Warfare was really about terror
and annihilation, a killing game for permanent stakes and lasting
supremacy.
Shaka began with probably no more than 300 warriors, and turned them
into a superb but completely ruthless fighting machine. As other tribes were
conquered their young men were pressed into service or executed if they
refused. By the end of his reign in 1828, he was capable of calling on some
40,000 warriors for increasingly arduous expeditions. His overall strategy
was the subjugation of the surrounding tribes, and this required a whole
new outlook on warfare which had to be inculcated in the young from their
earliest years. Boys were recruited from the age-set system into regiments
from the age of 14 and socialized as warriors. They might be transferred or
regrouped, but one way or another, they would stay with a regiment until
they died in battle or were disbanded in old age. They lived and fought as
cohesive units, and could not even marry until they had been ‘blooded’ in
battle, and only then with the king’s permission. As a kind of interim coital
substitute, forms of external ‘intercourse’ were sometimes allowed with
particular girls, and might even be mandatory after battle – possibly as a
form of compensatory ritual act.
Training was hard and basic. Sandals were discarded; Shaka tested his
troops on thorn-strewn ground, and executed all those who did not stand up
to the test. The impis learned to move at the trot, and a trained regiment
could travel fifty miles a day and then fight a battle at the end of it. (Later,
their British counterparts thought they were doing well if they could do
twenty miles in the same time – admittedly with more equipment.) The
throwing-spear was largely replaced by a shortened, broad-blade assegai
(iklwa) which could be used over-arm for stabbing, but was more
commonly used under-arm much like a sword. Even the shield was used as
an offensive weapon. The Zulu practised hooking over their opponents’
shields in order to immobilize them preparatory to the deadly thrust of the
assegai under the left armpit. Any Zulu who were wounded and unable to
walk were liable to be dispatched by their comrades where they lay. Warfare
was dispassionate and functional.
The general attack formation of the Zulus became known as the ‘buffalo
head’; the most experienced regiments (the head) mounted a frontal attack
whilst the younger regiments (the horns) attempted an encircling
movement. The reserves (the loins) were ordered to turn their backs on the
battle until required, otherwise it was feared that they would be overcome
with excitement and join in anyway. These tactics – rudimentary as they
seem – were carried out with great skill and tenacity, and were a
considerable improvement on anything that had gone before. Certainly they
were extremely effective against other African tribes, and initially against
both the Boers and the British.
As Zulu power was increasing, there was a developing population
problem in south-eastern Africa deriving from the unfavourable ratio of
people to land. Suitable grazing ground sets limits to a pastoral economy.
Added to this was the fact that white intruders were now encroaching on the
lands to the south, establishing ‘movable borders’ with the indigenes to the
north. This already difficult situation was then greatly exacerbated by Zulu
expansionism. This had a knock-on effect throughout the entire area. The
effects of Zulu depredations were catastrophic. Tribal war was waged on a
scale never before experienced, and its unprecedented ferocity left countless
dead and homeless. When the Zulu targeted a particular group, the result
was usually a massacre, and this caused neighbouring peoples to flee their
lands in terror. Huge numbers of refugees were on the move; the breakdown
in traditional clan structures was such that over vast areas – extending to
several thousand square miles – not a single permanent kraal existed.
Foraging and plunder were common, and many people were reduced to
cannibalism. In one particularly well-known case, a woman clan leader led
her people, numbering some 50,000, and their herds to the south, and
hundreds died daily in their desperate search for better living conditions.
This period of South African history became known as the Mfecane (or
Difaquane), ‘the crushing’ of those peoples who did not – or would not –
become incorporated in the Zulu kingdom or who were indirectly affected
by Zulu policies through the aggression of others. It lasted for some ten
years, and virtually depopulated what later became known as the Orange
Free State. It is generally estimated to have involved the death of up to two
million people by slaughter and starvation. Later, when the Boers moved
northwards, it is said that they found fertile lands ‘peopled by more
skeletons than living natives’ (Roberts 1977).
Eventually both the Boers and the British were also affected. The human
debris of this chaos inevitably spilled over the traditional boundaries, and
the colonialists at last became aware that they had a formidable potential
enemy in the interior.
Parts of southern Africa had been explored by the Portuguese before the
Dutch set up shop with a small trading station in 1652. By the following
century the Boers (literally ‘farmers’) held extensive territories with farms
commonly covering 5,000 to 7,000 acres. The primitive Bushmen were
particularly vulnerable. Having suffered the incursions of the Bantu, they
were further decimated by disease and the depredations of both the Boers
and the Hottentots. Expansion was not legally curbed until 1780, and with
certain – albeit temporary – restrictions on immigration there was an
increasing tendency to turn to black labour. Much of the basic manual work,
therefore, became the task of the natives who were looked down on not so
much because of their colour but because of their culture. Their pagan ideas
were particularly despised, especially their extravagant and – so it was felt –
unfounded obsession with witchcraft. White repugnance was genuine
enough, but it is now difficult to know to what extent this acted as a post
facto rationalization for the near slavery to which many of them were
eventually reduced.
The British began to settle in strength at the beginning of the nineteenth
century. They still had no very clear idea of what was going on in the
interior, although the reverberations of tribal conflict were becoming all too
obvious. The Zulu impis were now virtually unstoppable. By 1820, they
were waging war simply for the sake of it. Conquered warriors were often
invited to swell the ranks of the Zulu regiments whilst frequently women
and children were slaughtered. They had now recruited so many warriors
that they were often engaged in more than one campaign at a time, and
some of these further and further from the tribal heartlands.
Shaka’s policies inevitably led to schism within the Zulu nation itself.
His one-time favourite and protege, Mzilikazi, broke with him and fled
north with a band of warriors and – unforgivably – some of Shaka’s herds.
Hurriedly and aggressively he forged the great Matabele nation. He had
learned his trade well, and became as feared as Shaka in the lands he
dominated. The Matabele approach to war and conquest was typically Zulu
in thought and execution. Indeed, there is a sense in which they became
more Zulu than the Zulu, an elite among the indigenous Shona peoples, a
state within a state – effectively a state which existed solely for war. They
‘ate up’ the tribes that stood in their way; killing the old and useless, and
absorbing the young into their impis. In this way they expanded: looting
cattle and women, and extending their power throughout the territory we
now know as Zimbabwe.
Zulu conquests had fearful repercussions throughout the Transvaal and
beyond. The Swazi, who had preceded the Zulu as a native power, adopted
some of the military innovations of the fully developed Zulu system. Even
the remnants of those who had been conquered by the Zulu were impressed
by the success of Zulu tactics and used them in carving out new areas of
influence for themselves elsewhere. So, for example, the defeated
Ndwandwe peoples took these ideas and practices as far afield as
Mozambique and central Africa. Indeed, a whole series of states came into
being with recognizably common features, all – in one way or another –
following the Zulu model. It was not that they all were keen on
expansionism per se, but they were political pragmatists – this seemed the
only way to survive.
Shaka himself was becoming less subject to any kind of restraint, and
took on more and more the persona of the arbitrary despot. Executions were
a daily occurrence and might be carried out for no better reason than that a
courtier had sneezed in the king’s presence or had made him laugh at the
wrong moment. He appeared to become increasingly indifferent to the
amount of pain he caused, and frequently had groups of his own warriors
executed for what he regarded as either military or ‘personal’ failure. On
one occasion, for example, he was so convinced of adultery among his own
isiGodlo girls, that he had 170 warriors and girls put to death, and killed
some of their suspect progeny personally. During a witch-hunt, he ‘tested’
women by asking which ones owned cats; 300 gave the wrong answer and
were duly killed. When white visitors remonstrated against the
bludgeonings and impalements, Shaka was both puzzled and unmoved.
Instead, he expressed his horror of imprisonment which he had learned was
an integral part of the British penal system.
 A not entirely untypical example of Shaka’s bizarre behaviour was
witnessed by Henry Francis Fynn who was being entertained at the kraal
when the king’s mother, Nandi (the ‘Great Female Elephant’), died. Shaka
ordered everyone to cry, and anyone who was found not to be lamenting
with the appropriate enthusiasm was referred to the executioners. The
whole affair became so out of hand that the mourners turned on one
another, and a general massacre ensued in which Fynn estimates that some
7,000 people died. Eventually the funeral went ahead, and Nandi was given
ten maidens who were buried alive to keep her company, and a regiment of
12,000 warriors was set to guard her grave for a year and given 15,000 head
of cattle to keep them supplied. Shaka ordered that no crops were to be
planted for a year, and all milk was to be poured away. All women found
pregnant were to be executed together with their husbands, and all who had
shown a dereliction of their duty in not attending the king during his grief
were likewise turned over to the executioners. It was a full three months
before these arbitrary killings and meaningless ‘rituals’ were finally called
to a halt.
When the inevitable encounters did take place between the colonialists
and the natives, they were characterized by caution and uncertainty. At first,
hostility was muted. The Zulu were naturally apprehensive, but also
curious. They had only the haziest ideas about European civilization;
indeed, there was a half-held belief that the whites came from the bottom of
the sea where they collected beads, and occasionally rode to the surface on
great animals with white wings (ships?) which fed on ivory. Shaka initially
welcomed whites to his court; he wanted to know more about King George
and his empire, and he was predictably interested in demonstrations of
European technology, especially guns which proved so effective against
elephants that he invited his visitors to join him in his campaigns.
For their part, the British were impressed by Zulu power and the extent
of their domains. Early visitors to the king’s kraal were obviously surprised
by its 1,500 huts and its huge standing army. They had certainly seen
nothing like this before. There was some minor trading, but when it came to
specific negotiations for land there was a great deal of misunderstanding on
both sides as to what was actually taking place. The confusion redly lay in
the difference between rights to use and rights to own the areas in question.
And once occupation had actually taken place, notably at Port Natal, there
was a greater influx of white settlers and further encroachments began. The
clash between the cultures became inevitable.
Shaka had already voiced his suspicions that King George might attack
him, and an argument about this had led to the peremptory execution of
eight of his indunas. The problem became even more difficult for him when
he planned expeditions that would take him further south where white
settlements were well established. He knew that this would bring him into
direct conflict with King George’s subjects, and he actually contemplated a
mission to the king. Whilst this was failing to materialize, the British and
Boer forces had had their first serious clash, not with the Zulu directly, but
with some of those tribes displaced by Zulu aggression. The contestants
were drawing closer together, and when Shaka was eventually assassinated
by his own brothers in 1828, the scene was set for a decisive encounter with
the colonialists.
Shaka’s successors were really not much better than he had been in the
treatment of either their own people or those of other tribes. They were not
so determined as empire-builders; they had no need to be. The Zulu nation
was their inheritance. But in the niceties of control and the exercise of
government, there was not much difference either in attitude or in
technique. Shaka’s immediate successor, Dingane, was as cruel as he was
incompetent. He effectively signed away the future of the Zulu nation
when, after informally ceding certain key areas of Natal to the ever
intrusive Boers, he invited them to a farewell feast and amidst the
celebrations ordered his stamping warriors to ‘kill the wizards’. Not one
Boer survived, and this was followed by a general massacre of Boer
families which was attended by horrific atrocities to women and children.
But it sounded the death knell for the Zulu. The Boers brought in
reinforcements and broke the power of the Zulu at the battle of Ncome,
afterwards known as Blood River, in which some 3,000 Zulus died for the
loss of only 4 wounded Boers.
Dingane was unsurprisingly assassinated and was followed by another
brother, Mpande, who was ‘more self-indulgent than zealous’ (Roberts
1977) – a king whose ruthlessness was tempered by a love of the good life.
He consolidated his own position by murdering other possible claimants to
the throne, together with their families. He dexterously side-stepped any
unnecessary conflicts with the Europeans, but in order to keep his impis
gainfully employed and also maintain the impression of himself as the
warrior-chief he ordered attacks upon more vulnerable native peoples such
as the Swazi.
By this time the Zulu kingdom had become somewhat circumscribed. In
the earlier days, Shaka could almost certainly have crushed the white
settlements, but for various reasons was reluctant to do so. Dingane came
into conflict with the colonialists, but by now they had become more
securely entrenched. Mpande avoided any direct confrontation with them
despite the fact that their incursions had progressively reduced the size of
the traditional Zulu territories. Mpande lived to uncharacteristic old-age,
having survived by a policy of guile and passivity. He had even encouraged
rivalry between his sons, an expedient which led to one of the worst
massacres in Zulu history when Cetshwayo, already an accomplished
warrior, defeated and butchered his opponents including 6 of his brothers
and some 23,000 of their followers and their families at what came to be
known as Mathambo – the Place of Bones.
In so many colonizing situations there comes a point at which the
indigenous population feels that it has taken as much as it can. Someone has
got to take a stand – even if it is something of a fruitless gesture. In the case
of the Zulu, it looked as though they did have a remote chance of success,
and the triumphant Cetshwayo lost no time in preparing his regiments. He
could now deploy an army of 50,000 men, even more than Shaka, and there
is little doubt that he wanted to emulate his uncle, but history was against
him – he was just too late. It was now 1872; more and more British settlers
were coming into Natal, and there were also the Boers to the south. All
were apprehensive about the huge Zulu force on their borders. The British
wanted to come to an understanding with the Boers and establish some
form of federal government in South Africa, but they knew this would only
be possible once they had dealt with the Zulu. The political juggling was
taking place in an atmosphere of increasing tension and mutual suspicion.
Hostilities were eventually precipitated – as so often – by a trifling
border incident which technically violated the treaty which Cetshwayo had
made with the colony at Natal in 1878. This supplied the British Governor
of the Cape, Sir Bartle Frere, with a convenient causus belli. Cetshwayo’s
excesses were the ostensible reason for this invasion of Zululand, but even
at the time it was pretty well recognized that this was part of an
encroachment policy of divide and rule which the British found surprisingly
difficult to implement.
 The Zulu were given an ultimatum which left them a mere thirty days to
disband their army and effectively capitulate to British demands. It was an
impossible situation, and war was formally declared by the British in
January 1879. Their confidence in an early success was shattered at
Isandhlwana when Lord Chelmsford’s force was overwhelmed and
massacred by a surprise Zulu attack. Chelmsford, the British commander-
in-chief, was away at the time on a reconnaissance expedition and returned
to find the camp virtually obliterated. At much the same time a desperate
action was being fought at Rorke’s Drift where a handful of men were
holding off a huge Zulu impi. Despite a shortage of supplies and the meagre
protection of improvised barricades they survived against all expectation.
They lost 15 men for the loss of about 350 warriors, a disproportionate
expense which the Zulu commander felt unable to sustain. The victory of
this small garrison led to the award of eleven Victoria Crosses, more than
for any other single action in the British Army. The British took their
revenge in March when they defeated a large Zulu force at Kambula.
Although this battle involved the death of some 2,000 Zulus, it was
indecisive as far as British objectives were concerned. There was still
considerable dissatisfaction at Chelmsford’s handling of the situation, and it
was in July, at the point where his recall was imminent, that he achieved a
spectacular success over the Zulu forces at Ulundi, the site of the royal
kraal, where their impis were finally defeated.
This was really the end of Zulu power. There were some desultory –
almost poignant – incidents after this when Cetshwayo’s son, Dinu-Zulu,
tried to assume the mantle of kingship and revitalize Zulu power. He sought
the alliance of the Boers who effectively cheated the Zulu of their territory
as a condition of their help against some neighbouring tribes. The Boers
then poured into the territory and dispossessed native farmers of their lands
and livelihood. The Zulu then appealed to the British who, in turn,
negotiated with the Boers to limit their boundaries, and the rest of the
country became a British protectorate in 1887.
The struggle was now over. To some extent, the Zulu were the victims of
their own aggressive and expansionist practices. The chaotic situation
which they helped to create in south-eastern Africa encouraged a winner-
take-all ethos in which they were eventually the losers. When confronted by
superior powers, in weaponry, technology, and culture, they had to fight or
go under. Military resistance was the only thing they knew. But they did not
prove to be impervious to the white man’s guns as their witch-doctors had
promised (the bullet did not turn harmlessly to water). In the circumstances,
there really was no choice. One cannot imagine a situation in which they
could have happily coexisted as equal partners with the Europeans. It can be
safely assumed that ultimately they would have capitulated at the cultural
level as has happened in virtually all situations where the west has cast its
shadow.
For their enemies – the intruders – it was a familiar story. Another nation
had been conquered. It had been a well-fought and worthwhile struggle
against a half-respected but inferior foe. This was ‘darkest Africa’, so there
was an avowed ideological dimension to this task of bringing the heathen to
a knowledge of the true faith. But it is difficult to avoid the conclusion that
in the complex of motives this took a secondary place to national pride,
military glory, and economic aggrandizement.
 10
THE ATHENIANS
The enemy as opponents of democracy

Any consideration of the Athenian state must be set in the overall context of
classical Greek society. Prior to this, proto-Greek civilizations had
flourished in Crete from c. 2000 to c. 1400 BC and on the Greek mainland
from c. 1400 to c. 1200 BC. It is generally conceded that the two
historically persistent features of Greek culture were language and religion,
and it is now reasonably well established that in these two earlier societies a
form of the Greek language was used, albeit ‘disguised’ by a quite different
script, and that certain recognizable elements of Greek religion were also
present. What brought these societies to an end is still uncertain, but from
about 1200 BC or a little after – perhaps due to the incursions of foreign
invaders – Greece declined into a ‘Dark Ages’ period which was
characterized by lower levels of cultural and architectural achievement.
By the eighth century BC a proto-classical civilization had begun to
emerge. It was centred on the mainland and the adjacent islands, and on the
coastal strip of Turkey known as Ionia, and it was at this time that there
began to develop that singular feature of Greek society, the polis or city-
state. These were often located around some kind of defensible citadel or
acropolis (literally, high place, as in Athens) from which the surrounding
peoples could be efficiently administered. Within the poleis various forms
of political organization were possible, and many of these states exported
their particular brands of organization to the colonies that were established
as far afield as Italy, Sicily, north Africa, and the Black Sea. Colonization
had important results. It uncovered and exploited new and necessary
sources of raw materials – Greece was particularly short of woods, metals,
and grain – and established new markets for Greek exports, especially wine,
oil, and pottery. The new-found wealth which flowed in from these overseas
ventures brought about significant changes in Greek society. It introduced
the austere landowning aristocracy to new luxuries, facilitated -perhaps
even necessitated – the development of a money economy, and gave rise to
a class of merchants and entrepreneurs which indirectly undermined the
position of the traditional eupatridai (well-born ones). In Athens,
particularly, it also led to a considerable influx of immigrants who played a
significant role in these new economic developments.
The rise of city-state organization coincided with the decline of the
monarchy as an institution in most of Greece. From about the middle of the
eighth century BC, strong oligarchic government was the order of the day in
most states. In some, it meant that traditional aristocratic families controlled
the political machinery, sometimes – as in Corinth – for several generations.
A number of states were ruled by a series of tyrannoi, popular leaders who
had originally seized power unconstitutionally, and who now held it
whether by common consent or by coercion. By the beginning of the sixth
century BC, in Athens at least, there were the first faint stirrings of
something approaching democracy when certain socio-economic reforms
were initiated by a leading official (archon) named Solon. These were
variously received, and it was only towards the end of that century – after
an ambivalently regarded ‘tyrannical’ interlude – that more far-reaching
democratic innovations came to be introduced.
In the early years of the fifth century BC, tensions arose between the
Persians, the great power of their day, and the politically emergent Greek
world. The Persians acted repressively towards the recalcitrant Greek cities
of Ionia over which they exercised a kind of suzerainty; the Ionian Greeks
then appealed to the mainland Greeks for support, and this brought the
Persians into direct conflict with Athens. To the Persians, the Athenians
were an upstart people who needed to be taught a lesson, and thus began an
on-and-off struggle which did not end until the final conquest of Persia by
Alexander the Great in the following century.
The Persians had risen to power under Cyrus (the Great) in the sixth
century BC. Their domains eventually stretched from Asia Minor to
Afghanistan. This expansionist policy inevitably brought them into contact
– and finally conflict – with the small colonies of Asiatic Greeks. It fell to
one of Cyrus’ successors, Darius, to subdue the Greeks of Asia Minor and
to initiate a punitive expedition to the Greek mainland to show these
recalcitrant people who were the masters of the known world. According to
Herodotus, writing some fifty years or so after the events in question, the
Persian forces, comprising 600 galleys, subdued many of the Aegean
islands and received submission from many of the mainland poleis and
reduced others to slavery. Their main objective, the subjugation of Athens,
seemed to be a relatively easy task. The Athenians made the critical
decision of meeting the Persians where they landed, at Marathon, rather
than wait for them to arrive at the city itself. They had a pitifully small force
of about 9,000 men, and were joined by their recent allies, the Plataeans,
who added another 1,000 men to their numbers. A plea for help had been
sent urgently to Sparta who could have fielded perhaps the most formidable
fighting force in Greece, but they temporized on religious grounds – they
were celebrating a festival at the time – an excuse which was not lost on the
Athenians. Indeed, it may have been a portent of things to come. The
Persians had at least twice as large a force as the Greeks, but against all the
odds were driven from the beaches with a loss of some 6,400 men as
opposed to the death of only 192 Athenians (490 BC).
When the Persians returned ten years later, it was a different proposition.
This time they intended to do things properly. They mustered a huge force,
possibly around 200,000 men in addition to about 800 ships. Their new
king, Xerxes, had a reputation for pious barbarity. Herodotus records that
when the army mustered at the Hellespont prior to the crossing into Greece,
a storm destroyed two bridges which had been constructed for the purpose.
Xerxes had the engineers beheaded, and ordered the waters of the
Hellespont to be given three hundred lashes for their unruly behaviour.
Later, Xerxes is said to have sacrificed nine boys and girls – presumably
further to ensure his success. Herodotus – the only real authority we have –
may have overdone the cruelty in the same way as he almost certainly
exaggerates the Persian numbers which he gives as 5 million. But then his
account is written primarily as an epic of Greek versus barbarian.
Athens prepared much more thoroughly for this invasion. She was joined
by a number of other poleis, although many, especially in eastern Greece
which might expect to bear the brunt of the initial onslaught, remained
neutral, and a few, including the influential Thebes, actually co-operated
with the enemy. This time, however, the Greeks had the help of Sparta who
led the land-based operations whilst Athens, who had the most powerful
navy of all the states, dictated warfare at sea. This coalition, again despite
the odds, defeated superior forces by a mixture of guile and outstanding
courage and tenacity. But it was a success that bred dissension. The two
Greek powers became increasingly aware of each other, and suspicion
inevitably led to hostility.
These victories consolidated Athenian power, and reinforced its leading
position in the Greek world. In a sense, they also served to validate a
particular form of political and social organization as being superior to that
of oriental-type despotisms such as Persia. Athenians developed a new self-
confidence. And this, in turn, generated a greater sense of allegiance to the
city and an increased desire to participate in its life and policies.
The war initiated a period of unprecedented cultural achievement which
still has an indirect influence on the modern world. Many of its artistic,
architectural, and political developments took place in a ‘golden age’ of less
than a hundred years, and were spearheaded by a city that controlled an area
about the size of a small English county. It still seems amazing to the
modern observer that so much talent could have been confined to so small a
space in such a short period of time. It is a matter of debate whether this can
be directly attributed to the much vaunted freedom of its democratic forms
which at times could be as frustrating as they were liberating. What is
certain is that it gave Athenians the self-assurance to experiment and
explore the possibilities of new ideas in art and politics.
The polis that developed was both more democratic and less democratic
than anything we understand by the term. It was, in the strictest sense, a
radical democracy – a people’s system. The Assembly of the citizens was
the final arbiter on all matters of state. True, there was a council of 500, the
Boule, but even this was not elected; members were chosen by lot, and
operated on a rotation basis. In fact, virtually all the officers of state,
magistrates, jurymen, chairmen of boards (of which there were many), etc.,
were chosen this way. No training was required – much to the disgust of
some Athenian intellectuals like Socrates who argued that politics was an
activity that required training and expertise. The Athenians regarded all
citizens as potentially capable; they would learn the ‘trade’ once in office.
Aristotle commented later that the best judge of a meal is not the cook who
prepares it but the guests who have to eat it.
 The main exception in this system of allocating tasks by lot was the
military. The strategoi (generals) – possibly on the assumption that war was
too important to be left to part-time politicians – were elected to office on a
periodic basis. But even they were ultimately answerable to the Assembly
for their actions. This is highlighted by the well-known instance of the trial
of six military commanders who were accused of abandoning some of the
survivors of a naval battle at Arginusai (406 BC). Socrates was serving his
one day as chairman of the council, and refused to allow a proposal that
they be impeached. He was overruled by an irregular action of the
Assembly, and all six were condemned and executed.
It was the task of the council to convene the Assembly, arrange its
operations, and ensure that its decrees were carried out. It scrutinized the
qualifications of officials, and the allocation and use of funds. The
Assembly itself was open to all citizens, i.e. males from the age of 18,
providing they had the statutory birth qualification of being children of
Athenian parents. It met forty times a year, although this might be
supplemented by special emergency meetings, especially during wartime.
Curiously enough, although we know so much about the general structure
of the system, we are not at all sure about certain aspects of its
administration. For example, we are not sure how many people attended the
Assembly, or what constituted a quorum. There is some indirect evidence
that it was 6,000; this was certainly the number required to effect an
ostracism, the banishing of a citizen from Athens – usually for a specified
period – for actual, or potentially, undesirable activities.
In all, there seem to have been about 700 officials of one kind or another
employed to conduct the affairs of this relatively small state, with more
boards and committees than seem necessary to get things done. In addition,
there were 6,000 jurors – also chosen by lot – who sat on the various
‘benches’ (dicasteries) which specialized in civil and criminal cases.
Perhaps the idea was to distribute accountability and reduce the
opportunities for peculation, or possibly to inculcate the virtues of civic
responsibility which were integral to the polis. Whatever the motives, it was
patently not free from corruption and abuses of various kinds. Ultimately,
its vain attempts to ensure the ‘purity’ of the system led, perhaps inevitably,
to the recognition of sykophantai (public informers) and the subsequent
persecution of ‘undesirable’ elements within the society.
 There were also undemocratic features of Athenian society which seem
incongruous to the modern mind, notably the inequalities built into its
social structure. The polis was run by the citizens; these were the adult
males who comprised only about one-fifth of the total population. They
alone had the franchise, and they alone could determine the policies of the
state. Free women, i.e. women of Athenian birth, were essentially jural
minors. They could not attend the Assembly, had no vote, and therefore had
no direct influence on affairs of state. What we may broadly call middle-
class women – of whom we know most -had their own quarters in the
household; they had their domestic and child-rearing tasks to perform, and
were not normally encouraged to seek mixed company. A woman was
always technically under the authority of a kurios (literally, lord or master),
i.e. a senior male, usually a father or husband, but exactly how this worked
in practice, we are not quite sure. In most patriarchal societies there are all
sorts of anomalies, and there is reasonably clear evidence that Athens was
no exception.
More serious was the position of the genuinely unfree, the metics
(resident aliens) and the slaves. Most of the metics were probably Greeks
who had migrated, for one reason or another, from their native poleis. It is
almost certainly true to say that metics were as well treated in Athens as
anywhere else in Greece, and we know that many of them were engaged in
trades and commerce of various kinds, and that a few of them had become
quite prosperous. Their political rights were severely circumscribed, and
they had to pay a special tax, but – and this was regarded as a privilege –
they were allowed to participate, in prescribed ways, in the defence of the
state.
The situation of the slaves was quite different. Most of them were
probably not Greeks (certainly by the fourth century BC, Greeks had
become increasingly reluctant to hold other Greeks as slaves), and -again
probably – most of them were either the victims of war or of piracy. We do
not know the exact slave population of Athens, but it may have comprised
something in the region of two-fifths of the total population. Slaves were
the property of their masters who were usually individuals, not the state.
They had no political or economic rights, and in any legal action had to be
represented by their owners. On the other hand, they did have certain
religious rights, and were sometimes allowed to join eranoi (mutual support
clubs) and even buy themselves out of slavery. In practice, so much
depended on the form of slavery in question; this could range from
domestic slavery – not unlike household servants – to slavery in mines and
quarries where life was usually agonizing and mercifully brief. Normally,
slaves did not serve with the military – after all, it might give them ideas –
although sometimes they were given body-servant duties, and in cases of
national emergency were pressed into service as rowers in the Athenian
fleet.
In pre-classical times, the power of the army had been concentrated in
the person of the king with his companions and retainers who were
conveyed to the battlefield by horses and chariots. But by the late seventh
century BC, a little prior to the classical period, things had begun to change.
The cavalry, who represented the aristocratic strata, were still important, but
they gradually assumed a more subordinate role, and precedence was given
instead to heavily armed infantry (hoplites), and the ubiquitous lightly
armed skirmishing troops and archers who were often drawn from the lower
echelons of society. This development in Greek military organization
probably reflects not so much military exigency as the growing
democratization of Greek society. The emergence of the polis as the
predominant form of political organization had necessitated the formation
of citizen militia to ensure its defence, and this, in turn, had given increased
status to those farmers, shopkeepers, artisans, etc., who comprised that
militia. The equation was simple: if they shared in its defence, they must
also share in its policy-making administration.
Hoplites normally provided their own accoutrements of war. These
comprised lances, short swords, and small shields made of metal and
leather. They were also equipped with body armour, made of bronze and
leather, which covered the upper torso but did not adequately protect the
loins. They wore elaborate metal helmets which completely masked the
head and neck, and were often plumed to designate status or affiliation.
They fought in tight formations, or phalanxes, several lines deep, and much
depended on the thoroughness of their drills and manoeuvres. But well
ordered as their techniques might be, the tactics were relatively
unsophisticated. The intention was simply to thrust and stab until the enemy
line broke, and then the rout would sometimes turn into a massacre. Given
the limited weaponry at their disposal, there were few possible variations on
this theme.
 In Athens, training in the gymnasia was an essential element in the male
educational programme. A premium was put on physical fitness, not least as
a preparation for war. Military service was mainly the prerogative of
citizens: indeed, anyone – say a metic – found impersonating a citizen was
peremptorily sold into slavery. All male citizens, therefore, between the
ages of 18 and 60 were liable for military call-up and consequently had to
undergo a period of training. Initial (ephebic) training was from 18 to 20
during which time recruits were exempt from political duties and even legal
prosecution. They were enrolled on a tribal basis, the annual recruitment
being estimated at about 700. Thereafter until the age of 50, men could be
mobilized for active service. After this, they were classified as veterans, and
might be required to undertake less strenuous tasks such as guard duties or
the manning of border or boundary fortifications. In peacetime, the bulk of
the army was held in reserve, but to be at peace was an abnormal state of
affairs. Between the battle of Marathon (490 BC) and the battle of
Chaeronea (338 BC) in the time of Macedonian supremacy in Greece,
Athens was at war more than two years in every three, and never had more
than ten consecutive years of peace.
The Athenians, ostensibly in the interest of other Greeks as well, had
formed a league of states, usually known as the Delian League. This
comprised those poleis which were already subject to Athens, and those
who joined for the express purpose of countering any further Persian
incursions. To this end they contributed money and ships. But as time went
on, Athens began to see itself as the commanding power in what was
originally a type of federal organization. From being a first among equals, it
began to assume the leading role in a hegemony. Indeed, people spoke of an
Athenian empire, especially when it effectively confiscated league funds
from the neutral island of Delos and housed them ‘for safe-keeping’ at the
Athenian acropolis.
And this was not all. Athens began to interfere more and more in the
affairs of other states outside its immediate orbit, although it should be
stated – in fairness – that it was not uncommon for smaller states to call
upon larger states for help when they found themselves embroiled in
disputes. It was this situation that eventually brought Athens into conflict
with another powerful polis, Corinth, which was already suffering as a
result of Athens’ growing economic supremacy. But Corinth was not
entirely a free agent; it was a member of what amounted to a rival coalition
of states, the Peloponnesian League, of which Sparta was the dominant
force. Thus, not for the first time, the two leading powers in Greece found
themselves in contention.
Who was really to blame for the outbreak of hostilities is still in dispute.
Sparta and its allies voted for war because of Athens’ purported treaty
violations. But it could equally well be argued that the Athenians were
spoiling for a fight that they knew was inevitable sooner or later, so they
decided to force the issue.
At the opening of the Peloponnesian War in 431 BC against the Spartans
and their allies, Athens had a regular army of perhaps 13,000 hoplites,
1,000 cavalry, who still bore themselves with a kind of aristocratic hauteur,
and a territorial reserve comprising 1,400 epheboi and 2,500 veterans.
These were supplemented by some 1,600 archers drawn from the thetes
(lowest citizen) class, together with about 9,500 metics who might be
employed as lightly armed troops and auxiliaries. The whole force was
commanded by a supreme general (polemarchos) assisted by the other
strategoi chosen by the Assembly. In this war, the Athenians took the view
that they were ranged against the enemies of democracy, and they were
joined by allies (subjects?) in the Delian League. Whether the allies were
there because they were like-minded or because they were leaned on by a
dominant partner to fulfil their treaty obligations is still a matter of
conjecture.
Strong as the Athenian army was, it was still no match for the well-
drilled ranks of the Spartans, so they avoided any direct confrontation
where they could. Even when their territory was invaded and the crops and
homesteads were destroyed, they still did not give battle, but instead
encouraged those citizens in the outlying areas to bring their families and
movable chattels into the city. This was a highly controversial policy, but
siegecraft techniques were so rudimentary that strong city walls did afford a
large measure of security and it is significant that in the entire thirty years
of the war, the Spartans never made a direct assault on the city itself. This
‘retreatist’ expedient was made possible by the strength of the Athenian
navy which was able to bring supplies of corn to the city to compensate for
the losses in the countryside.
The Athenians and their allies constituted what was probably the
strongest naval force in the ancient world. Besides the considerable
contingents from the islands of Chios and Lesbos, the Athenians themselves
had 300 to 400 triremes, 150-feet-long warships with three banks of oars
necessitating about 170 rowers – usually poorer citizens or metics. They
were commanded by trierarchoi who were nominated by the board of
generals, and were often wealthy citizens who had contributed to the cost of
the vessel in the first place. Triremes had only one mast, but normally
travelled under sail until they engaged the enemy. Then the rowers took
over. Again, the tactics were crude. Naval warfare consisted of ramming
enemy ships, often to break their oars and/or securing them with grappling
irons so that they could be boarded and their crews captured or slaughtered.
In the Peloponnesian War there was no ‘front’ as such, so sometimes the
navy was used to launch raids on enemy shores. These hit-and-run tactics
could be very effective, especially when there was stalemate as was often
the case.
The war was a very long-drawn-out affair with fortunes fluctuating on
both sides. In its initial stages, Athens was devastated by a plague – perhaps
indirectly as a result of the acute overcrowding in the city. She gradually
recovered, and won several important victories despite the ravages of the
plague which claimed so many of her people -including their war-leader,
Perikles. She withstood the havoc the Spartan army wrought in the
surrounding countryside in the first years of the war, and within four years
she had captured Pylos, located in enemy territory, together with a number
of important Spartiates who were used as bargaining counters (425 BC). It
was at this point that some kind of settlement could have been made. Sparta
sued for peace, but the offer was rejected on the advice of the extreme
imperialists -especially the demagogue, Cleon, a leather-tanner by trade,
who had become one of the most vociferous voices in the Athenian
Assembly. Sparta, in her turn, recovered from this set-back and had some
notable successes in northern Greece. It was now stalemate, and both sides
resigned themselves to an armistice based on the status quo – the Peace of
Nicias – in 421 BC. Predictably, the peace was marred by violations on both
sides. These infringements and constant intriguing led to a resumption of
hostilities in 418 BC, followed by further agreements, and then direct
confrontation between Athens and Sparta again in 414 BC.
Until this time, the overall strategy of the Athenians had been to contain
the enemy on land by a defensive policy of interrupted attrition whilst
seizing the initiative at sea. For a while it proved quite successful. It
eventually foundered for two reasons: first, because the Peloponnesian
League also built up a formidable naval force under a gifted and
unscrupulous leader, Lysander; and second, because the Athenians
attempted a disastrous invasion of Sicily (415–413 BC) in which they lost
some 200 triremes and about 10,000 irreplaceable hoplites, besides
thousands of auxiliaries.
This became the turning-point in the war which had now effectively
divided most of the Greek world. The situation became so critical for
Athens that she even resorted to the abandonment of her radical democracy
and instituted a form of oligarchy in 411 BC, but this lasted a mere eight
months. Her fortunes went from bad to worse. The war dragged on but the
reverses became so severe that by 404 BC the Spartans and their allies after
a long siege forced the Athenians to surrender. The terms of the capitulation
were not as humiliating as they might have been, and it is to the credit of
the Spartans that they did not allow their allies, particularly the Thebans, to
destroy Athens completely and have the inhabitants sold into slavery.
There was bad feeling on both sides. The war had hardly been an
honourable one. Unspeakable atrocities and pointless killing of both
soldiers and civilians had taken place. Athens was fortunate that the
Spartans only insisted on the destruction of her walls, the surrender of all
her remaining triremes except twelve, and what amounted to the right to
determine her constitution.
The great days were now past. There was a revival – there usually is, but
in this case Athens never recaptured her former glory. Greeks still respected
her reputation, she was still revered – even by her enemies – as the state
that saved Greece from Persian bondage. Her arts and sciences flourished,
and she still produced high scholarship and keen political debate. Athens
still had influence, but the power was no longer there.
We can see from this study that inter-poleis differences were sometimes
resolved at a terrible cost. It seems to have all been part of the contest-
morality that governed inter-state rivalry. It is, therefore, important to see
what happened when a polis was either hammered or starved into
submission. It must be borne in mind that, within the conventions of the
ancient world, the vanquished became the property of the victors. There
was no status, for instance, corresponding to the modern ‘prisoner-of-war’,
and no specific term to designate such a person. There were really only four
courses of action open to the victors: release the prisoners gratuitously –
which was somewhat unusual; ransom them; enslave them or – more
profitably – sell them into slavery; or as an ultimate expedient, execute
them. Merciless treatment of the conquered was quite common in Greek
warfare, and it was not unusual to kill the men – always a potential source
of further trouble – and enslave, and possibly sell, the women and children,
although male slaves usually fetched far more money. The Athenians
carried out variants of these in a number of city-states that had either
flouted their authority or had just happened to back the wrong side. And this
was not always done at the whim of a local commander, but as the
deliberate policy of the democratic Athenian Assembly. The fate of the city-
state of Melos in 416 BC is a case in point.
Militarism in general and the treatment of the enemy in particular can
often be related to the relevent ideology, but the nature and outworking of
that relationship in Greek – and particularly Athenian -society is
fascinatingly ambiguous. At the religious level, the Greeks give the
impression of having been a very devout people. The temples, especially
those that adorn the Athenian acropolis, are regarded as testimony of this.
The sanctuaries and oracular centres such as Delphi and Eleusis, with their
esoteric cults, and the popular shrines and household images all speak of the
same mentality. There were rituals for all occasions, not least of all for war.
Some commanders took their ritual specialists and soothsayers to war with
them, sometimes with unfortunate consequences, as in the case of the
Athenian general, Nicias, in Sicily, who refused to evacuate his troops from
an impossible situation at Syracuse becaue the omens were not favourable.
On some occasions, commanders might dedicate the property and even the
persons of their enemies to the gods, and defeat was not unusually
attributed to divine disfavour. But what did all this mean? The rituals seem
to have had no moral force, and the complex corpus of mythology gives no
hint of moral obligation. There is an eclecticism about Greek religious
practices that generates the suspicion of superficiality. Certainly as far as
Athens is concerned one is left wondering if the real preoccupation of the
citizens was with the city itself and its distinctive ethos. Perhaps the
ideology of Athenians was really Athenianism.
There was a kind of dualism in the Greek world which was reflected in
the Athenian mentality. It was the unresolved dilemma between normative
democratic idealism and substantive ambition. The main Athenian problem
was not resource scarcity but position scarcity. She had her economic
difficulties, it is true, but her primary concern – as the contemporary writer
Thucydides makes clear – was that of national recognition and esteem.
Athens and Sparta had mutually exclusive and mutually incompatible
values, but they did have mutuality of ambition – both wanted to be the
dominant power in the Greek firmament. They both feared and envied each
other, and ostensibly each wanted to impose its own particular system on its
neighbours. None of this had anything to do with religious ideology; indeed
– if anything – religion had a consolidating effect on their divisions. The
real problem was one of hegemonic status exacerbated by the conflict of
irreconcilable political goals.
 11
THE MAOISTS
The enemy as class antagonists

Any account of the military activities of the Chinese communists must

include some discussion of the determinative nature of their revolutionary
ideology and of their philosophy of war. The term ‘ideology’ can be used in
two principal senses: as a body of ideas that serves as a guide and impulse
to action, and – as in Marxist usage – as a systematic distortion,
exaggeration, or simplification which political leaders use to further their
own interests. In this sense, it is not so much an attempt to understand
social realities, as a devious and manipulative use of rational and emotional
symbols for political ends. As such it is condemned by Marxist writers as
yet another tool of the dominant classes for the oppression of the masses.
But as the social analyst, Karl Mannheim (1948), has pointed out, Marxism
itself must be open to the same strictures. It too is an ideology which is
employed in the interests of a particular group, and it too can be cynically
propagated for covert purposes. And there is no better example of this than
in the communist Far East.
Most political thinking begins with the assumption that men have a
common human nature, and that despite their conflicts of private interest,
they have fundamental common interests which enable them to achieve a
political community. The political doctrine of communism, on the other
hand, is based upon a theory of class struggle. In keeping with Marxist
teaching, communists hold that men are shaped primarily by their class
situation. Class interests are necessarily antagonistic, and therefore no
common interests can ultimately bridge these divisions. The class struggle
is not caused by human malice, but by social conditions, and while these
classes exist the conflict between them is irreconcilable. Marx held that the
very existence of the state was proof of this. The situation cannot therefore
be ameliorated by controls or improvements – which, indeed, may be seen
as mere sops to the suffering masses. It can only be remedied by radical
structural change, and this can only be effectively brought about by
revolution. While class inequalities exist, communists believe that the
struggle must continue until total victory. ‘The liberation of the oppressed
class is impossible . . . without violent revolution’ (Lenin 1969: 10).
There appears to be a historical inevitability about this process which
will eventually bring the classless society into being. Furthermore, it is the
moral duty – one might almost add the sacred task – of ‘believers’ to do all
that is possible to aid and abet this process, and bring the ‘new society’ to
fruition. Lenin, in a speech given to the Russian Young Communist League
in 1920, makes the position quite clear,

We repudiate morality that is taken outside of human class concepts.

We say that this is deception, a fraud which clogs the brains of the
workers and peasants in the interests of the landlords and capitalists.
We say that our morality is entirely subordinated to the interests of the
class struggle of the proletariat.
(Lenin 1969)

In all this, there is still some confusion as to the actual function of the
proletariat. Although communists no longer expect the proletariat to
comprise the majority on the day of liberation, the myth of the redeeming
role of the proletariat still persists. And it is on this issue – or, more
specifically, on what actually constitutes the proletariat – that there is an
apparent division within the communist camp. Mao-Tse-Tung is often
credited with shifting the revolutionary initiative from the urban
(manufacturing) poor to the rural peasantry, although the documentary
evidence makes it clear that this was in keeping with ideas put forward
earlier by both Lenin and Stalin. Whichever position is adopted, the role of
the proletariat is still something of a myth in so far as it is the Party, acting
on behalf of the masses, who wül actually instigate and implement
revolutionary action. It is the Party who will act as the guardians of
proletarian interests. They alone will monitor progress and control
activities. The state as such may eventually ‘wither away’ – but it won’t be
yet. When the dictatorship of the proletariat will be realized is an interesting
question; at what point the people themselves will take over is anyone’s
guess.
Meanwhile, it is all a protracted struggle against the enemies of
socialism – both those inside and outside the system. The operational
principles whereby this is to be achieved have been laid down in a number
of classic statements on the strategy of revolutionary wars, preeminently by
Lenin and Mao-Tse-Tung. They involve the necessary matching of feasible
cost against minimal risk. At the internal level, the permanent revolution is
a matter of neutralization – concentrating the pressure against the ‘weakest
link in the chain’. This necessarily involves the rejection of opportunism;
the fight for social improvements is regarded as mere piecemeal social
engineering. Only the complete and lasting transformation of society is
worthwhile, but this may have to be achieved in successive stages. The
objective is to raise the social consciousness of the masses so that
revolutionary change alone will satisfy them, and then to neutralize the
power of the dominant classes so that they can no longer continue to resist
the forces of change. Only this combination can lead to a successful
revolution. The fundamental issue is that of securing and maintaining
political power; as Lenin himself put it, ‘War is part of the whole [and] the
whole is politics’ (Lenin 1969).
At the external level, communist operations are often aimed at
undermining the morale and comprehension of their political opponents.
This may be done by disrupting their social and economic structures, by
undermining their military capabilities, and even by creating the kind of
pervasive disaffection which will induce their opponents to accept
communist ‘solutions’. But territorial expansion may not be the primary
objective, as it can sometimes involve over-commitments which leave the
revolutionary cause vulnerable to counter-revolutionary responses. It is
often far more important to recognize that the accumulation and
organization of power are the keys to further success. After all, there is such
a thing as diminishing administrative returns.
Whenever non-violent means can be employed to undermine the
‘enemy’, the eventual use of violent means is made less risky. But the
preliminary use of infiltration, subversion, and proselytization are usually
not enough. The classic statements on the revolutionary struggle insist that
real success cannot be achieved without violence, although it is admitted
that this must never be an end in itself, and must not be used in all
instances. Violence may sometimes be necessary in the preparatory phases
of the revolutionary cycle which can take the form of guerrilla activity or
local uprisings, although the seizure of power itself may be achieved by
legal or quasi-legal means. However, once the regime is established,
violence will almost certainly be used to quell any rebellious spirits and to
liquidate the worst class enemies.
Communist doctrine, as proclaimed by the early Soviets and expanded
by Mao-Tse-Tung, claims that its goal is world peace. But it is emphasized
that this can only be brought about by the ultimate triumph of the ‘forces of
peace’. To attain this, domestic revolutions and international wars may be
necessary. ‘We are opposed to imperialist wars for the division of spoils
among the capitalists, but we have always declared it to be absurd for the
revolutionary proletariat to renounce revolutionary wars that may prove
necessary in the interests of socialism’ (Lenin 1969). There is here a variant
of the old Catholic just and unjust wars distinction; in this case, the inherent
justice of war is not only related to the cause but also to the focus of
hostility – the class enemy. It’s really a matter of who happens to fight
whom. Wars fought in the interests of imperialism are necessarily unjust,
but those fought in the interests of the oppressed peoples are self-evidently
just. The instigation of wars is therefore a ‘peace-loving’ act if it is done in
the right cause. In Mao’s words, ‘the just war will lead to eventual peace’
(quoted in Niemeyer 1966).
The Chinese communist revolution is a particularly interesting case in
point. Not that their contribution to revolutionary doctrine was in any sense
original – as is sometimes erroneously supposed – but because of the ways
in which this doctrine was adapted in practice. Radical political change in
China had its immediate roots in events in the late nineteenth century. At
this time, the threat and the promise of modernization -already a growing
feature of rival Japanese society – combined with the fear of western
aggression and involvement had fomented a spirit of political and economic
uncertainty which ultimately led to the revolution of 1911. This movement,
which, at last, cast off the power of the old imperial dynasty and all its
abuses, was essentially anti-Manchu rather than democratic in nature.
Despite its good intentions, China’s fortunes did not improve. Later on, the
settlements after the First World War left China in an even more parlous
condition. Japan refused to release the conquered German possessions, and
threatened to make China a Japanese protectorate. Foreign gunboats
patrolled China’s rivers; trade was concentrated in treaty ports where
foreigners had their concessions and enjoyed extra-territorial privileges, and
foreign finance dominated much of the commercial activity. China wanted
complete self-determination, but the western powers either would not, or
could not, do much to help. So the Chinese looked elsewhere and found
new friends among old neighbours – this time in the recently established
Soviet Union.
Amidst this burgeoning nationalism, the country was still in ferment.
Local warlords, often commanding armies several thousand strong,
controlled vast tracts of land, and their ruthless depredations only meant
further grief for the peasants. They were little more than bandit-chiefs who
could survive only as long as they could feed their men and their families.
The number of peasants who died at their hands is incalculable. The
strongly walled city of Choctow was besieged for nearly three months and
its 100,000 inhabitants starved. Another city in West Honan changed hands
seventy-two times; people were often taken for ransom and tortured to
make them reveal where they had hidden their valuables; if they hesitated
they were sometimes cut in two at the waist as warning to others. The
poverty was often so extreme that some people were said to have sold their
children into prostitution simply in order to survive. The ongoing rivalries
of these hordes of marauding brigands did little for the cause of Chinese
unity and prosperity.
These warlords were mainly interested in gain. They exacted what they
could from the peasants, and fought one another for richer shares in what
little wealth there was. No principles were involved. There was no obvious
conflict between liberty and tyranny, no particular political creed was at
stake, no ideology in jeopardy – and no visible identifiable resolution of the
essential problems. For many – perhaps most – it was incomprehensible
confusion. There was a retreat of the rich from the countryside. All kinds of
essential maintenance tasks were neglected, especially the huge irrigation
and drainage works which fell into decay. Floods brought disaster; there
was little relief from famine; and these merely exacerbated an ongoing
situation in which there was dislocation of communications, a decline of
inland trade, and general administrative chaos.
All this contributed to the breakdown of the old order of society.
‘Military rule alienated both scholars and peasants; it defied every moral
restraint and outraged every hope of improvement; it was the direct cause of
the . . . Chinese Revolution’ (Fitzgerald 1966: 53). A powerful national
force was obviously needed to deal with a worsening situation; the country
was ripe for a new and unifying form of nationalism.
In 1925, the national party, the Kuomintang, became the ready
instrument in a new bid for power under its new leader, Chiang Kai-Shek,
who wanted to unify the country under the Kuomintang banner and
reinforce his own position as leader. Chiang emphasized Chinese
nationalism and tried to capitalize on a mood that was antipathetic to
foreign influences. To do this, he had first to reach an understanding with
certain business interests in order to put his party on a sound economic
footing. He then came to an accommodation with some of the warlords so
as to maintain a free hand in his own territories. But he had one further
problem – the Communists.
The Chinese Communist Party had been formed in 1921, and
Communists had infiltrated the Kuomintang and now dominated the left
wing of the Party. Chiang was astute enough to realize that there would
have to be a showdown with them eventually, and he decided that this
should be sooner rather than later. In 1927 his purge of the Communist
elements was carried out with cold-blooded efficiency. He engineered a
conflict situation with them and then ordered mass arrests throughout
China. Sometimes they were duped into surrender, others gave in
voluntarily. But they all met the same fate – only the method varied; some
were beheaded, others were either shot or strangled. A few changed their
allegiance – but their time was to come.
Mao-Tse-Tung, already the most prominent figure among the Chinese
Communists, was incredulous. He could hardly believe that his erstwhile
colleague could betray his friends and effect such a complete takeover of
the Party apparatus. Instead of fleeing to the north or the Soviet Union as he
was advised, Mao insisted on returning to Chang-Sha to check the facts out
for himself, only to find that the situation was worse than he supposed. He
thought it might be possible to mobilize members of the Peasant
Association, but this proved to be fruitless. The Party was demoralized.
Certain key members of the Committee had gone underground, and the hunt
was on for Mao himself. Within hours he and his wife were captured by
Chiang’s forces; Mao was beaten and imprisoned, but he hoped that his
wife’s pregnancy had saved her from a similar treatment. Fortunately his
cell was not very secure and he was able to escape and run to the open land
on the outskirts of the town. From there he watched impotently as his wife
was tied weeping to the strangling-post in the field where he lay hidden
from the executioners. Her murder was a traumatic experience he would
never forget. Later on, he wrote:

I cut my hands on the cords of the strangling-post

But no blood spilled from my veins
Instead of blood I watched and saw the pity run out of me.
(Quoted in MacGregor-Hastie 1961: 90)

Until this time, the Chinese Communists had operated largely on directives
from the Soviet Union, and Moscow did not believe that they were ready
for revolution. It was because Moscow had not been optimistic about the
Communists’ chances that it had ordered them to surrender to the
Kuomintang, to bide their time, and eventually undermine that organization
from within. As it turned out, it was a recipe for disaster. When it was too
late, the Russians and the Chinese realized that they had both been
deceived. By the time Moscow had given the order to ‘fight to the death in
every street’, a large proportion of the Party had already been liquidated. It
was to be many years before the Chinese Communists could make their bid
for power. Communist orthodoxy taught that a successful revolution
required a particular association between workers and intellectuals, but for
China this was not the correct formula. They had a different blueprint. The
industrial proletariat was very small; 80 per cent of the population were
peasants, so in China the revolution was to have a peasant base.
But this was all some way ahead. Before there could be any serious
thought of challenging the national forces, considerable regrouping and
retraining had to take place. Mao led some remnants into the mountains to
get some respite from attack. In these retreats, the refugees set about
organizing the peasants and setting up model co-operatives. Mao’s hostility
towards the landlords won him an enthusiastic following among the people,
but it also aroused the disapproval – and perhaps suspicion – of the Central
Committee of the Chinese Communist Party, which expelled him in 1929.
He and his supporters were undeterred by this expulsion, and they
continued to build up the nucleus of the future Red Army. Meanwhile,
Chiang – largely ignoring the looming Japanese threat – conducted further
offensives against Mao’s forces, usually with very indifferent results. The
Japanese, encouraged by this obvious failure of the Nationalist Army even
to put down a peasant revolt, launched their campaign against Manchuria in
1931. It was to be the beginning of a prolonged and debilitating war which
was to last another fourteen years.
Under increasing pressure from the Kuomintang, Mao and his supporters
embarked upon the epic ‘Long March’ in 1934 which covered some 6,000
miles along the fringes of the Gobi desert and Tibet, and eventually led
them to an area of north-western China, Shensi, where they could settle in
comparative freedom, build up their forces, and perfect the techniques of
guerrilla warfare. It was one of the most incredible feats of the twentieth
century. They had few uniforms, an ill-assorted miscellany of weapons, and
little by way of supplies. Some were already wounded; within two months
of the beginning of the march, some 7,000 of these had died. Mao allowed
little time for rest or recuperation, nor would he permit any serious
deviation from the route. He had good intelligence from the peasant
communities en route, and this enabled him to take necessary avoiding
action where possible, but at times his undeviating determination gave his
movements a certain predictability. This meant that in the early days the
marchers left themselves open to concerted attacks from the Kuomintang –
sometimes with disastrous consequences. At just one precarious river
crossing in December 1934 they lost 13,000 men, and by the time they had
covered only a third of their journey, their losses had risen to 20,000. They
braved atrocious weather conditions, especially over the Great Snow
Mountains bordering Tibet. Food shortages and lack of reasonable
accommodation further reduced their numbers, and it is thought that of the
original 100,000 or so that set out (estimates vary), of whom perhaps
20,000 were non-combatants, possibly fewer than 10,000 troops survived.
Certainly by 1936, the core of the Red Army numbered only about 30,000.
Demanding as the Long March had been, it reinforced the authority and
determination of the Party, and became part of the mythology of the future
Communist State.
Chiang only really gave half his attention to the Japanese; he was
convinced that the true threat to his authority came from the Communists,
but necessity finally dictated policy. By 1936, in the face of increased
Japanese aggression, an uneasy alliance was formed between the newly
developed Communist forces and the Nationalist Army, and this remained a
nominal arrangement throughout the Second World War. The Japanese
despaired of trying to woo Chiang away from this alliance, and in 1937 they
extended their operations to the south and took over ports and other key
centres of trade. The Nationalist Government, which was fast losing
popularity, had to flee from its capital at Nanking and set up shop 400 miles
away at Hankow. It was then ignominiously forced to retreat yet again, and
spend the rest of the war at Chungking. By the beginning of 1939, the
Japanese had occupied all of north China, the middle Tang-tse valley, and
the coastline, so that most of the industrial areas and commercial enterprises
were in their hands.
The Japanese actually made all the classic mistakes. Their advances into
the interior of China extended their lines of communication, and left them
exposed to increasingly dangerous guerrilla attacks. In the vastness of the
country they were unable to bring the main Chinese armies to battle, so they
remained a potential threat which the Japanese found difficult to assess.
They hoped that their capture of Chinese cities would bring capitulation,
but in allowing their troops to commit wanton atrocities on both civilians
and prisoners of war, they generated hatred among the people and, at the
same time, alienated foreign opinion.
In purely tactical terms these policies could not have served the Chinese
better: they simply drove the population to a determined opposition to the
invasion. The continued repression of the people also served the
Communists well, whether it derived from Japanese repression or
Kuomintang incompetence. It swelled their ranks. Even the Honan famine
in 1942–3, one of the greatest tragedies of the war in which some 2,500,000
people died indirectly as a result of Kuomintang policies, could not fail to
bring advantages for the Communist cause.
Meanwhile, Chiang took a leaf out of Mao’s book. He decided to sit
tight, defend what he had, occasionally snipe at his ‘allies’, and wait for
Japanese imperialism to take on more than it could handle. It was a policy
that took patience. He lost about half a million Kuomintang troops who
went over to the Japanese and served as a ‘puppet-army’. But it was also a
policy that ultimately paid rich dividends – especially in aid from the west
from 1942 onwards. Chiang was conserving his strength and saving his
forces for the inevitable showdown with the Communists once Japan had
been defeated.
After the Japanese surrender in 1945, there were token attempts to patch
up the differences between the Kuomintang and the Communists. Each side
promised partial demobilization, but the agreements were not conspicuous
for their sincerity. It soon became clear that the Allies – especially the USA
– were unable to enforce any kind of compromise, and the Americans
compounded the situation by becoming, in effect, ‘dishonest brokers’ in the
negotiations. Their wish to support the legitimate government and their
fears of Communism combined to shift their attention from a negotiated
settlement to a policy which favoured the Kuomintang. Chiang had over 4
million men under arms; his forces controlled the large cities and with them
the economic life of the country. Mao had less than half this number,
although he did enjoy the qualified support of the peasants and students
whose demonstrations were ruthlessly suppressed.
At this point, then, the sides were certainly uneven. Chiang controlled
most of China, especially many of the large urban areas. Business interests
supported him partly because they feared that a Communist takeover would
strangle economic enterprise, and partly because they were convinced that
China now needed American aid, and this would only be forthcoming if
they assumed the correct ideological stance. Mao, on the other hand, did
have a great deal of support in the rural areas, and his forces were receiving
some help from the Soviet Union though on nothing like the scale of their
help to the Kuomintang during the war with Japan. Sometimes this came
directly from the Soviet authorities, but in other instances it was indirect as
with, say, the handover of captured Japanese ammunition dumps in
Manchuria. This cost the Soviets nothing, yet these arms kept the
Communists going all through their north-eastern campaigns against
Chiang’s forces.
Chiang had made up his mind that he was going to crush the
Communists once and for all. He produced a Manual on Bandit Suppression
which was really a battle-plan for an extermination campaign against Mao’s
forces. In the early engagements of 1946–7 he had considerable success,
including the capture of the Communist capital at Yenan. But in 1948,
Mao’s forces in the north reversed the situation, and Yenan was retaken. By
this time, the Chinese economy was at a very low ebb. Inflation was
astronomical, protests and general industrial discontent were rife.
Workshops and factories began to close, and in January 1948 the first of a
series of strikes in the textile industry was organized in Shanghai by
Communist sympathizers. Workers were gassed and shot, but this only
brought out the crowds on to the streets, and the stoppages spread
throughout the south.
Chiang’s fortunes went from bad to worse. His troops were unsuccessful
in taking the northern territories – particularly Manchuria – and then they
found it increasingly difficult to maintain their strongholds in the south.
Whole Kuomintang armies were either beaten or starved into submission.
By the end of 1948 the march on Shanghai had begun, and by January 1949
Mao’s armies had captured the old imperial capital of Peking. By now it
became clear to the Americans that they had backed a loser. Under pressure
from the USA, Chiang was advised to make a deal ‘from strength’, but
these peace overtures were rejected out of hand. By October 1949 the civil
war was over; Chiang fled to Formosa nursing the faint hope that one day
he might return. Reorganization and retaliation were now about to begin.
The task facing the Communists was enormous. Commerce and industry
in China were not highly developed. What there was had been very much
under overseas control or had been largely dominated by foreign
investment. Worse still, the lot of the Chinese peasant had never been
enviable. Farming methods were antiquated and production levels were low.
The plight of the peasant was exacerbated by the heavy rents for tenant-
farmers, and by the intolerable rates of interest on loans. In the 1920s, in
Kiangsi, for example, they had to surrender between 50 and 80 per cent of
their produce to cover rent and interest charges. In good years there was
perhaps enough left for peasants and soldiers; in bad years, there might be
just enough for the soldiers. Under Communist control, much of this began
to change quite rapidly.
To start with, the entire tax system which was riddled with sharp-practice
and corruption was completely revised. Apparently some Kuomintang tax-
collectors had been demanding taxes years in advance and lining their own
pockets with the proceeds. The textile industry, which had almost fallen into
decay, was revitalized only to produce that drab blue uniformity which one
associates with the Chinese proletariat. Most urgent of all were the
agricultural reforms which within a year of the takeover – so it is claimed –
ensured that no one any longer went hungry.
The work of reconstruction was difficult. Natural resources had to be
harnessed to the needs of the people, and labour power had to be mobilized
in order to maximize the potential for redevelopment. All ‘distractions’
were actively discouraged, and in some cases actually proscribed. There
was a show of ‘intellectual liberty’, but this permitted only a very narrow
interpretation. Religion, for instance, the traditional consolation for the
masses, was not actually outlawed but its practices were severely restricted,
particularly in its Catholic forms. Or to take quite a different example,
prostitution: this was abolished by decree; Shanghai, which once boasted
some 45,000 prostitutes, became theoretically ‘sin-free’ under Communist
rule.
The people could readily forgive the draconian measures of a regime that
could ensure that everybody was fed. The new Central People’s Republic
set out to industrialize China in the shortest possible time, and bring her
living standards into line with those of the industrialized nations of the
western world. Instead of doing this with overseas capital, she intended to
rely on vastly increased agricultural production and the export of minerals
and manufactures to pay for the importation of capital goods and industrial
material. The Big Brother – and somewhat distrusted – Soviet Union had
done this in forty years; Mao’s China aimed to do it in fifteen.
Land reform was the first essential. Landlords, who represented only 10
per cent of the population, owned about 70 per cent of the cultivated land;
‘middle-range’ peasants, representing about 20 per cent of the people,
owned 20 per cent of it; and 70 per cent of the people – many of whom
were landless labourers – owned the remaining 10 per cent. After the
Agrarian Reform Law (1950), there was a massive redistribution of millions
of acres of land among some 300 million peasants, and over 30 million tons
of grain, which would formerly have been appropriated as rent by the
landlords, went for the peasants’ own use. Similar changes were made on
the industrial front. The share of the private sector of gross industrial output
fell from over 60 per cent in 1949 to 25 per cent in 1954.
By the end of the first Five-Year Plan in 1957, it is reported that total
industrial and agricultural production had increased by an impressive 68 per
cent. Despite all the ambitious claims, it is disputed whether the reforms
were quite as effective or far-reaching as the propagandists would have us
believe. Development was vitiated by inherent contradictions. Originally,
the idea was of a redistribution of land to the peasants so that the nation
could be self-supporting. It was then quickly realized that grain was needed
for export. Even after a year of ‘serious famine’, in 1955, collectivization
began in the interests of ‘social industrialization’. The regime effectively
gave with one hand and took away with the other in order to boost exports.
The peasants had to eat less to facilitate ‘the great leap forward’. Peasants’
private plots were absorbed in a commune system because necessity
dictated the virtual militarization of agriculture.
The system which accomplished these reforms was designated a
‘people’s democratic dictatorship’, that is, an alliance between labour and
the peasantry with the former – including the skilled artisans of
manufacturing industry – in the leading role. This was actually something
of a fiction as dictatorship was exercised by the Party itself through its
cadres of officials with the consent – or, at least, the acquiescence -of labour
and the peasants. Power was highly centralized and control was mediated
through delegated agencies. This was facilitated even further when
collectivization began, and large sections of the population were organized
into productive units.
Landlords, capitalists, and ‘reactionaries’ were suppressed. In practice,
this meant that either they were re-educated – university professors sent to
work on the land, or reckless drivers publicly admonished in the street – or
they might be unceremoniously eliminated. All this follows the well-tried
early Soviet pattern. The Chinese Communists were neither heretical nor
original in the field of doctrine and strategy although they were more
innovative in practice. From the 1920s, Mao had ordered assaults on the
‘bad gentry’, and once the Agrarian Reform Law had been promulgated in
1950, the rural poor were encouraged to participate in the public
terrorization and even liquidation of the old upper classes. Landlords who
had been arrested were often openly humiliated, tortured, sent to labour
camps, or simply killed. It was not unusual for student groups to be taken
on ‘tours’ to villages where landowners were accused of exploiting the
community, and deliberately invited to choose the appropriate punishment.
In a quite typical instance, the wife of a proscribed landlord who had fled
was made to strip and – despite her protestations and prayers – was stoned
and beaten to death (Wittfogel 1966).
All this was not unlike the earlier revolutionary situation in Russia.
Evidence suggests that the Tsarist police were positively restrained by
Soviet Secret Police standards. During the Lenin government in 1918–19, it
is estimated that the Cheka were carrying out a thousand executions a
month of ‘political enemies’ alone. But the police mandate for suppression
was much broader than this. The proscribed included ‘all kinds of harmful
insects’, a term which covered such groups as teachers, nuns, priests,
monks, and even trade-union officials. Whole sections of people were
categorized as class enemies, and therefore fit only for imprisonment or
annihilation. As Lenin put it,

we are not carrying out a war against individuals. We are

exterminating the bourgeoisie as a class. . . . The first question we ask
is – to what class does he belong, what are his origins, upbringing,
education or profession? These questions define the fate of the
accused. This is the essence of the Red Terror.
(Quoted in Johnson 1985: 71)

So much for revolutionary Communism and its enforced reforms. In Russia

there had been the liquidation of the kulaks; in China, there were mass trials
of counter-revolutionary elements. From the beginning, Mao had appealed
to the anti-bourgeoisie attitudes of the peasantry. ‘Landlords’ who owned
more than 4½ acres came within his proscriptive ‘legislation’. In the early
days of the movement he had shown himself to be as ruthless as Chiang or
any other warlord in purging the country of undesirables. By 1930, he had
his own secret police, and this led to the execution of over 2,000 of his own
men who were suspected of covertly belonging to the Anti-Bolshevik
League. Unlike so many warlords, Mao’s forces were not, in general,
allowed to rape and pillage, and they suppressed prostitution, gambling, and
opium-poppy growing. On the other hand, they ill-treated and murdered
members of the middle classes, they burned churches and temples, and
sometimes killed missionaries and priests.
The situation had been further exacerbated by the Japanese invasion,
although Mao saw in this new opportunities to further his purposes. In
1937, he had told his generals that the Sino-Japanese conflict gave the
Communists more opportunity for expansion – a policy which was carried
out to the letter. As we have seen, even the Japanese atrocities – notably at
Nanking where some 20,000 Chinese civilians were massacred – were grist
for the Communists’ ideological mill. They merely served to unite Mao’s
forces and increase the support of the masses in the interests of the cause.
When the inevitable showdown came between the Communists and the
Kuomintang, it is still disputable whether it was really rooted in economic
and class factors. In the areas where the Communists were stronger, most of
the peasantry already owned most of the land they worked; indeed, it might
even be argued that the vast majority of China’s population were not
directly involved in the struggle at all. Perhaps the essential issue was not
one of landownership, but more a question of who could provide peace and
stability to a nation ridden with strife and uncertainty.
It is doubtful whether Mao supposed that his success would be anything
like as rapid or complete as it proved to be. It is also possible that it was
altogether too successful from Moscow’s point of view. For one thing, it is
questionable whether Moscow wanted a revolution it could not control;
potentially the Chinese success threatened its hegemony in the communist
world. Furthermore, it was not quite according to the book, and might
therefore set a dangerous precedent for other states. Insurrections and bush
wars at Moscow’s instigation were one thing, but the wholesale conversion
of sundry transitional societies must surely one day result in a possible
challenge to Soviet power.
The communist world has always been divided on the inevitability or
otherwise of war. The Chinese, traditionally, have veered towards greater
military extremism and have endorsed the idea and practice of violent
revolution. Everything is centred on the cause. War can always be justified
if it is in the interests of the appropriate class. Until recently, peaceful
coexistence with capitalist states was seen as a surrender to the claims of
imperialism, whereas it was the duty of good communists to assist in the
liberation of colonial peoples. Such strictures extend preeminently to the
class enemies within one’s own ranks. So the Cultural Revolution of the
1960s was a way of cleansing the system of dissident elements, namely,
those teachers, journalists, etc., who were insufficiently active in the
interests of the cause. In fact, it is estimated that the Communist takeover
led to the proscription of at least 2 million people, the majority of whom
perished in the purges.
It was all part of a well-tried totalitarian pattern. China’s problems were
thought to be so vast and seemingly intractable that any kind of piecemeal
engineering was considered to be hopelessly inadequate. Drastic measures
were needed. Everyone wanted radical reform: Mao sought it, Chiang
advocated it, and even the lesser warlords paid lip-service to it. This pursuit
of incompatible Utopian ideals brought death and destruction to China on
an incalculable scale.
Mao’s new society was only realizable through revolutionary war, and
this had to be waged with political consciousness. This alone gives the
correct incentives and generates the right morale because war is ‘politics
with blood’. Even a possible future nuclear war, with all its unimaginable
wholesale destruction, can be justified on a utilitarian basis; eventually it
would bring lasting peace for the majority of mankind – who would,
hopefully, be Chinese.
Obviously, anything can be – and has been – validated in these terms.
The extreme irony of the Chinese situation is that, with all the misery and
devastation in recent history, it is still questionable whether anything like
the visions of the early idealists have been realized. All this was ostensibly
done for the good of the masses, and in the name of the proletariat. But if
the Chinese experience teaches us anything, it is that ideology and
expediency constitute a lethal combination. Religion may be the ‘opium of
the people’, but revolution is certainly the hallucinogen of the radical
intelligentsia.
 12
EXCURSUS ON RACE, MASSACRE, AND
GENOCIDE
The enemy as racial inferiors

It is now generally conceded that we cannot take a naively reductionist

approach to race (Kuper et al. 1975): the subject can only be addressed
intelligently if it is studied on a multi-perspectival basis. Thus it can be
looked at in moral terms, with an emphasis on ethical judgements; in
biological terms, stressing genetic factors; in psychological terms,
concentrating on character formation; in cultural/historical terms, and in
sociological terms with a focus on power/class relationships, etc.
(Haralambos 1985). But it would be unwise to try to reduce the
understanding of race to any one of these perspectives alone.
The term ‘race’ is not exactly easy to define, and the expression ‘ethnic
group’ is not really very much better. A distinction that can be made is to
reserve the term ‘race’ for those showing similar physical characteristics,
and ‘ethnicity’ for those with similar cultural characteristics. Obviously, it is
important to distinguish between that which is genetic and that which is
socially learned, but it is doubtful whether the terminology is always
correctly applied in practice. The term ‘race’ may have little or no scientific
meaning, but it is still useful inasmuch as people attach meanings (real or
assumed) to physical and cultural differences and this contributes to their
social significance. Differences between people do exist, even if the criteria
whereby they are assessed may not always be agreed. There may, of course,
be broad historical reasons for making these distinctions. The old biblical
divisions between Hamitic (Negroid), Semitic, and Caucusoid races,
traditionally based on the sons of Noah, Ham, Shem, and Japheth, do not
help us very much, but then they were made prior to the days of modern
exploration. The now conventional extension of this simple schema to
include Mongaloids and Australoids gives it a kind of general
commonsense validity. But refinements of categorization beyond those
demanded by one-time geographical isolation can turn the whole matter
into a canonistic numbers game (e.g. Coon 1962).
The whole idea of race does have biological dimensions, but there are
formidable difficulties in trying to account for genetic mutational changes,
and in tracing the effects of selection in controlling differential rates of
reproduction, fertility, and the survival of particular genetic combinations. It
is reasonably certain that – in part – these must take place in response to
environmental conditions which, in turn, affect differential migration and
the ‘mixing’ of populations (Darlington 1969).
The ‘concept’ of race is bound up, too, with the problem of perception –
how and why we perceive the differences we do. And this, in turn, is related
to the unsolved questions surrounding historical development. Did ‘true
man’ evolve in one localized area and become diffused throughout the
globe? This is a theory which obviously encourages the essential
‘brotherhood of man’ view. Or did man evolve in many places at different
times? This is a more popular view and tends to underpin the idea of race,
especially as it also posits early conflict between different racial groups
(Howell and Bourliere 1964). How else are we to account for the ‘triumph’
of certain physical types over others in these early communities? Surely this
cannot be explained in terms of environmental conditions only (Howell
1971)?
What is undisputed is that early man, no matter what his origins, lived in
relatively undifferentiated societies – if, indeed, ‘societies’ is the correct
word. Gradually, skills were developed: the fashioning of crude artefacts,
weapon-making and hunting techniques, and the institutionalization of co-
operation and aggression in order to survive. In particular, there was the
development of language which both unites and divides human society.
Those who speak together, breed together. Mate selection is largely
mediated by speech, as is also the sense of community. If people speak
differently, act differently and – better still – look different, ipso facto, they
are different. They are not one of us. It is not so much actual differences as
perceived differences that matter; and not only seeing them differently, but
wanting to see them differently.
The danger in looking at race in purely physical terms is that either it can
lead to extreme forms of biological reductionism which ignore the cultural
dimension, or it can veer towards some kind of environmental determinism
which permits of too many historical exceptions (Gabel 1964). Indeed, any
kind of heuristicism must be suspect. There is no one unquestionable ‘key’
to the understanding of race. Within their own unpredetermined limits,
biological, historical, psychological, and socio-cultural factors all play their
own complementary parts.

THE PROBLEM OF PREJUDICE

The phenomenon of racial prejudice illustrates the need for a comparative
approach. In trying to understand prejudice as an attitude – as opposed to
discrimination which is really a form of behaviour – it is often difficult to
disentangle social factors from hypothesized psychological factors.
Prejudice is influenced by the inculcation of beliefs and values, and these,
in turn, are reinforced by observation, exposure, and example. The
considerable overlapping of psychological and sociological perspectives in
the study of prejudice is well illustrated by the somewhat dubious
‘authoritarian personality’ thesis (Adorno 1950). This maintains that there is
a particular personality pattern which displays a marked tendency to
prejudice. This is said to be evidenced by the fact that:

1 It has a general prejudiced nature, i.e. it is prejudiced against

different kinds of racial groups, e.g. Jews and negroes.
2 It has marked ethnocentric values.
3 It favours strong, authoritarian leadership.
4 It is insecure, conformist, and often overbearing to ‘inferiors’.
5 It tends to be anti-intellectual and anti-scientific.

The authoritarian personality thesis has inspired a great deal of research, but
is open to criticism on the grounds that its methodology is weak, and its
conclusions suspect. It largely ignores the fact that authoritarian
personalities are found among both radicals and reactionaries (e.g. in the
French Revolution), and tends to overlook the possibility that both
authoritarianism and prejudice are to be found among those who lack
exposure to alternative values. Though this last point would hardly be true
of, say, Adolph Eichmann – a notorious principal of the Nazi extermination
programme – who was steeped in Jewish lore and culture, and used this to
considerable advantage in his dealings with Jewish groups, especially prior
to the deportations of Hungarian Jews in 1944 (Weissberg 1956). The thesis
also takes too little account of the possibilities for learning prejudice,
especially where this is part of a concerted behaviour modification
programme; this is well supported, for example, by research into the
training of SS personnel (Dicks 1972). It is studies such as these which
clearly demonstrate the complex nature of value-formation and the
personality.
Evidence also suggests that prejudice can be notoriously inconsistent.
Reasons which are given for, say, biased statements or hostile policies can
often be shown to be contradictory. For instance, in Nazi Germany, the Jews
were criticized for being too exclusive, and therefore inviting suspicion and
– at the same time – as being too intrusive, especially in commercial affairs.
They were seen to be both capitalistic money-makers and subversive
communists (Grunberger 1964). Prejudice can thus be procrustean
inasmuch as values tend to be rationalized to suit a particular argument
despite the equivocal nature of the evidence.
There is, however, a cognitive dimension to all this. It is salutary to
remind ourselves that although prejudiced attitudes may be irrational, they
are not always non-rational (Deaux and Wrightsman 1984). The onus of
proof is largely on the critic to explain his attitudes and to give reasons for
his actions. He may correctly adduce that certain local situations, such as
all-night partying by West Indians, justify racial criticism, or that deviant
norms such as the use of ‘ganja’ by Rastafarians are bound to provoke
members of the host community. Without doubt, incongruent normative
behaviour can be a problem, indeed a provocation in certain circumstances,
and raises the question as to whether these customs involving religion,
dietary rules, etc., should be maintained only at the private level by the
ethnic communities themselves. And this is sometimes compounded by
commercial practices which exacerbate tensions within and between those
communities.
We must be wary of racial stereotyping and – at the same time – be
cautious about stereotyping race relations which are so often characterized
by ambivalence (Kovel 1970) and inexplicable anomalies (Piliavin et al.
1981). But the existence of random specificities can hardly add up to a
justification for discriminatory behaviour to every member of a racial
group. The existence of divergent rationalities can hardly excuse
programmes of wholesale persecution.

THE MINORITY GROUP THESIS

The whole question of persecution is related to what has been termed the
‘minority group’ thesis (e.g. Zanden 1972). This takes as its starting point
the assumption that attitude-formation, including prejudice, is inextricably
associated with group-formation. The thesis maintains that a minority group
is a formation which is singled out on the basis of physical and/or cultural
characteristics for unequal treatment, and is therefore the object of
collective discrimination and even persecution.
Broadly speaking, groups form in response to a sense of common
identity and a recognition of common interests. They therefore tend to
pursue common goals and, where hostility is evident, will normally unite in
the face of common need. The general characteristics of the minority group
are said to be:

1 that they suffer disadvantages at the hands of others, and this may
involve unequal treatment and exploitation;
2 that their group characteristics may be clearly visible, e.g. language,
colour, religion;
3 that they tend to develop a strong group identity perhaps because of
the shared experience of suffering;
4 that they are not usually a voluntary group: members are born into
the group and therefore it is virtually impossible for them to
relinquish membership;
5 that they are normally endogamous – a situation which may be
forced upon them by the dominant society.

Persuasive as this thesis is, it is subject to a number of serious

qualifications:
 1 The term ‘minority group’ is something of a misnomer because it
cannot simply refer to those who are numerically inferior only. The
minority may actually be the dominant elite as in, say, South Africa
(1:5) or better still, ancient Sparta (1:25).
2 Group characteristics may not always be clearly evident, as with
Jews who share a certain social ‘language’ but who have only very
tenuous links with the religious culture of Judaism.
3 Group identity, implying brotherhood and unity, may be something
of a myth, as with, say, the nationalist Jewish groups in Palestine
during the ‘troubles’ of 1946–7, or the warring Palestinian factions
in Lebanon today.
4 Group membership can be flexible, especially if it is not defined in
terms of colour but in terms of language and religion. It is worth
noting that the Nazis – the self-styled experts on race -made Jews
wear yellow stars on their clothing for easier identification. It
surely goes without saying that religious groups -historically some
of the most persecuted people – are almost invariably voluntary
groups.
5 Endogamy is admittedly the norm, but exogamy is by no means
unknown even in slave-citizen situations.

The ‘minority group’ is all right as a model, but it breaks down in the face
of actual circumstances. It is probably generally true to say that groups
often form through natural affinity, and not as the result of discrimination or
persecution. Furthermore, groups can be artificially created and perpetuated
for political purposes. And it is when these purposes claim ideological
justification that the fine line between racialism and racism is exposed.
If race is broadly defined as a biological subdivision of mankind which
is characterized by common ancestry and – more debatably – by common
physical features, then racialism may be defined as a recognition of these
distinctions for social purposes. People have differentiated between
themselves and others on some basis or other since time immemorial. As we
have seen, the ancient Egyptians, at least since the 4th Dynasty (i.e. from c.
2700 BC) spoke of the Nubians on their southern borders as ‘non-people’
and the Greeks regarded non-Greeks – even the sophisticated Persians – as
‘barbaroi’, i.e. people who could not speak the Greek language (Snowden
1983). The list of those who have made similar distinctions is endless.
Racism, on the other hand, is a relatively modern phenomenon. It can be
defined as the irrational belief – though usually perceived as rational – that
there are intrinsic qualities in racial groups which mark them as being
inherently superior/inferior to others. Such beliefs are ideologically
validated, and used as a basis for discrimination and even persecution. In
short, racism is prejudice intellectualized as fact.

PATTERNS OF RACE AND ETHNIC RELATIONS

If we view the question of race and ethnic relations comparatively and
historically we can see that there is a very wide spectrum of practices and
possibilities. In broad terms, these include (Simpson and Yinger 1972):

1 Assimilation which may be either racial or cultural, or both. In

practice, this often means that the culture of the dominant group is
actually adopted – a kind of east meets west situation. If – as in
some cases – assimilation is enforced, it simply aggravates matters
by reinforcing a consciousness of differences between those
concerned.
2 Pluralism where cultural diversity is either tolerated or positively
encouraged. But there are two things to note here. First, pluralism
may not mean de facto equality for all concerned, and, second,
pluralism may appear to be the best ‘solution’ in a particular social
context simply because assimilation – in the fullest sense – is either
impossible or actively resisted.
3 Legal protection of minorities/unenfranchised may be necessary to
protect underprivileged or unassimilated groups where blatant or
merely vestigial hostility exists.
4 Population transfer is an expedient which has been practised since
early times as a way of reducing hostility between groups. It acts as
a preventive measure against the possibility of armed insurrection
by dispersing populations and dividing their potential leadership.
Historically, it has taken many forms, ranging from the population
displacement activities of the ancient Assyrians, to Nazi slave-
labour practices (effectively a form of population dispersal), to the
more recent Africanization policies re Asians (e.g. in Uganda) and
the ‘home lands’ policies in South Africa.
 5 Subjugation is practised where the dominant group continues with a
policy of systematic repression because it has no intention of
sharing power with others. These may or may not be thought of as
inferiors – the real problem is that they are regarded as an ever-
present threat. Needless to say, it was a particular feature of
societies with large and potentially dangerous slave populations.
6 Extermination is obviously the most extreme ‘solution’ to the
problem of the alien group. Extermination may be accidental in
that it involves the inadvertent spread of infectious diseases as in
colonial Polynesia where there was no natural immunity against
such things as smallpox, measles, and even the common cold; or
incidental as part of a larger policy of repression as in Spanish
America; or cruelly methodical, in which case it may take the form
of either massacre or genocide.

MASSACRE AND GENOCIDE

Leo Kuper defines genocide as ‘a coordinated plan of different actions
aiming at the destruction of the essential foundations of the life of national
groups’ (Kuper et al. 1975: 22). This is fine in general terms, but three
qualifications need to be made about this statement: (1) Genocide does not
always entail the immediate annihilation of these groups; it may be a long-
term process. (2) It may not always involve national groups; cultural, racial,
religious, and even class groups could qualify. (3) The plan may not always
be co-ordinated; it may – at least, at first – just ‘grow’ by accident rather
than by design, like a kind of lethal snowball, or it may be the ‘rational’
development of other persecutory practices as with the Nazis whose ‘final
solution’ programme evolved from an unholy amalgam of pogroms against
the Jews and the enforced euthanasia of selected mental patients.
Does massacre, as such, constitute genocide? This is an interesting
theoretical question. Massacre, the mass killing of enemies – even captives
– has always been a feature of certain kinds of warfare. It can be seen as
part of the systematic depredations of the Assyrians (from the ninth to the
late seventh century BC). They fought mainly for territory and tribute, and
if they were thwarted or resisted they could be ruthless in the extreme
(Saggs 1984). In the Old Testament, their armies are likened to a ‘plague of
locusts’ which stripped the land bare. Their refinements included
deportations, slavery, mutilations, torture, and death. Ashurnasirpal II (d.
859 BC) recalls,

[of] those who rebelled ... I flayed all the chiefs and covered the pillar
with their skin . . . some I walled up . . . some I impaled. Many
captives from among them I burned with fire . . . from some I cut off
their noses, their ears and their fingers, of many I put out their eyes. I
made one pillar of the living and another of heads.
(Carlton 1973)

And so it goes on in a dispassionate and self-satisfied way.

Similarly, the Mongols in the thirteenth century AD, as we have seen,
pursued expansionist policies which entailed wholesale slaughter that was
unparalleled in the pre-industrial world. What is the point of carnage on this
unimaginable scale? Admittedly it inspired a sense of terror, and helped to
cow the masses into a necessary subservience, but neither the Assyrians nor
the Mongols had any unifying ideology. Their enemies were regarded as
military dwarfs, as effete degenerates who deserved their subordination. It
was largely slaughter for slaughter’s sake – all in the interests of power and
gain.
So is this genocide? And how does it relate to the question of race? By
definition, extermination is a feature of genocide which is consciously pre-
emptive in that it anticipates difficulties with the proscribed group, and
attempts to circumvent these by a systematic and final ‘solution’ to the
problem. Genocide differs from ‘simple’ massacre in so far as it is –
probably invariably – ideologically motivated.
Three general reasons can be hypothesized for persecution as a precursor
to genocide: political expediency, cultural incompatibility, and ideological
intolerance. It should be noted, however, that these are not mutually
exclusive; they can be related in subtle ways, e.g. one (say, ideological
intolerance) may be used as a cover/justification for another (say, political
expediency). They may be genuinely confused in the minds of the
persecutors themselves, and any one of them may disguise other hidden
(say, economic) factors which are crucial to the situation.

Political expediency
In all manner of societies it has been found expedient to subdue and exploit
an underclass. This is particularly true of complex pre-industrial societies
where the slaves, serfs, etc., were the machine-substitutes of the system. In
the Roman latifundia (slave-estates), for example, they were regarded as an
agrarian necessity, besides being useful for general domestic duties and
constructional work. The Romans could, at times, be quite ruthless with
those who questioned or resisted their right to rule, but wholesale slaughter
was not normally an instrument of occupational policy. There were
exceptions, of course, e.g. Caesar’s treatment of the Germans and Gauls,
but generally speaking the dominant groups in pre-industrial societies
utilized their underclass. They did not exterminate it.
The true political expediency motive can – as we have noted – be seen to
better effect in developed societies. The initial phase of the Russian
Revolution under Lenin, and the later ‘terroi’ of Stalin, may both be
considered genocidal in form. Under Stalin, the purges, the show trials, the
labour camps, enforced collectivization, etc., may have accounted for some
10 million people. And, on a much smaller scale, there were similar
atrocities in the satellite territories with the Communist takeovers after the
Second World War (Johnson 1983).

Cultural incompatibility
At the practical level, this is often very difficult to disentangle from
political considerations. This can be seen particularly in situations where
expansionism has involved the problem of what to do with the conquered.
They can sometimes be assimilated, the Norman-Saxon solution, or they
can be enslaved, or – failing this – they can be exterminated, the policy of
the Ottoman Turks who, under Sultan Abdul Amid, massacred all the
Christians in Trebizond in AD 1894. In this ‘legitimate’ expedient,
conducted over a period, about 100,000 people suffered (Barber 1974).
Colonialism, too, with all its attendant evils and benefits, has sometimes
exhibited a genocidal dimension. Much of the modern literature on
colonialism tends to concentrate on the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries,
especially Africa where coastal tribes conspired with European intruders to
attack tribes in the interior, killing unwanted villagers and enslaving the
able-bodied, and transporting them to the Americas (Elkins 1963). But one
should not forget the depredations of earlier civilizations, especially the
Spanish and the Portuguese in South Aiher-ica where rapacity and greed for
gold were strongly bound up with a fervent desire to convert the heathen
(Hagen 1974). Likewise it would be imprudent to ignore the many atrocities
committed by Africans against Africans, as in Nigeria and Burundi in the
1960s, which may have involved the deaths of over a million people; or the
African-Asian, Asian-Asian, and Indonesian conflicts which have too often
been overlooked in western society.
Neo-colonialism, the sort of thing to be found recently in Meso-America
and Afghanistan, is the focus of much current criticism and is often
operationalized by the ‘great powers’ through co-operative neighbouring
states. But in these situations, unlike those of some earlier forms of
colonialism, coercion is used selectively; intimidation and economic
sanctions are often found to be much more effective than outright
persecution.

Ideological intolerance
This can take a wide variety of forms and can range from straightforward
politico-cultural antagonism to irreconcilable religious conviction. It is also
often paradoxically associated with both group-envy and misunderstanding
and suspicion. Both were present, for instance, in Nazi attitudes to the Jews,
and the whole situation was compounded by the Aryan superiority myth,
Nazism saw itself as the agency that would purge the world of its most
‘persistent [racial] impurities’. The eradication of Jewry came then to be
seen as something of a providential mission. Interestingly, this idea was
largely absent from other forms of facism. For example, Spain had a long
tradition of anti-Semitism which stemmed, in the Middle Ages, from a
particular brand of extremist Catholicism, but it was never genocidal in the
tragic sense of the term. Another, more pertinent, example is Mussolini’s
Italy: although there were marked racist attitudes in some of the African
colonies, concerted persecution of the Jews did not really begin until 1938 –
and then possibly under German influence. Actual deportations of Jews
from Italy – which were not even endorsed by many of the fascist hierarchy
– did not take place until the German takeover in 1943. The ideological
dynamic was certainly behind the entire ‘final solution’ programme of the
Nazis (Hohne 1972).
 As soon as the Nazis came to power in 1933, a series of legal enactments
against the Jews came into force. These introduced every sort of
discrimination: Jews were dismissed from their posts, forced to relinquish
their property, deprived of citizenship, and forbidden to marry non-Jews.
Many emigrated, but moves to get out of Germany became increasingly
difficult, and those that remained were subjected to all kinds of physical and
social abuse. But all this was merely a precursor to the systematic
persecution that ensued after the German attack on Poland in 1939 and
successful invasion of France in 1940, and the Balkans and large areas of
Soviet Russia in the following year. Almost unbelievably, the Aryan
Research Department of the Reich, the Ahnenarbe, which provided the
philosophical and ‘experimental’ underpinning for that programme, cost
more to run than the ‘Manhattan Project’ (the building of the first atomic
bomb). So much for the insanity of irrational racial theory.
The outcome of these anti-Semitic sentiments – already clearly evident
in Hitler’s Mein Kampf - was to be seen in the carefully crafted ‘total
solution to the Jewish problem’. The sentiment became intellectualized as
ideology, and this, in turn, was operationalized as a full-scale extermination
industry in which it is estimated that some 150,000 people took part.
The policy became a programme, and its first phase began with the
activities of the Einsatzgruppen, extermination squads of the SD/SS (the
security forces) who followed the victorious Wehrmacht into the conquered
territories and killed some half a million people, mainly by shooting. In
many instances these were led not by brutalized thugs but by well-placed
German intellectuals like the cultured economist, Otto Ohlendorf, who was
eventually held responsible by the Allies for the murder of 90,000 people.
The second phase of the programme was more subtle and more
systematized. It was accepted from the outset that the world might not
understand, nor might many of the Germans themselves, so orders for its
operations were largely verbal, or where written were usually couched in
euphemistic terms; so wholesale slaughter was often expressed as
‘transportation’ and ‘resettlement’. This actually involved the mass
transportation and subsequent gassing of millions of Jews and others in
custom-built camps. The victims were mainly the old and the very young;
the fit and able were designated for other tasks – they could eventually be
worked to death. Everything, was highly routinized and – in the main –
carried out with dispassionate efficiency. The operation was deemed urgent
and vital, and – not least – justifiable. After all, Alfred Rosenberg, the high-
priest of Nazi race theory, had argued that Europe would not be safe until
the Germans had eradicated ‘the last evil traces of Jewry’ and a member of
his staff had elaborated that ‘the world would not gain rest until this fungus
of decomposition is extirpated’ (see Nova 1986). Hitler himself had likened
Jews to ‘tuberculosis bacilli’ and others had followed his lead with
references to ‘vermin’ and ‘microbes’. The programme was therefore seen
as a clinical necessity.
All this was the outworking of the Aryan superiority myth. The Nazis,
according to Professor Karl Alexander von Müller, president of the German
Academy of Sciences, were the leading protagonists in a ‘community of
destiny’, the inaugurators of a ‘New Order’ in Europe. Other systems were
old and discredited, and the war was really a titanic struggle against the
forces of tradition and cultural intransigence. More and more intellectuals
were recruited to support the ongoing crusade for the new Europe, a crusade
based not on outmoded liberal concepts of democracy, but on nature, race,
and geography. All responsible nations must therefore collude in the
solution of the Jewish question. So German institutes and scholars fostered
this ‘Europeanization’ of the Nazi mentality by helping their allies and
collaborators to set up anti-Jewish institutes and organizations.
Ideologies are sets of beliefs which define and validate the policies and
practices of particular systems. They may not be new or original; in fact,
they may simply recall already existing ideas and sentiments, as with Nazi
anti-Semitism (Greenleaf 1966). Certainly totalitarian ideologies may not
involve the imposition of new realities. Rather they are the rediscovery and
re-imposition of old realities. Ideologies, then, not only supply the
necessary imperatives for action, they also provide the system with the
requisite legitimations. It is important for a system to explain itself to itself
and to the world at large in order to justify its actions, and to those
individuals within its ranks who require psychological support.
Is the term ‘genocide’, therefore, used too loosely? It cannot, as we have
seen, simply mean massacre, although – by definition – mass killing is
necessarily involved. Genocide is relatively rare whereas massacre is –
sadly – not that uncommon. Neither can genocide simply mean persecution,
although this normally accompanies genocide. Strictly speaking, genocide
means the killing of a tribe (Greek, genos), i.e. the extermination of some
entire group. By extension this can imply the complete eradication of a
political, cultural, or religious entity. The totality of intention is important.
But what is crucial to any distinction between massacre and genocide is the
ideological dimension. It is not so much the mode of implementation of the
programme as the ideological imperatives which inform the system.
Ideology involves belief, and belief is not just conditioned by the context in
which it operates -important as this is. Belief matters. It is not just reactive
(contra Wright Mills 1960), it is often proactive. It is not simply a
dependent variable, an intellectualized response to political exigencies. In
certain circumstances, it becomes the dynamic of the situation.
Persecution and genocide, whether of racial or religious groups or
whatever, are not just the cynical exercise of cruelty by unconvinced
sadists. They are often the coldly methodical application of terror by
convinced ideologues. In the closing days of the Second World War, when
the Wehrmacht desperately needed rolling stock to bring its beleaguered
armies back for one last stand against the Allies, absolutely top priority was
still being given to the transportation of yet more Jews to the death-camps.
A very similar mentality can be seen in other impersonal extermination
systems from the Inquisition to the French Revolution. Pointless as they all
were, the ideology had to be realized. The genocidal impulse has its own
strange rationality. There is little that is more perplexing – or more
frightening – than the ‘true believer’ (Hoffer 1960).
 Section IV
WAR AND THE PROBLEM OF VALUES

As we now draw together the main threads of our discussion, we can see
that any examination of military values involves the question of values
generally. To what extent is the enemy seen according to a set of
predetermined values? Do particular encounters with the enemy condition
the formulation of such values? There are instances where the values
themselves seem to be implicit in particular military cultures as with, say,
the ancient Assyrians who regarded war as a way of life and their opponents
as so many exploitable sources of wealth. On the other hand, there are the
situations where the values appear to be imposed by a feared dictator or
highly regarded military leader, as was the case with Napoleon who came to
believe increasingly in his own invincibility, and saw his enemies as
military dwarfs (Nicholson 1985).
How, then, are values derived and how are they established? Are they to
be regarded as somehow ‘given’ in the nature of things, or are they
contrived for purposes of social harmony and cohesion? Here some analysis
is needed; this is important to any serious consideration of war and its social
implications. The term ‘value’ denotes shared cultural standards related to
objects of need, attitude, or desire. Their scientific importance is not so
much dependent upon their validity and ‘correctness’ as upon the fact that
they are believed to be true and correct by those who hold them. For the
scientific observer, values only have relevance if there is an observable
relationship between the actions of subjects (individuals, groups, etc.) and
the objects of their concern. Therefore, it is the holding of values and its
social manifestations which is, arguably, of primary concern.
 This begs the question as to whether there are such things as ‘objective
values’ – values which are true for all time. It must be admitted that this has
been given relatively little attention by social scientists. This is not because
it is deemed unimportant, but simply because it is generally regarded as a
problem which is ultimately insoluable. It is not, in some sense, a ‘false’
problem; it is just that it does not seem to permit any completely
satisfactory answers. Although there are no certain criteria for assessing
even the common values of society, no one seriously disputes that values
are important; they lie at the very heart of social experience and social
integration. The debate about values is not misconceived, but it is bound to
be inconclusive. Nevertheless it is indispensable to our understanding of
war and its justifications.
Values are inextricably bound up with perception. We ‘see’ things as we
want to see them. This certainly applies to perceptions and misperceptions
of the ‘enemy’; and it is a short step from misperception to
misunderstanding and misrepresentation. The enemy is very much an image
in the mind. This image may conduce to any one of a number of already
recognized stereotypes: a racial inferior, a class antagonist, etc.
Complementarity, the image may result from a mosaic of impressions
shaped by historical experience. Any image we may entertain of the enemy,
or, for that matter, any image the enemy may entertain of us, must be
influenced by a complex of factors – psychological and social – of which
we are not always consciously aware. And, as we have seen, these images
will reflect values which are expressed as beliefs/ideologies.
The underlying question here concerns the subordinate or superordinate
status of values. Do values determine our actions, or are they merely the
intellectualizations of the need for action? Or, in relation to war, do
particular values precipitate conflict or are they simply used to justify it?
Much will depend on particular situations, as our case studies have shown.
It will help to clarify matters if we break down the discussion into a
number of supplementary ‘problems’ and see how these can be related to
the question of war. The first and most tortuous of these is the problem of
origination. This poses the key question about how values arise, and is
concerned more with the forms and derivations of values than with their
social manifestations. Are values innate? Is it the thinking person who
establishes the standards of objectivity? Here the emphasis is switched from
the object to the subject, from the thing to be known to the knowing subject.
What is implied is that the individual is the ultimate source of values; the
values themselves may be socially conditioned but not socially derived. The
form the value takes is, therefore, not to be confused with the value itself.
The implication here is that people know instinctively or intuitively what is
right or wrong, good or bad.
This subjective certainty approach is open to all manner of objections. If
we assume that all people are born with the same values, how can we
account for moral and cultural differences? On the other hand, if we believe
that everyone is born with an individual sense of what is right and wrong,
how do we satisfactorily explain moral and cultural similarities? Perhaps
some elucidation of the problem is offered by the philosopher, Emmanuel
Kant, who maintained that all men have an innate sense of ‘ought’, but this
is socially conditioned in that men feel a sense of ought about different
things (Ewing 1953). Social experience structures the nature of obligation.
The need for values may, therefore, be innate, but exactly which values is
left undetermined.
By contrast, there is the view that values are socially derived. This view
probably has its greatest vogue among sociologists. Society, conceived in
its most general sense, is seen as the ultimate – and obvious – source of
human values. Indeed, it may be that it is part of the ideology of sociology
that values originate in society itself. To some extent, this may be a salutary
reaction against certain extreme forms of biological determinism, but it
involves the type of thinking which is only resolved by an unsatisfactory
social reductionism. In emphasizing the primacy of society, many
sociologists maintain that categories of thought are not inherent in man’s
nature as such, but are directly related to the group structures of the
particular societies to which men belong. Collective social life is the
primary reality; it ultimately determines the modes of cognition and the
principles by which reality is apprehended. Thus society ultimately
determines all our values, and this, by definition, includes the whole realm
of moral ideas (Durkheim 1968).
As a basis for moral values and moral authority, this kind of reasoning
has a frustrating circularity. In what conditions is value-formation supposed
to occur? And why does it take the forms it does? To say that society simply
produces values in and of itself explains nothing – it merely restates the
problem at one remove (Ginsberg 1956).
 In looking at the argument that values and categories derive from social
experience, we should also look at the argument which maintains that they
derive from differences of social experience. This is represented pre-
eminently by Karl Marx who maintained that men pursue fundamental
goals which, in turn, necessitate the formation of social relationships. These
are conditioned by the control of resources and the relations of production.
On these assumptions, human conduct can be explained in terms of the
logic of each situation which men face, and the problems which they are
compelled to solve. This kind of instrumental rationality, therefore, purports
to explain how the economic substructure of society has hegemonic
functions in relation to the wider institutional complex, and how economic
circumstances determine the intellectual and moral superstructure of society
(Aron 1965).
Marx held that needs and values derive from those whose practical
interests are capable of realization – the ruling class who are in a position to
influence both social sentiments and the social order. Values, therefore, are
an expression – even a contrivance – of the dominant class, and are
promoted to enhance and reinforce the interests of privilege. The conscious
manipulating and patterning of values, which may be a highly rational
process, itself constitutes an ideology. Marx went even further. He insisted
that the dominant class may actually hire intellectuals, artists, priests, and
philosophers to advocate that its social view is the social view, and that its
view of the truth is the truth. It is for this reason that Marx often relates
ideology to false-consciousness, for when the non-dominant class sees its
own situation in the terms which the dominant class has imposed, it may
then mzsperceive its situation, and still not be aware of the truth of its
condition. So, for example, many were susceptible – especially between the
world wars – to the plausible idea, perpetuated by some Marxists, that war
is really just a product of unscrupulous, capitalistic armaments
manufacturers. A view which is as simplistic as it is fallacious.
This whole approach poses a number of awkward problems. It is open to
question whether there is any one-to-one relationship between the
economic, social, and political circumstances of the individual or group,
and the values which they espouse. It certainly cannot be established that
moral and religious values are direct ‘translations’ of social experience. The
forms which they take cannot be explained, they can only be described.
Furthermore, if all social values merely reflect economic conditions, why
are so many basic values fundamentally similar in widely divergent
societies? This all raises what might be termed the ‘hall-of-mirrors’
problem. If all relations and the values which inform those relations are
socio-economically derived, and social consciousness is simply a function
of those relations, then so are all theoretical formulations which also
express those relations. We are again involved in endless circularity.
An interesting variant of the social origins view which is particularly
relevant here is the argument that social values derive from various social
pressures and contingencies which, in their specific historical forms, have
now become lost to memory. This leaves the values intact as given features
of a society which are then accepted without serious questioning. They
become part of the fabric of society, rather like subterranean forces
producing changed or new topographical features in the landscape whilst
themselves remaining incapable of specific identification (Elias 1977). It
could be argued that this is really Freudianism at one remove. Instead of
pushing back the origins of social values and practices to the unconscious,
we are asked to substitute an analogous process of sociogenesis. This is just
as unsatisfactory and equally unverifiable because it still does not answer
the question of why such practices developed or why they came to be
promoted as values.
Perhaps underlying this problem is the confusion in popular thinking
between the value itself and the form the value takes in any particular
society. We could take as an example the question of military honour. This
is an esteemed value among all military personnel, but it takes many
different forms. Sometimes these appear to be highly rationalized, but on
other occasions they may seem to be non-rational. For instance, in
traditional Japanese culture – and notably in the Second World War – there
was an extremely interesting, tragic relationship between honour and self-
destruction. For the ‘falling cherry blossom’ pilots of the Kamikazi, among
whom demand was surprisingly exceeded by supply, suicide was an act of
heroic desperation. For those of the sinking flagship Admiral Yamamoto in
one of the last great naval engagements of the war, it was a way of
expiating failure. For those too who vainly but courageously clung to the
Pacific islands, death had to be preferable to dishonour, and only a tiny
proportion were taken alive. This may help us to understand why the
Japanese treated Allied prisoners so atrociously; they had nothing but
contempt for those who had surrendered.
 Not everyone, of course, sees honour in these death-or-glory terms; most
cultures have not followed the Japanese pattern – certainly not at the
institutional level. Values may, therefore, only be relative in the sense that
they take different forms in different cultures. The ultimate goals of moral
action may be much the same everywhere.
A more extreme – but less popular – view is that values are based on
‘revelation’. This implies that values emanate from some extra-mundane
source. This tends to be dismissed almost out of hand by most social
scientists, (1) because by its very nature it cannot be substantiated, and (2)
because it involves metaphysical assumptions about which the social
sciences, per se, are unable to make valid judgements. Statements about the
ultimate verities of human existence stand outside their province. The
notion of supra-personal values connotes the religious dimension which
there is an all-too-ready tendency to dismiss without due consideration. In
the social sciences, explicit beliefs have often been taken as symbolic
expressions of something else: social consensus or national unity or
whatever. Beliefs in external referents – in actual supramundane beings –
have often been something of an embarrassment simply because such
possibilities are outside their normal terms of reference (Parsons 1971).
Nevertheless, naturalistic explanations of religious ideas and values have
been shown to be consistently unsatisfactory.
This supra-personal ‘solution’ implies belief in the objective status of
values regardless of their subjective apprehension and appropriation. Belief,
therefore, in the independent nature of values as opposed to the recognition
of certain value-forms severely circumscribes the possibility of value
relativism – the view that values are relative to particular cultures. The first
difficulty here is that where everything is believed to be relative, to cultures,
people, situations, or whatever, nothing can be known to be relative unless
there is a fixed point of reference (Kolb 1957). The view that all values are
relative, like the argument that everything is socially determined, can be
self-stultifying. It is really a variant of the idea that either everything is
‘true’ or that nothing can be known to be ‘true’ – including the statement
that nothing can be known to be true (Hospers 1961). The whole argument,
therefore, becomes infinitely regressive. The second difficulty is in the
confusion between ends and means. A more analytical approach to the
problem suggests that it is the means that are relative, not the ends of
human action. So, for instance, the search for status could take the form of
competitive games among the Greeks, but head-hunting among the Dyaks.
A further problem is that of the prioritization of values. This may be
calculated on the basis of whether or not they are held to be socially useful,
or the extent to which they are regarded as socially workable. Underlying
all such systems of values is some implicit notion of rationality. This may
assume that the values themselves, or at least some of them, are rationally
chosen, or it may be a complementary assumption that the values are
essentially non-rational but that the means whereby they are pursued are
rationally chosen. This can be illustrated in terms of war and aggression. It
cannot always be discerned – let alone explained – why men have recourse
to war. But having once decided on war as the possible solution to their
problems, they prosecute the war as effectively and efficiently as they can.
The ‘means’ of human action are readily understood, but the ‘ends’ may
involve the pursuit of some amorphous ideas such as national honour or the
vindication of a religious ideal. In a strictly technical sense, such goals are
not ‘rational’, but may simply be regarded as worthwhile, in themselves,
and therefore not in need of any further justification.
Values, then, are concerned with the ‘grounds of meaning’, i.e. the basic
perspectives from which groups and societies organize their lives. They are
orientations towards the problems of life; indeed, they are the vehicles
whereby men invest their activities with clarity and purpose. But the
question still remains as to whether they choose – perhaps even contrive –
certain values for practical purposes, or whether the values themselves
dictate the actions that are taken. How any particular action can be
attributed to any particular value is probably beyond scientific
demonstration; the connection may be psychologically persuasive, but
cannot be logically deducible from the value itself (Parsons 1966).
The problems of origination and prioritization admit no satisfactory
solutions. The arguments are illuminating and often provide the basis for
further discussions, but there is no indication that this can be done with any
sense of finality. Therefore, the only practical course of action is simply to
accept values as part of the human condition and as necessary components
of the social process. In effect, it seems much like the response that people
make to the most fundamental issue of all – the matter of human existence.
Most people spend few of their waking moments ruminating about the
imponderables of life and its possible meanings – they simply live it. The
issues are resolved pragmatically; people usually do what works.
This should, however, be qualified in at least one important respect. In
certain sets of circumstances, people will often cling tenaciously to certain
values even though they seem to be denied by experience. For instance,
when people in many traditional societies were defeated in battle, they did
not abandon the gods who had let them down, but rather believed that the
gods had abandoned them because of some real or imagined infringement of
the ritual law. In 332 BC when Alexander conquered Tyre and in his pent-
up anger and exasperation had 2,000 men crucified and 30,000 women and
children sold in slavery, the Tyrian priests could only chain the idols of their
gods to the altar lest they desert them. Such is the potency of deeply held
ideological conviction.
Whether to adopt or adapt values raises another issue, namely, the
problem of rationalization – a term sceptically defined as giving good
reasons for bad actions. This, in turn, raises questions about expediency and
justification in relation to values and is particularly pertinent to any
discussion of war and aggression. To highlight the problem, we might take
the matter of patriotism which – in the form of loyalty -appears to be a
universally held value. It enshrines the virtues of courage and duty and
carries with it the implicit notion of a willingness to die for one’s country
and one’s friends. But one difficulty – among many – is to decide who are
one’s friends. This presented few problems in tribal societies where people
were usually only too well aware that their ‘friends’ were those to whom
they were closely connected by ties of kinship. And kinship relations were
often coterminous with spatial relations, so they were often the people in
the same village or, possibly, neighbouring villages. Complementarity,
those against whom one was called out to fight might also be well known,
perhaps even personally. They would be traditional enemies, and it is most
likely that the occasion for war would be appreciated by all members of the
tribes or groups concerned; it would be a ‘cause’ in which all could share.
But the idea of patriotism becomes far more worrying when we extend it
from simple societies to state-type societies.
For example, in medieval England a yeoman would be called by his
local lord, who, in turn, would be rallying men for the baron who would
take his orders from the king. Feudalism was essentially a system of social
control, so the baron had certain obligatory commitments in return for the
king’s patronage. The grievance which occasioned any particular war might
well be something to do with the king’s claim to lands in France. This
would obviously mean little to the yeoman, who might never have heard of
Aquitaine or Brittany, or wherever it was that the king claimed as his
possession. He would simply be told that the French were the enemies of
the king, and therefore his enemies too. But he would not feel this to be true
until the battle was actually joined, and it became a choice between their
lives and his.
The entire issue becomes much more complicated with modern states.
For the Englishman, for instance, the traditional enemy keeps changing.
Until the last century it was France – with certain marginal additions. Then
it became Germany and now it is possibly the Russians and the Chinese,
both of whom were our allies in the last world war. It is highly doubtful if
many Englishman feel any enmity towards any particular Russian or
Chinese. But they are reliably informed that these people are not to be
trusted, and that they may even be bent on their destruction. This is not to
say that such fears are entirely groundless, although there is always the
suspicion that distrust and hostility may be manufactured or, at least,
exaggerated by those whose particular interests are threatened. And
patriotism may be invoked to support their interests. Such seemingly natural
responses as loyalty and disloyalty can – in a variety of situations –
crystallize into values such as patriotism which, if violated, can carry quasi-
legal implications of treason. It hardly needs to be stressed that if there is a
Third World War, it will probably bring such instant and incredible
destruction that there will be little opportunity for patriotism and heroics.
This is not to decry such values, but merely to question their practicality in
certain possible circumstances.
One can also see rationalization even more obviously at work in the case
of religious belief. We have examined the relationship between religion –
particularly institutionalized religion – and war and found that it is a
fascinating study in incongruity and ambiguity. It takes many forms,
ranging from post facto religious ‘explanations’ to the positive instigation of
aggression in the name of religious necessity. This probably applies to most
religious systems, and particularly the ‘high’ religions which are totalizing
in their demands for commitment and propagation. Certainly the history of
Christianity is tainted in this respect. As we have seen, it is exemplified in
the Crusades against the Islamic Saracens in the Middle Ages, and in the
later depredations of the Spanish Catholics in parts of South and Meso-
America, not to mention the sorry saga of Christians against Christians – all
ostensibly in the interests of some particular doctrinal position or sectarian
line. And none of this is unusual; similar situations can be found in Islam
and Judaism. The foregoing discussion has shown us that war can always be
justified by suitable exegetical manipulations or satisfied by ecclesiastical
fiat. But whether religious systems have always been the initiating agencies,
or whether religion has simply been ‘used’ to justify policies and practices
that were determined elsewhere, is still open to dispute – and investigation.
Lastly, we come to the problem of legitimation which is inextricably
bound up with the question of ideology. This takes us back to the beginning
of our discussion. We began by considering the fundamental issue of the
relationship between belief and action. We asked in what ways does belief –
intellectualized as ideology – affect social behaviour and, more specifically,
military activity? And we have found that although it is impossible finally
to demonstrate any direct correspondence between any specific ideological
belief and any particular social form or pattern of behaviour, it can be
shown that the association – if not conclusive – can certainly be persuasive.
We have noted, too, that ideologies are forms of belief-system which
explain and justify a preferred social order or situation. This may already
exist or simply be proposed, in which case the ideology may constitute a
believed strategy for its attainment. This may then generate an emotional
appeal which, in turn, may call for some kind of moral commitment. This
can be seen particularly in relation to the establishment of totalitarian
regimes where these infused ideals help members to interpret – or
reinterpret – their past, explain their present, and anticipate their future.
Sometimes ideologies seem to be self-sufficient and self-explanatory, yet
sometimes they are self-contradictory and internally inconsistent. How, for
example, could classical Athens purport to represent the democratic ideal,
yet try to enforce that ideal among its allies by subversion and even
repression? How could she claim to lead Greece against Persian
imperialism when she was in the process of carving out her own Empire by
similar means? Ideologies involve beliefs in ‘true’ principles which are not
usually open to negotiation. In their religious forms, they are frequently
inflexible and absolutist, and their strong inspirational orientations may
have little time for logical proofs other than those enshrined in traditional –
and perhaps unquestioned – codifications. Ideologies can undergo
development, especially when pragmatism demands some modification of
doctrine in the light of changed circumstances. But normally ideologies are
typically resistant to change. So, to cite classical society once again, the
Athenians – contrary to custom – were prepared to use their slaves as
warriors in the direst extremities of the Peloponnesian War, but once the
emergency was over, they resorted to traditional norms and their slaves
were returned to their slave-type activities.
As belief-systems, ideologies sometimes claim to discern what is or
ought to be. They do not simply exist to legitimate practice. Bizarre as they
can often be, they are hardly the flights from reality’ that some writers have
maintained (Arendt 1958). Rather, they are often attempts to discover or
rediscover an old, or ‘true’, or ‘original’ reality; an atavistic retracing of
history to recapture certain believed natural principles of equality or
superiority, or whatever, as is so often true with modern totalitarian
ideologies. For instance, we know that the Nazis generated extreme anti-
Semitic feeling in Germany in the 1930s and 1940s, but we also know that
these sentiments were already present in the nineteenth century. So a
counter claim could be made that the Nazi ideology merely sanctified and
encouraged existing ideas about the Jews in Germany, and helped to give
them legitimate expression. In such cases, normal tests of reality may
actually be inappropriate; all that can be studied are the factual assertions,
the reliability of the promises and predictions, and their feasibility in given
historical situations. Ultimately, one can never apply logical tests of their
truth or falsity.
In a sense, ideology is to politics and religion what poetry is to music
and literature. As poetry is the music of words, so ideology is the
harmonization of rhetoric. It is a particular fusion of aims and capacities in
that it reconciles human aspiration with human frailty. In the last analysis,
its formulation and popularization may not be amenable to rational
explanation.
But having said all this, it would be a mistake to dismiss ideologies as
errant nonsense, or to claim – as some theorists do – that they are mere
contrivances which aid the dominant classes in their repression of the
masses. This conspiracy, or interest, view of history does not take into
account the many other ways in which ideology functions, or how it enables
a society to explain itself to itself (Carlton 1977). Similarly, it would be
unwise to see ideologies simply as substitutes for scientific facts or as ideas
that derive from discrepancies in our understanding of those facts. Yet they
can often operate in this way, as with racist ideologies, where there is
sometimes a confusion or distortion concerning biological facts and the
cultural ideas associated with those facts. On the other hand, ideologies may
play an inspirational role in circumstances where science has no final
answer, as in the case of religious belief.
The very idea of society presupposes social control, and this is
inseparably linked with ideology. Why do members of society conform and
continue to co-operate in the maintenance of any system? Presumably
because people subscribe to the given structures of society either out of
expediency or from a sense of moral commitment. Expediency can involve
the threat or actual use of coercion which may take physical, moral, or even
symbolic forms. Agencies such as the army and the police operate for
control purposes, but these agencies are obviously not the only ways
whereby control can be achieved.
Social control requires legitimation, and a belief in the legitimacy of the
social order is inculcated and cultivated in a variety of ways. If members of
a society are to fulfil their obligations, it follows that ‘there must be
available a morally acceptable explanation of the society’s particular system
of institutional arrangements, including its social disparities’ (Nottingham
1964:42). An ideology, then, adds a special – perhaps convenient –
rationality to social arrangements. Ideology is, of course, implicit in all
systems; capitalism with its market economy is just as much underpinned
by its respective ideology as communism. Systems simply vary in their
degree of conviction and commitment. Ideology may provide a total
explanation of those arrangements as in, say, extreme Islamic systems, or,
where it cannot supply all the necessary legitimations, it may simply play a
reinforcing role as it does in more pluralistic systems.
An ideology’s credibility rests upon its ability to demonstrate workable
solutions to those that believe. But even for the adherent, it may not just be
a matter of economic gain or political advantage; the ideology may serve
much wider purposes by satisfying questions concerning the moral order
and the meaning of things. These help men to cope with the uncertainties
and ambiguities of life. They provide rules, specific goals, and theories of
rights and obligations which enable adherents to evaluate, too, the conduct
and beliefs of others. They are therefore guides to collective action and
judgement. It follows that aggressive acts based upon believed ideological
imperatives cannot simply be dismissed as rationalizations. Thus, the
‘jihad’, or holy war, of Islam is taken as a cause to which all ‘right-thinking’
Muslims should be committed. It is not simply an artifice or a contrivance
to justify political ambition. Of course, it can be this too – motives are
always mixed; so much would depend upon the complexion of the
particular Islamic group or sect involved. Given these assumptions, the west
would do well to take the ideological dimension seriously; indeed, it could
hardly do otherwise with the persisting powder-keg situation in the Middle
East.
Ideologies, then, have a number of social functions. They are of
incalculable worth to authoritarian regimes, partly because they tend to
anaesthetize the intellectual and doubting processes, and partly because
even where individuals demur at the margins, the ideology will usually
ensure that they will conform and comply according to socially approved
cues. But social order cannot rest exclusively – or even primarily – upon
force; ‘even the tyrant must sleep’. The ideology is usually something that
the majority accepts, and the degree of consent may depend very largely on
the extent to which the ruling hierarchy believes its own doctrines, and, of
course, on the ways in which it presents and justifies its case.
Ideologies can be classified in a number of ways. One of the most useful
is the well-established distinction between conservative and revolutionary
ideologies. The conservative ideology is virtually self-explanatory; it is
concerned with that which supports the interests and values of existing
social arrangements – whatever these happen to be. It might well be
associated, or even identified, with a religious belief-system of a society, in
which case it will uphold the structural arrangements of that society whilst
also legitimating its traditions. So we find in the Old Testament that when
the Israelite war-leader, Joshua, led the tribes into the Promised Land
(Canaan-Palestine), he was able to declare that his wholesale destruction of
certain cities, e.g. Ai and Jericho, was a ritual necessity. These cities were
herem (accursed), according to Israelite belief. This meant that every living
thing had to be put to death, the towns and their movables were burnt, and
the metal objects removed and dedicated to Yahweh (Joshua 6. 18–24).
This, of course, was a practice that was not peculiar to the Israelites or to
the Old Testament. For instance, we find from extra-biblical sources that
Mesha, King of Moab in the ninth century BC, boasted that he had
massacred the entire Israelite population of Nebo in honour of his god
Ashar-Kemosh.
These are really yet further examples of the ‘holy war’ which in other
forms is still with us. All these acts are invested with divine sanction and
authority, and are therefore regarded by the participants as legitimate and
without need of further justification. This was evident in both sides in the
Crusades. The Crusader knight and the Islamic Saracens were equally
convinced of the lightness of their cause, and both were prepared to pursue
their religious convictions to their ultimate conclusion. There were, of
course, other interests at stake – economic gain, political advantage, and the
more amorphous virtue of warrior status – yet there is little doubt that the
primary imperatives were religious. But whether motives can justify
method is another issue. Much of the reasoning behind these campaigns
may be regarded as ‘honourable’, but the ways in which the objectives were
realized is open to question. Does the conviction that your enemy is an
infidel and unbeliever justify his physical extermination?
A quite different case is presented by the Aztecs. Here the motivation can
be construed as virtually unadulterated. It is true that these people were
following in a tradition which had been well established in Meso-American
society for at least a thousand years before their time. But it is rare to find
war so inextricably bound up with the ‘need’ for sacrifice. The assumption
that all ideas and practices are generated by socioeconomic needs must be
called into question by the Aztec experience. The ‘needs’ argument does not
explain the cosmology itself, nor why this extensive bloodletting should in
any way be connected with the survival of the universe. Admittedly, the
Aztecs were a politically aggressive people who were bent on becoming the
dominant power in the Mexican hinterland. Their short and productive
history makes that amply clear. But there is no reason to suppose that what
they saw as their cosmic mission was only a convenient religious
rationalization to disguise their obvious territorial ambitions. It is difficult
to avoid the conclusion that here we have a reasonably unambiguous
instance of ideology as, an independent variable.
Whilst some of the societies we have examined were obviously informed
by religious imperatives, others were seen to be more problematic. The
ideologies here are secular in tone, and are not so easy to categorize. The
Mongols were clearly motivated – like so many expansionist societies – by
territorial ambition and were quite ruthless in the pursuit of their aim. They
were also the most unashamedly rapacious of all the societies we have
examined. Their consuming passion was conquest for conquest’s sake; the
will to conquer became an ideology in itself. As with other nomadic
peoples, the cheapness of their equipment and their superior mobility made
them virtually invincible. Subject populations probably preferred the
exactions of unifiers such as, say, the Romans, to the devastation and
pillage wrought by predatory tribesmen; at least such exactions were
predictable – they knew where they were. The Romans, on the other hand,
were expansionists in quite a different mould. They came to see their
continued success in their early wars as evidence not only of a right to
conquer but also of a right to rule. Their control of the Mediterranean world
and beyond for the best part of six hundred years was interpreted as a
mission to bring a particular form of civilization to others. In the later
empire period – partly out of conviction and partly out of expediency –
more and more non-Romans were allowed to join the club. The policy of
domination gave way to unification; and nationalism was extended to
imperialism.
Whereas conservative ideologies are directed towards the preservation of
the social status quo, revolutionary ideologies – by definition – are more
concerned with the possible disruption of the current social order. This is
the case with most modern ‘freedom’ movements throughout the world,
though it is often difficult to know if the ideological imperative concerned
is basically Marxism or nationalism. This is exemplified by movements as
different (or similar?) as the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia and the US-backed
Contras in Nicaragua. In the Marxist-inspired movements in particular, the
ideology in question is avowedly secular, but curiously religious in tone. It
is fervently held and applied with evangelical zeal to the detriment of its
opponents. As with so many ideologically motivated systems, extremes
meet. It is then not unusual for a revolution to devour its own children.
An interesting variant is the reactionary ideology. These can derive from
either conservative or revolutionary forms because they usually support the
restoration of certain revitalized versions of the system. Mahdism, for
example, would be a case in point. The Shiah Muslims have believed since
the ninth century that in Allah’s good time the ‘well-directed one’ would
again lead Islam to worldwide victory. The true Mahdi would destroy the
wicked and convert all mankind to the true faith. A number of supposed
Mahdis have appeared in Muslim history, most notably Mohammed Ahmed
(d.1885), the leader of a temporarily successful revolt in the Sudan in the
late nineteenth century. The intention was both political, in that it was
directed against British rule, and religious, in that it was an attempt to
purify the current social order by the extermination of the infidels. Although
it failed – as indeed it had to, considering the respective resources of the
contenders – it had considerable success in mobilizing the Arab world in
what it saw as a just cause. Mahdism is, of course, still extant in somewhat
modified forms. It is a very potent force, and is particularly attractive to the
more extremist elements in the Muslim world who want to call believers
back to the pristine truths of Islam.
Interiorizing this entire discussion has been the implied distinction
between religious and secular ideologies. Indeed, the term ‘ideology’ is
often used interchangeably with that of religion. This is merely a matter of
convenience; technically, they are not necessarily the same thing. Arguably,
all religion is ideology, but not all ideology is religion. Both are concerned
with belief-systems, but whereas ideology can be defined inclusively to
encompass such things as Nazism and nationalism, the term ‘religion’
should be definitionally linked to the supernatural. However, we have found
that whether war is motivated by religion, nationalism, economic necessity,
or sheer rapacity, it seems to make little difference to the actual conduct of
war. Where religious imperatives are evident, they undoubtedly add an extra
dimension to the problems of instigation and justification. Men can be just
as unfeeling and indiscriminately cruel no matter what the ideology.
Bravery too does not seem to depend very much on belief; people from all
cultures display courage. On the other hand, what may be broadly called
nobility in war may have some relationship to belief.
Whatever form the ideology takes, what ultimately matters is specificity
of control, and the evocation of an obedient response. So our interest is not
only in the nature of ideology, but also in the manner in which it is
implemented. Ideology is a ‘tidy’ weapon. It can be the most potent – and
certainly the least expensive – means of persuasion and justification in all
political affairs. War, by contrast, is untidy. It is, of course, often necessary,
but it is almost always expensive and grossly inefficient, the product,
ultimately, of man’s irrationalism. It is rather a pity that the two so often go
together. They make a formidable combination.
So we end with the problem with which we began, still asking the
question: is aggression inherent in the human makeup, and if it is, what can
be done about it? Is man really the ‘master of his fate’ and the ‘captain of
his destiny’, or is he at the mercy of the dark forces which may be part of
his very nature? Is recourse to violence simply a primitive phase which
future man will eventually outgrow? Man is a paradoxical creature; he
seems to need enemies to hate, and comrades to share the risks of dealing
with them.
Certainly the history of civilization to date does not leave much room for
optimism. Nor, of course, do current trends. The industrialization of war
may have largely erased old ideas of soldiering, but the age-old attitudes to
enemies, and the preparedness to use force, still generate a frightening
instability in the modern world. Indeed, there has been a quantum leap in
the possibilities for mass destruction at a distance since the advent of the
bomber. In one sense, this makes warfare even more horrific: to kill
dispassionately an enemy you cannot see and certainly do not know adds a
dimension of calculated insensitivity to the whole enterprise (Wright Mills
1960).
War is now a growth industry. It is estimated that at the present time
something in the order of one-tenth of all the world’s resources are being
used in preparation for war. Indeed, it might be argued that with those
resources growing smaller, there will be a reversion to type as men
scramble for the limited remains. Half the world is still hungry, and
tomorrow – and each day – there will be another 200,000 more mouths to
feed. There is still illiteracy and ignorance, and – above all – unnecessary
premature death through lack of education and health care (McGraw 1983).
With so much eradicable need and with so many natural enemies, it seems
incomprehensible that men should add to their number by the wholesale
carnage of war.
The capacity for violence certainly seems to be endemic to mankind.
War seems to be ‘macroparasitic’ – a disease of the species (W. McNeill
1983). Macroparasites – as opposed to bacterial microparasites – are those
which specialize in violence and survive by taking from others. Fortunately
disease-experienced populations are more resistant to infections than others.
But no one is immune.
Of course, in all kinds of circumstances, war has its advantages. In
ancient Greece it certainly contributed to the development of democratic
structures. City-state warfare required the formation of citizen armies, and
this meant that war was no longer the privilege of an aristocratic elite.
Similarly, in Rome patricians made increasing concessions to the plebeians
who were needed to defend its borders as its empire expanded. But there is
a very real sense in which these advantages were mere by-products of an
otherwise questionable activity.
The socio-economic arguments that we have considered for the
incidence of war obviously have some cogency, but are they sufficient as
all-embracing explanations? As we have seen, war is not waged for any one
reason. Not only do the reasons vary with different societies but also with
the same societies at different times. Undoubtedly, economic factors play a
critical part in the waging of war, but they certainly do not ‘explain’ every
war, or why societies with their economic wants satiated will still pursue
expansionist policies to their eventual economic disadvantage, as was the
case with imperial Rome. In many societies socio-political status rather than
economic need has been the key problem. It has not been so much a matter
of possession scarcity as position scarcity, as Thucydides made clear in
relation to Athenian-Spartan conflict in the fifth century BC. Racial issues,
too, have sometimes been prominent, though history shows that it has
usually been power relations rather than race relations that have been the
critical factors as in, say, the conquests of the Americas which also had
marked ideological overtones.
It is perhaps here that war and aggression should be separated.
Socioeconomic factors undoubtedly condition the forms that aggression
takes – particularly as war – but they do not account for the aggression
itself. Furthermore, it is difficult to explain in purely social terms what we
might call the autotelic nature of much warlike activity – the apparent
enjoyment of war for its own sake; nor do socio-economic factors account
for the pathological ferocity which often accompanies the actual execution
of war. This can be vaguely ascribed to cultural norms and these, in turn, to
faulty socialization which is often cited as the real ‘cause’ of human
violence. But this is, in fact, no explanation at all. Socialization, as such,
does not account for the values implicit in war, only for the perpetuation of
those values. Socialization is not an explanation, it is merely the description
of a process; it does not – and cannot – account for the values themselves.
It seems impossible, therefore, to accept that aggression is simply the
result of faulty learning, and war no more than a cultural invention. These
popular views are hardly supported by even a superficial reading of history.
Perhaps people believe this because they want to believe it. It seems to
accord with that optimistic view of human nature which regards the
individual as unsullied until he is corrupted by the contaminating influence
of society. There is a kind of monumental insanity about mankind which is
not helped by persistent claims that the problem is all a matter of inadequate
socialization or unequal distribution. This insistence that man is somehow
better than his performance is a myth without any real evidential foundation
(Davies 1944). If man is not naturally aggressive, that is to say if aggression
is alien to his ‘real’ nature, why does he continue to solve his problems by
war? One suspects that this is a view which has been well-meaningly
perpetuated by those who wish to see man as victim of the past, of society,
of the system, or whatever. Contrary to accepted sociological ‘truth’, the
reverse may be the case. Things may only change, not when society
changes, but when man comes to terms with his own remediable nature, and
takes an intelligent purchase on his own future.
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Lukacs, G. (1971) History and Class Consciousness, London: Merlin.
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Marx, K. and Engels, F. (1965) The German Ideology, Foreign Languages Publishing House.
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Nottingham, E. (1964) Religion and Society, New York: Random House.
Pareto, V. (1935) The Mind and Society, New York: Harcourt, Brace.
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Plamenatz, J. (1971) Ideologies, London: Macmillan.
Polantzas, N. (1975) Political Power and Social Classes, London: New Left Books.
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CASE STUDIES
Adorno, T. et al. (1950) The Authoritarian Personality, New York: Norton.
Aldred, C. (1956) The Egyptians, Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Aldred, C. (1972) Akhenaten, Tunbridge Wells, Kent: Abacus.
Andrewes, A. (1976) The Greek Tyrants, London: Hutchinson.
Barber, N. (1974) Lords of the Golden Horn, London: Macmillan.
Barber, R. (1974) The Knights and Chivalry, London: Cardinal.
Barrow, R. (1963) The Romans, Harmondsworth, Middx: Penguin.
Becker, P. (1966) Rule of Fear, London: Panther.
Bengtson, H., ed. (1969) The Greeks and the Persians, London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson.
Bloch, M. (1965) Feudal Society, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul.
Boak, W. and Sinnigen, W. (1965) A History of Rome to A.D. 565, New York: Collier-
Macmillan.
Bowra, C. (1971) Periclean Athens, Harmondsworth, Middx: Penguin.
Brandon, S. (1969) Religion in Ancient History, London: Allen & Unwin.
Breasted, J. (1906–7) Ancient Records of Egypt, vol. 2, Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Bridge, A. (1980) The Crusades, London: Granada.
Burland, C. (1976) Peoples of the Sun, London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson.
Burn, A. R. (1976) The Pelican History of Greece, Harmondsworth, Middx: Pelican.
Bury, J. and Meiggs, R. (1978) A History of Greece, London: Macmillan.
Caesar (1951) The Conquest of Gaul, trans. S. A. Handford, Harmondsworth, Middx: Penguin.
Caesar (1967) The Civil War, trans. Jane Gardner, Harmondsworth, Middx: Penguin.
Carlton, E. (1973) Patterns of Belief, vol. H, London: Allen & Unwin.
Carlton, E. (1977) Ideology and Social Order, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul.
Carpenter, Rhys (1973) Beyond the Pillars of Hercules, London: Tandem.
Chambers, J. (1979) The Devil’s Horsemen, London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson.
Cohen, D. (1970) Conquerors on Horseback, New York: Doubleday.
Collier, J. (1956) Indians of the Americas, New York: Mentor.
Coon, C. (1962) The History of Man, Harmondsworth, Middx: Penguin.
Cornfeld, Gaalyahu et al. (1964) Pictorial Biblical Encyclopaedia, London: Macmillan.
Covensky, M. (1966) The Ancient Near Eastern Tradition, New York: Harper & Row.
Crawford, M. (1978) The Roman Republic, London: Fontana.
Darlington, C. (1969) The Evolution of Man, London: Allen & Unwin.
David, A. R. (1982) The Ancient Egyptians, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul.
Davidson, B. (1974) Africa in History, London: Paladin.
Davies, J. (1978) Demoaacy, and Classical Greece, London: Fontana.
Dawson, R. (1972) Imperial China, Lpndon: Hutchinson.
Dawson, R. (1975) The Legacy of China, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Deaux, K. and Wrightsman, L. (1984) Social Psychology in the SO’s, Monterey, Calif.:
Brooks/Cole.
Dicks, H. (1972) Licensed Mass Murder, London: Chatto/Heinemann.
Driver, H., ed. (1964) The Americas on the Eve of Discovery, New York: Prentice-Hall.
Ehrenberg, V. (1968) From Solon to Soaates, London: Methuen.
Elkins, S. (1963) Slavery, New York: Grosset.
Fagan, Brian (1984) The Aztecs, Oxford: Freeman.
Fine, J. (1983) The Ancient Greeks, Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard
University Press.
Finley, M. I. (1968) Ancient Sicily, London: Chatto & Windus.
Finley, M. I. (1971) The Ancient Greeks, Harmondsworth, Middx: Penguin.
Fitzgerald, C. (1966) The Birth of Communist China, London: Pelican.
Fitzhardinge, L. (1980) The Spartans, London: Thames & Hudson.
Fohrer, Georg (1973) History of Israelite Religion, London: SPCK.
Forrest, W. (1971) A History of Sparta, London: Hutchinson.
Fryer, J. (1975) The Great Wall of China, Sevenoaks, Kent: New English Library.
Gabel, C, ed. (1964) Man Before History, New York: Prentice-Hall.
Ganshof, F. (1952) Feudalism, London: Longman.
Gardiner, A. (1961) Egypt of the Pharaohs, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Gillingham, J. (1978) Richard the Lionheart, London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson.
Gonen, Rivka (1975) Weapons of the Ancient World, London: Cassell.
Grant, M. (1969) Julius Caesar, London: Panther.
Greenleaf, W. (1966) Oakeshott’s Philosophical Politics, London: Longman.
Grunberger, R. (1964) Germany 1918–1945, New York: Harper & Row.
Hagen, V. von (1961) The Aztec: Man and Tribe, New York: Mentor.
Hagen, V. von (1974) The Golden Man, Lexington, Mass.: Heath.
Haralambos, M., ed. (1985) New Directions in Sociology, Ormskirk, Lancashire: Causeway.
Harden, D. (1971) The Phoenicians, Harmondsworth, Middx: Penguin.
Harris, M. (1978) Cannibals and Kings, London: Collins.
Harvey, J. (1967) The Plantagenets, London: Fontana.
Herm, G. (1975) The Phoenicians, London: Futura.
Herrman, Siegfried (1975) A History of Israel in Old Testament Times, London: SCM.
Herzog, C. and Gichon, M. (1978) Battles of the Bible, London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson.
Hoffer, E. (1960) The True Believer, New York: Mentor.
Hohne, H. (1972) The Order of the Death’s Head, London: Pan.
Howell, F. (1971) Early Man, New York: Time-Life.
Howell, F. and BourHere, F., eds (1964) African Ecology and Human Evolution, London:
Methuen.
Hoyle, Fred and Hoyle, Geoffrey (1971) The Molecule Man, New York: Harper & Row.
Hudson, G. (1971) Fifty Years of Communism, Harmondsworth, Middx: Pelican.
Humble, Richard (1980) Warfare in the Ancient World, London: Guild.
Innes, H. (1969) The Conquistadores, London: Collins.
Jeffrey, L. (1976) Archaic Greece, London: Benn.
Johnson, Paul (1985) A History of the Modern World, London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson.
Keaveney, A. (1982) Sulla: the Last Republican, Beckenham, Kent: Croom Helm.
Keller, Werner (1980) The Bible as History, Revised, London: Hodder & Stoughton.
Kitchen, Kenneth (1977) The Bible in its World, Exeter, Devon: Paternoster.
Kovel, J. (1970) White Racism, New York: Pantheon.
Kuper, L. et al. (1975) Race, Science and Society, London: Allen & Unwin.
Lenin, V. I. (1969) Selected Works, London: Lawrence & Wishart.
Lenski, G. (1976) ‘Social structure in evolutionary perspective’, in P. Blau, ed., Approaches to
the Study of Social Structure, Wells, Somerset: Open Books, Chapter 8, 135–53.
MacGregor-Hastie, R. (1961) The Red Barbarians, London: Pan.
Mayer, H. (1972) The Crusades, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Mitchell, H. (1952) Sparta, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Morris, D. (1967) The Washing of Spears, London: Sphere.
Murray, Margaret (1963) The Splendour that was Egypt, London: Sidgwick & Jackson.
Niemeyer, G., ed. (1966) Outline of Communism, London: Ampersand.
Nova, Fritz (1986) Alfred Rosenberg, New York: Hippocrene.
Oliver, R., ed. (1968) The Dawn of African History, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Oliver, R. and Fage, J. (1966) A Short History of Africa, Harmondsworth, Middx: Penguin.
Oliver R. and Oliver C. (1965) Africa in the Days of Exploration, New Jersey: Spectrum.
Parsons, T. (1966) Societies: Evolutionary and Comparative Perspectives, Englewood Cliffs,
NJ: Prentice-Hall.
Payne, Robert (1962) The Roman Triumph, London: Pan.
Phillips, E. (1969) The Mongols, London: Thames & Hudson.
Picard, G. and Picard, C. (1968) The Life and Death of Carthage, London: Sidgwick &
Jackson.
Polybius (1981) The Rise of the Roman Empire, trans. Ian Scott-Kilvert, Harmondsworth,
Middx: Penguin.
Powell, A. (1988) Athens and Sparta, London: Routledge.
Purcell, Victor (1970) The Rise of Modern China, Historical Association.
Ritter, E. (1967) Shaka, Zulu, London: Panther.
Roberts, B. (1977) The Zulu Kings, London: Sphere.
Roberts, J. (1984) The City ofSokrates, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul.
Rodzinski, W. (1984) The Walled Kingdom, London: Flamingo.
Runciman, J. (1968) A History of the Crusades, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Saggs, H. (1984) The Might that was Assyria, London: Sidgwick & Jackson.
Saunders, J. (1971) A History of the Mongol Conquests, Barnes & Noble.
Scullard, H. (1963) From the Gracchi to Nero, London: Methuen.
Simpson, G. and Yinger, M. (1972) Racial and Cultural Minorities: an Analysis of Prejudice
and Discrimination, New York: Harper & Row.
Smart, Ninian (1974) Mao, London: Fontana.
Snowden, Frank (1983) Before Colour Prejudice, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University
Press.
Soustelle, J. (1961) Daily Life of the Aztecs, Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press.
Southern, R. (1959) The Making of the Middle Ages, London: Arrow.
Southern, R. (1970) Western Society and the Church in the Middle Ages, Harmondsworth,
Middx: Penguin.
Steindorff, G. and Seele, K. (1957) When Egypt Ruled the East, Chicago: University of
Chicago Press.
Thompson, L. (1972) African Societies in Southern Africa, London: Heinemann.
Thucydides (1972) The Peloponnesian War, trans. Rex Warner, Harmondsworth, Middx:
Penguin.
Vaillant, G. (1965) Aztecs of Mexico, Harmondsworth, Middx: Penguin.
Vaux, Roland de (1973) Ancient Israel, London: Longman.
Warmington, B. (1964) Carthage, Harmondsworth, Middx: Pelican.
Warry, John (1980) Warfare in the Classical World, London: Salamander.
Weber, Max (1930) The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, New York: Scribner.
Weissberg, A. (1956) Advocate for the Dead, London: Deutsch.
White, L. (1962) Medieval Technology and Social Change, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Wilson, J. (1956) The Culture of Ancient Egypt, Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Wittfogel, Karl (1966) The peasants’, in G. Niemeyer, Outline of Communism, London:
Ampersand.
Wright Mills, C. (1960) The Causes of World War III, New York: Ballantine.
Xenophon (1949) The Persian Expedition, trans. Rex Warner, Harmondsworth, Middx:
Penguin.
Zanden, J. (1972) American Minority Relations: the Sociology of Racial and Ethnic Groups,
Oxford: Ronald.
 INDEX

Abelard, Peter 97
Abu Simbel 35
Aduatuci 78
Africa 36, 132, 136, 137–40, 143, 172, 173
aggression institutionalization of 169, 194, 195;
nature of 3–17; see also war
Ahab 89, 90
Alexander the Great 9, 53, 59, 144, 186
Althusser, L. 24–5, 31
Amalek/Amalekites 92
Amaziah 93
Amenhophis IV (Akhenaten) 37–8
Amenhotep II 41–2
Amenhohep III 39
Anatolia see Turkey
Andreski, S. 9
Antony, Mark 79
Appian 80
Arapesh (of New Guinea) 2
Archer and Garner 4
Argos (Argolid) 46
Aristophanes 51
Aristotle 59–60
Arveni 78
Assyrians 3, 8, 30, 54, 59, 82, 85, 88, 89, 91, 92, 93, 94, 173, 174–5,
180
Athens (Athenians) 10, 14–15, 30, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 51, 53, 54–5, 56,
59, 63, 143ff., 188, 194
atrocities (and sacrifices) 32, 41, 43, 52–3, 55, 62, 64, 66, 72–3, 75–6,
78, 91–2, 102–3, 105–6, 108, 115, 116, 119ff., 136, 137, 138–9,
140–1, 145, 152, 157, 158, 161, 162, 166, 174, 176, 177–9, 191
Augustine 3
Augustus 68, 71, 79
Aztecs 16, 32–3, 119ff., 191–2

Babylon (Babylonia) 36, 59, 82–3, 91, 93, 94

Baghdad 117
Bantu 132, 137
Batu 116–17
Berkowitz, L. 4, 12
Bernard of Clairvaux 104, 105, 108
Boers (Dutch in South Africa) 132, 134, 135, 136, 137, 140, 141–2
British, settlers in South Africa 132, 136, 137, 140, 141–2
Bushmen 132, 137
Byblos 36
Byzantium 68

Caesar, J. 6, 68, 70, 74, 76–9, 175

Canaan/Canaanites 57, 81–3, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92; see also Israel
Carthaginians (Carthage) 29, 30, 57ff., 68, 71, 72, 79
Catania 63
Cetshwayo 141
Chiang-Kai-Shek 158, 160–2
China 110–18, 156ff.
Chinese Communists see Maoism
Christianity (Christian Church) 31, 32, 96–100, 103–8, 187
Cicero 70
Qeon 151
Cleopatra 79
Constantine 104
Corinth 46, 53, 149
Corsica 66
Crassus 76, 77
Crete (Cretans) 42, 45, 46, 82, 143
crime statistics 7–8
Crusaders (Crusades) 20, 32, 95ff., 187, 191
Cyprus 36, 42
Cyrus the Great 144

Dallas 7
Dani 2, 17
Darius 59, 144
David 82, 89, 91, 93
Delian League 10, 149–50
de Vaux, R. 94
Dingane 140
Diodorus 62
Dionysus 63–4
Dorians 46
Durkheim, E. 14
Dyaks 185

Egypt (Egyptians) 9, 10, 14, 16, 24, 30, 34ff., 59, 78, 82, 85, 87, 88,
89, 91, 125, 172–3
enemy, perception of ix, 29–32, 40, 43, 54–6, 58, 60, 62, 88, 92–4,
100, 102, 103, 105, 108, 111, 115, 117, 126–31, 142, 150, 166, 181,
186, 194
Ethiopia 36
Etruscans 59, 67, 71
Exodus see Israel

feudalism 95–7, 111, 187

Freud, S. 4, 6
Fromm, E. 12
Fynn, Henry Francis 133, 139

Gaul(s) 6, 71, 72, 77, 78

Genghis (Chingis) Khan 111, 114, 117
genocide see atrocities
Gibbon, E. 14
Gideon 81, 91
gladiators (games) 75
Goliath 88
Gramsci, A. 23–4
Greeks (in general) 6, 8, 10, 14–15, 24, 27, 42, 45ff., 58, 59, 60, 61,
63–4, 65, 67, 68, 72, 79, 82, 83, 91, 143ff., 173, 185, 194

Hadrian 68
Hamilcar 61
Hamilco 62, 64
Hammurabi 87
Hannibal 61, 62–3, 66
Hebrews see Israel
helots see slavery
Helvetia 77
Henry II 101
Heracles 49
Herihor 40
Herodotus 34, 35, 61, 144–5
Himera 61–2
Hitler, Adolf 177, 178
Hittites 42
Hobbes, T. 3, 39
Homer (Iliad and Odyssey) 46, 58
Homosexuality see sexual mores
Hottentots 132, 137
Huitzilopochtli 119, 120, 124–5, 129

ideology ix, x, 9, 18ff., 29, 31–2, 37, 38, 42–3, 49, 62, 64–5, 79, 81,
85, 87–8, 91, 92–4, 95, 96–100, 103–8, 120, 123–31, 152–3, 154,
166–7, 172–3, 175, 177–9, 180ff.
Ionia see Turkey
Islam 16, 20, 94, 103, 104, 117, 118, 187, 190, 191, 193; see also
Muslims
Israel (Israelites) 32, 35, 36, 81ff., 105–7, 191
Italy 8, 72, 74, 75, 143, 177

Japan (Japanese) 157, 160–2, 165–6, 184

Jerusalem see Israel
Jews 75, 91, 104, 105, 170–1, 172, 177–9, 189
Jívaro 2
Jonathan 82
Joshua 92, 191
Judah see Israel

Kadesh 42
Kant, E. 3, 182
Khafre 34
Khmer Rouge 31, 192
Khublai Khan 117
Khufu 34, 35
knights see Crusaders
Kung Bushmen (of the Kalahari) 2
Kuomintang 158, 160–2, 163, 166
Kuper, Leo 174

Laconia see Sparta

Lebanon 29, 35, 36, 57, 172
Lenin 155, 156, 165, 176
Leónidas 51
Lepchas (of Sikkim) 2
Levy, R. 11
Libya 39, 43
Lorenz, K. 5
Lorrain, J. 28
Lukacs, G. 23
Lycurgos 47
Lysander 53, 151

Machiavelli 3
Mahdi (Mahdism) 193
Mannheim, K. 22–3, 154
Mao-Tse-Tung (Maoism) 29, 31, 154ff.
Marathon 144
Marius 68, 72–3, 74, 75
Martel, Charles 96
Marx, K. 21–2, 31, 154, 182–3
Marxism 13, 21–5, 27, 31, 131, 154, 192
massacre see atrocities
Mau-Mau 21
Maya 16, 119
Melos 46, 152
Menkaure 34
Menninger, W. 4
Mentuhotep 35
Mesha 191
Meshwesh see Libyans
Mesopotamia 34, 38, 83, 84, 86, 87, 90, 116; see also Assyrians;
Babylon
Messenia 46, 47, 55
Miami 7
Milgram, S. 11
militarism 3, 9, 31, 32, 43, 49ff., 54, 61, 111, 124, 128, 130–1, 133,
152, 184, 192
military organization and tactics 39–42, 51–3, 59, 60–1, 62–3, 68, 71–
4, 88–92, 100–3, 110, 111–14, 128–30, 133, 135–6, 138, 148–9
Mithridates 73
Mongols 30, 31, 54, 110ff., 175, 192
Mont 43
Montezuma 121
Montgomery, Field Marshal 6
Mosca, G. 13
Moses see Israel
Mpande 140–1
Murray, M. 42
Muslims 9, 29, 96, 101, 104, 107, 117, 190, 193
Mycenae (Mycenean) 42, 46

Napoleon 180
Nazis 6, 19, 29, 31, 170–1, 172, 173, 174, 177–9, 189, 193
Ndebele (Matabele) 132, 138
Nervii 78
Nguni 132, 140
Nicaragua 192
Nicias 153
Norman Conquest 95, 176
Northern Ireland 12
Nubia (Sudan) 10, 36, 39

Ogdai 116
Ohlendorf, Otto 23, 178
Olmecs 119

Palestine see Israel

Palestinians 172
Pareto, V. 22
Parsons, T. 19, 25, 34
Parthians 78
Payne, R. 76, 80
Peloponnese see Sparta
Peloponnesian War 53–5, 150–2, 188
Pentateuch see Israel
Perikles 151
Persians 31, 52–3, 54, 55, 59, 61, 82, 116, 144–5, 173, 188
Peter the Hermit 9
Philistines 42, 82, 88, 91, 92
Phoenicians 29, 57, 63, 82
Plamenatz, J. 20
Plataea 52–3, 144
Plato 45, 50
Plutarch 50, 57
Polantzas, N. 25
Polybius 65
Pompeius (Pompey) 68, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78
Popes 97, 98, 100, 103, 116–17
Prescott, J. 4
Ptah 16
Pueblos 29
Punic Wars 65–6, 68
pygmies (of the Ituri forest) 2

Quetzalcoatl 124, 130

race 7–8, 9, 32, 168ff., 189

Rameses II (the Great) 16, 35, 42, 82
Rameses III 16, 38
religion see ideology
Richard I 106
Romans 6, 25, 30, 31, 55, 57, 59, 60, 63, 65–6, 67ff., 83, 94, 104, 175,
192, 194, 195
Rosenberg, Alfred 178

Sabines 71
Saladin 106
Salamis 52, 61
Samnites 71
Samson 81
Samuel 91
Saracens see Islam; Muslims
Sardinia 39, 42, 58, 66
Saul 82, 91, 92
Scipio Africanus 66
Scythia (Scythians) 90
Sea Peoples 16, 42
Sennacherib 89
sex (and sexual mores) 50–1
Shaka 133, 135, 136, 138–9
Sicily 8, 42, 58, 61, 62, 64, 65, 70, 71, 143, 151
Sidon 57
slavery (and serfdom) 41, 48, 55, 71, 75, 84, 85, 93, 111, 114, 121,
122–3, 124, 126, 147–8, 152, 175, 176
Smenkhakare 37
socialization 49–51, 123–4, 128, 133, 135–6, 195
Socrates 47, 146
Solomon 82, 89, 91, 93
Soviets (Soviet Union) 156, 157, 159, 162, 163, 165
Spain 58, 61, 62, 67, 68, 75, 77, 104, 177
Spanish Conquistadores 16, 30, 119, 120, 121, 124, 129–30, 187
Spartacus 75–6
Spartans 3, 30–1, 45ff., 145, 149–51, 172, 194
Spencer, H. 5
Stalin 155, 176
Suevi 78
Sulla 68, 69, 72–3, 74, 75, 76, 77
Swazi see Nguni
Syria 42, 82, 117
Syracuse 62, 63–4, 66, 153

Tahiti 11
Tenochtitlan (Mexico City) see Aztecs
Tezcatlipoca 127
Thebes (Egypt) 35
Thebes (Greece) 51, 53, 54, 55, 145, 152
Thermopylae 51, 52
Thucydides 30, 46, 48, 153, 194
Tlaloc 120, 124, 127
Toltecs 16, 119
Trajan 68
Troy 42, 46
Turkey (Turks) 8, 36, 42, 89, 100, 103, 105, 106, 116, 143, 176
Tutankhamun 37
Tyre 57, 58–9, 185

Uganda 173

Vagts, A. 3
values see ideology
Veneti 78
Vercingetorix 78
Vietnam 30

Waffen SS 17
Walzer, M. 10
war (and warfare) ix, x, 1ff., 52–3, 55, 62, 63, 65, 70, 71, 73, 74, 75,
78–9, 82, 90, 98, 111–17, 136–7, 138, 140–2, 144–5, 150–2, 155–6,
160–1, 162, 166–7;
as a biological necessity 3–8;
as a cultural product 11–14;
as an economic expedient 8–10;
and ideology (religion) 9, 15–17, 18ff., 29, 31–2, 41ff., 53ff., 62,
64–5, 91–4, 100–8, 124, 128–31, 152–3, 154, 180ff.;
and moral decline 14–15
Weber, M. 31
women 51, 147

Xenophon 8, 45, 51, 53

Xerxes 145
Xhosa see Nguni
Xipe 127

Yahweh see Israel

Zama, battle of 66
Zulu 17, 30, 45, 132ff.