THE SWANSEA UNIVERSITY HISTORY AND CLASSICS STUDENT ONLINE JOURNAL

ISSUE 1: JANUARY 2015

ISSN 2056-7901

2

This journal is published by students and staff of the Department of History and Classics at

Swansea University.

The online version of this journal can be found at

http://gorffennol.swansea.ac.uk/?page_id=38.

ISSN 2056-7901

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval

system, or in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the

publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form or binding or cover other than that in

which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed

on the subsequent publisher.

Cover design by Jed Rual

© Swansea University

We are grateful to the National Museum of World Cultures (Amsterdam) for kindly letting us

use an image from their collection: National Museum of World Cultures. Coll. no: TM-496-3,

and to the British Museum for the use of the Horus Cippus Stela image.

We would like to thank SALT (the Swansea Academy of Learning and Teaching) for the

generous start-up funding they provided, and Phil Brophy particularly for acting as mentor of

the project. We would also like to thank Dr Steven Gray (History and Classics) for

proofreading the penultimate draft.

3

Gorffennol: Background and aims

Gorffennol is Welsh for Past. It is the online student journal of the History and Classics

Department at Swansea University. It produces two journal issues a year as well as regular

blog posts. It is run by an editorial team consisting of students and members of staff from the

Department.

The online journal is published biannually and showcases outstanding student

assignments from all subject areas in our Department (hence ‘Past’ as this includes

everything from ancient Egypt, Greece, and Rome through the Medieval period to the early

modern and modern periods).

On our website http://gorffennol.swansea.ac.uk/, you can find regular blog posts by

students and staff on module-specific research. There links to the website from module

Blackboard sites, so you can find out what excellent work in particular modules looks like.

This project has received funding from the Swansea Academy of Learning and

Teaching (SALT). It works as a pilot project not only to display excellent student work, but

also to help our students increase their career skills by providing them with editorial

experience.

A note for current students

Please note that these articles may not be used as references in your own assignments.

Although these essays received a first class mark, they may still contain errors, and the

responsibility for the content of the essays ultimately lies with their authors. Please do not

rely on these assignments for your own: plagiarism is severely punished. We publish essays

with either APA or MHRA referencing, as both are accepted by the College.

4

Gorffennol

Volume 1

Table of Contents

Year One

Laura Wiseman, ‘Behind Hittite lines’, written for Introduction to ancient Egyptian

History and Civilisation (CLE121)

6

Catriona Allon, ‘Was the Falange fascist?’, written for Europe of Extremes (HIH121)

15

Year Two Oliver Leighton, ‘What benefits could a small city expect from joining a large

hegemonic league?’, written for Greek City States (CLH264)

23

Sam Price, ‘In what way can the Wehrmacht be viewed as complicit in atrocities

committed by the SS against Jews, POWs and civilians in Russia?’, written for

Occupied Europe (HIH258)

33

Edwin Rose, ‘How important was religious affiliation to the reception of the

Copernican account of the universe in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries?’,

written for Athens to Los Alamos: Science in the ancient and modern worlds

(HIH260)

41

Year Three Lois Robinson, ‘How important was rope to antiquity?’, written for Ancient History

Dissertation (CLD300)

53

Charlotte Watts, ‘Why is water an effective ingredient in rituals, when it is considered

a source of danger in Ancient Egypt?’, written for Magic and ritual in ancient

Egypt (CLE335)

62

Howard Leung, ‘In what ways did the city of Batavia slowly adapt to the realities of

life in tropical Java?’, written for European Empires in the East (HIH3178)

78

Gemma Almond, ‘To what extent has the concept of ‘deformity’ affected Richard III’s

image and character?’ written for Blood and Roses: England 1475-1500

(HIH3258)

88

5

Gorffennol

Cyfrol 1

Tabl Cynnwys

Blwyddyn Un

Laura Wiseman, ‘Tu ôl i linellau Heth’, a ysgrifennwyd ar gyfer Cyflwyniad i Hanes a

Gwareiddiad yr Aifft Hynafol (CLE121)

6

Catriona Allon, ‘A oedd y Ffalanche yn ffasgaidd?’, a ysgrifennwyd ar gyfer Ewrop o

Eithafion (HIH121)

15

Blwyddyn Dau Oliver Leighton, ‘Pa fanteision allai dinas fach ei disgwyl o ymuno â'r gynghrair

arglwyddiaethol fawr?’, a ysgrifennwyd ar gyfer Dinas-wladwriaethau Groeg

(CLH264)

23

Sam Price, ‘Triniaeth carcharorion rhyfel gan fyddin yr Almaen yn yr ail ryfel byd’, a

ysgrifennwyd ar gyfer Ewrop Feddianedig (HIH258)

33

Edwin Rose, ‘Pa mor bwysig oedd cysylltiad crefyddol i dderbyniad cyfrif Copernicws

o'r bydysawd yn yr unfed ganrif ar bymtheg a'r ail ganrif ar bymtheg?’, a

ysgrifennwyd ar gyfer Athen i Los Alamos: Gwyddoniaeth yn yr henfyd a'r byd

modern (HIH260)

41

Blwyddyn Tri Lois Robinson, ‘Pa mor bwysig oedd rhaff i hynafiaeth?’, a ysgrifennwyd ar gyfer

Traethawd Hir Hanes yr Henfyd (CLD300)

53

Charlotte Watts, ‘Pam bod dŵr yn gynhwysyn effeithiol mewn defodau pan y'i hystyrir

yn beryglus yn yr Aifft Hynafol?’, a ysgrifennwyd ar gyfer Hud a Defod yn yr

Aifft Hynafol (CLE335)

62

Howard Leung, ‘Ym mha ffyrdd yr addasodd dinas Batafia yn araf i wirioneddau

bywyd yn Jafa drofannol?’, a ysgrifennwyd ar gyfer Ymerodraethau Ewropeaidd

yn y Dwyrain (HIH3178)

78

Gemma Almond, ‘I ba raddau mae cysyniad ‘anffurfiad’ wedi effeithio ar ddelwedd a

chymeriad Rhisiart III?’ a ysgrifennwyd ar gyfer Gwaed a Rhosod: Lloegr 1475-

1500 (HIH3258)

88

6

Behind Hittite Lines

The battle of Kadesh has been a topic of much discussion, and is indeed a vital source of

evidence with regard to our understanding of military operations during the second

millennium BCE.1 That aside, it is also highly valuable to use as a starting point from which

to assess the internal politics and the reasons that were behind the eventual treaty between

Ramesses II of Egypt, and Hattusili III of Hatti, in the formers 21st year of reign. The treaty,

initiated by Hattusili III, came after a period of great animosity between the two rival

kingdoms. What was it then that convinced these two ‘Great Kings’, to abandon hostility and

enter into a relationship of ‘Brotherhood’ and co-operation?

From looking at ancient sources, in particular the Egyptian version of events,2 one

could easily be persuaded by the hyperbole of Egyptian interpretation that Ramesses II had

full control of the situation in Syria and therefore, the upper hand in decisions behind the

treaty. However, this form of style and presentation are typical of Egyptian ideology and it

was in fact Hatti that had control over important border territories such as Amurru.3 Egypt

was undoubtedly a powerful rival, but having the territorial advantage the Hittites did, why

did Hattusili III feel a treaty was needed?

Looking at the treaty, some conclusions to this question could be drawn, and the idea

that possibly Hattusili III was more concerned with the politics within his country and the

loyalty of his subjects, than any actual military threat from Egypt.4 In comparing the two,

both the Hittite and Egyptian versions seem to be mostly identical but there are some

1 Morris (2005), p. 362.

2 For translations of the battle of Kadesh see Breasted (1962), pp. 142-157. See also the ‘Poem of the Battle of

Kadesh’ in Kitchen (1996), pp. 2-14. 3 After the battle, Hatti had control of Kadesh, Amurru and had even pushed the Egyptians back as far south as

Aba giving them a confortable ‘buffer-zone’; see Bryce (1992), pp. 261-262. 4 Liverani (2001), pp. 133.

7

exceptions,5 as noted by Langdon and Gardiner (1920). In the opening to both, there is a

subtle difference in the references to the kings (Ramesses II and Hattusili III), which again

highlights Egyptian ideology. The cuneiform tablets for example,6 make no distinction be 4

tween the two and both are referred to as šarru rabû (Great King). In the Egyptian text

however, the pharaoh is referred to as ḥqȝ ʿȝ n kmt (Great King of Egypt) and the Hittite king

as wr ʿȝ n ḫtȝ (Great Prince of Hatti). It is worth noting however, that this practice was used

by the Egyptians to distinguish the pharaoh from any foreign rulers, rather than to show any

contempt toward the Hittite king.7

Another difference between texts is the clause referring to the legitimacy of Hattusili

III’s rule to be acknowledged by Ramesses II, and also that the pharaoh should provide

protection to his successors. This seems to reflect the insecurities Hattusili III may have had

towards rival nobility in Hatti, and also from Urhi-Tesup who at the time was seeking refuge

in Egypt.8 There is no such clause applied to Ramesses II, and indeed the idea that an

Egyptian king would need assistance from a foreign king in the matter of succession, would

have been completely in conflict with Egyptian ideology.9 Furthermore, an interesting detail

which should be noted is the omission of both Muwatalli and Urhi-Tesup, from the genealogy

contained at the beginning of both the Hittite and Egyptian versions.10

This might also be

concluded as an intention by Hattusili III to authenticate the legitimacy of his claim as ruler

and again highlights his political insecurity, and potentially the reason why a treaty was

needed.

5 The Egyptian version (Karnak and Ramessum stelae), represents the translations form the Akkadian version

written on a silver tablet: the Hittite version is written from a copy of a tablet addressed from Ramesses II to

Hattusili III; see Spalinger (1981), p. 299. 6 Discovered by Hugo Winckler at Boghazkoi in 1906; see Luckenbill (1921), p. 161.

7 Spalinger (1981), p. 302.

8 Bryce (1999), pp. 292-293.

9 Liverani (2001), p. 133.

10Spalinger (1981), p. 309.

8

The Hittite political structure, compared by Van de Mieroop (2009), as to that of

‘medieval western European vassalage’,11

was governed over by a ‘Great King’ and included

a number of vassal states and ‘buffer-zones’. While many of the key states were ruled over by

minor Hittite kings (Carchemish for example, who was also a relative), many (the ‘buffer-

zones’) remained under their own rule. An important factor in maintaining and strengthening

relationships between these states was through the marriage of a minor king to a female

relation of the ‘Great King’.12

So while these autonomous states did have some power, it was

ultimately the ‘Great King’ who had authority over the land.13

It was this structure, however,

that would provide problems for Hattusili III during his battle for power with Urhi-Tesup.

Despite rallying enough support against his nephew to usurp him, there did not seem to be

unfaltering loyalty from the nobility of Hatti.14

Doubtless then, much of his time would have

been spent trying to reconcile those who opposed him and certifying his legal position as

king.15

Hattusili III’s ‘Apology’ seems to have been composed to justify this usurpation of

Urhi-Tesup to the influential members of Hittite society,16

and an attempt to secure his line of

succession.

In addition to this need to stabilise his station as ‘Great King’ within his own borders,

Hattusili III would have been intent on securing his position from rival kingdoms: recognition

from other ‘Great Kings’ would help to fortify his claim against his nephew as rightful

ruler.17

Anxiety of status from opposing kingdoms was a typical feature of Bronze Age

diplomacy,18

and Hattusili III’s position was definitely precarious. He sort to reconcile with

Assyria as situations between the two had been increasingly strained during Urhi-Tesbup’s

11

Van de Mieroop (2009), p. 162. 12

Benteshina, King of Amurru for example was married to a daughter of Hattusili III; see Bryce (1999), p. 294. 13

Kuhrt (2000), pp. 267-268. 14

Bryce (1999), pp. 288-289. 15

Brand (2007), p. 26. 16

Collins (2007), p. 58. 17

Brand (2007), p. 22. 18

Avruch (2000).

9

reign. The lost vassal state of Hanigalbat had renewed its allegiance with Hatti and in doing

so had incurred the retaliation of Assyria,19

who had in turn re-claimed the land causing it in

turn to lose its vassal status. Rowton (1959) writes that it was Hattusili III who had been on

the throne, and that it was he, whom had refused in writing, to refer to the Assyrian king,

Adad-Nirari, as ‘Great King’. It seems now however, to have been during the reign of Urhi-

Teshup that the defeat of Wasasatta of Hanigalbat had taken place.20

If this attack had

happened later, and it was indeed Hattusili III whom had sent the letter, then tensions with,

and possible attacks from Assyrian, could have been a reason behind the need for a treaty

with Egypt. But as Bryce (1999) and Brand (2007) suggest, if it was Urhi-Tesup that had sent

the letter during his reign, then concerns over Assyrian threat seem less likely.

Whichever king had sent the letter however, the fact remains that there was no love

lost between the two kingdoms. This might have been why a treaty with Egypt would have

seemed more appealing to Hattusili III than with that of the Assyrian king. Adad-Nirari could

also have been in a position to help secure his kingship, just as Ramesses II went on to do.

Nonetheless, on evaluation of his position, seeking peace and ‘brotherhood’ with the king of

Egypt may have been more enticing to the troubled king, Hattusili III, than losing face to the

Assyrians.21

In addition to this point regarding Assyria, is the consideration of the likelihood

of a treaty between Egypt and Assyria, as had happened during the reign of Tutankhamun.

The possibility of this re-unification could have had a devastating effect to the Hittite position

in Syria.22

Hattusili III may have contemplated this fact on entering into talks with Ramesses

II.

Babylonia was another kingdom, one of equal status with that of Egypt, Hatti and

Assyria, to which Hattusili III sought recognition from. During his reign, he was in contact

19

While preoccupied with the Battle of Kadesh, the Assyrian king had seen his chance and had seized the Hittite

vassal state of Hanigalbat. 20

Bryce (1999), p. 283. 21

Brand (2007), p. 30. 22

Morris (2005), pp. 374-375.

10

with the Babylonian king, Kadasman-Turgu, to offer treaty and seek help against Ramesses

II, who, as mentioned above, was in possession of the usurped Urhi-Tesub. Unfortunately for

Hattusili III however, the death of the Babylonian king shortly after the treaty was in place,

was disregarded by his son, Kadasman-Enlil II. The young king restored Babylonia’s

diplomatic relationship with Egypt, possibly under the influence of his anti-Hittite vizier, Itti-

Marduk-balatu.23

Hattusili III would likely have been unable to push the situation under fear

of angering Babylonia, and in doing so, fortify the Egyptian-Babylonian relationship further

against Hatti.

The exiled Urhi-Tesup had sort contact with rival kingdoms of Babylonia and

Assyria, in order to gain assistance against his uncle.24

Hattusili III’s underestimation of the

determination with which Urhi-Tesup would use to regain the throne, had allowed his

position to be placed under threat. Urhi-Tesup’s plans to gain foreign support to his cause

however, were discovered and halted, and a new place of exile was purposed by his uncle.

Unfortunately for Hattusili III, his nephew escaped and as previously discussed, ended up in

the Egyptian court of Ramesses II.25

Hearing the pharaoh’s refusal to return the usurped king

would likely have been a huge blow to Hattusili III and his position as king. Fear of an

attempt to regain the throne by Urhi-Tesup with Egyptian backing, which would have placed

Hattusili III in a very vulnerable position, would therefore have been another valid reason for

a seeking a treaty with the Egyptian king.26

Despite rivalry between these four kingdoms, open war was highly unlikely to have

been an intention of any of the ‘Great Kings’. War of that size would have been long and

costly with the likely chance of no eventual winner. Instead, to uphold the ideology of

23

Bryce (1999), pp. 292-293. 24

Ibid. p. 290. 25

Bryce (2006), p. 5. 26

Brand (2007), p. 23.

11

kingship, these rulers sought to impose authority by taking control of border territories.27

The

political structure of these vassal states meant that allegiances could interchange between

rival countries, either through duress or allurement. Just as Hatti and Egypt fought over

Kadesh and Amurru, the area of Mitanni and Hanigalbat, had long been fought over by both

Hatti and Assyria.28

By looking to the political history of these great kingdoms, it is easy to

see why treaties were an important part in foreign relations. The acceptance of status as

‘Great King’ was vital to the progress and stability of a country.29

Being classed as an equal

would decrease the risk of border hostility, while countries of smaller status, would require

the protection and assistance from their larger neighbours.

It seems to have been the politics within his own country that was behind Hattusili

III’s need for a treaty. His military position over Syrian (lands such as Amurru and Kadesh)

was strong, evidence of the power the Hittite’s held, and despite the loss of Hanigalbat, the

Assyrians had not tried to advance further into Hittite territory. Likewise, the Babylonian

King did also not pose any real threat to the stability of Hatti.30

Indeed, Hattusili III’s main

concern seems to have been the legitimacy of his reign, especially owning to the fact that

both sons of Muwatalli were alive and could threaten his position. As Van de Mieroop (2010)

suggests, Hattusili III’s need to write his ‘Apology’ could be an indication of his trying to

convince some levels of Hittite society of his right to rule and to appease any local resistance.

There is acknowledgement within his ‘Apology’ that he was openly opposed.31

He saw an

opportunity then, to not only strengthen his rule, but also that of his successors.

In signing a treaty, Ramesses II had pledged himself to not only recognise Hattusili III

and his successors as legitimate rulers, but also to aid them with military backing if required.

27

Bryce (2006), pp. 1-2. 28

Rowton (1959), p. 11. 29

For foreign relations in the Ancient Near East see Moran (1992), Liverani (2001) and Cohen & Westbrook

(2000). 30

Spalinger (1981), p. 357. 31

Hoffner (1975), pp. 53-55.

12

Hattusili III had succeeded in eliminating the treat due to Urhi-Tesup residing in Egypt: the

possible political threat he posed was far greater than any military threat from Egypt.32

So the

long period of hostilities, which had existed since the later half of the 14th century, had come

to an end with the installation of a peace treaty, which was also later secured, by the marriage

of Ramesses II with a daughter of Hattusili III.33

Laura Wiseman, 792357@swansea.ac.uk

Written for Introduction to ancient Egyptian history and civilisation (CLE-121)

Bibliography

Avruch, K. (2000). Reciprocity, equality, and status-anxiety in the Amarna letters. In R.

Cohen & R. Westbrook (Eds.), Amarna diplomacy: The beginnings of international

relations (pp. 154-164). Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press.

Brand, P. J. (2007). Ideological imperatives: Irrational factors in Egyptian-Hittite relations

under Ramesses II. In P. Kousoulis & K.D. Magliveras, K. D (Eds). Moving across

borders: Foreign relations, religion, and cultural interactions in the ancient

Mediterranean (pp. 15-33). Leuven: Peeters Publishers & Department of Oriental

Studies.

Breasted, J. H (1962). Ancient records of Egypt. Volume III, The Nineteenth Dynasty. New

York: Russell & Russel Inc.

Bryce, T. (1999). The kingdom of the Hittites. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Bryce, T. (2006). The 'Eternal Treaty’ from the Hittite perspective. BMSAES, 6, 1-11,

http://www.thebritishmuseum.ac.uk/bmsaes/issue6/bryce.html

32

Spalinger (1981), p. 357. 33

Bryce (1999), p. 311.

13

Cohen, R. & Westbrook, R. (Eds.). (2000). Amarna diplomacy: The beginnings of

international relations. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press.

Collins, B. J. (2007). The Hittites and their world. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature.

Hoffner, H. A. (1975). Hittite mythological texts: a survey. In Goedicke, H. & Roberts, J. J.

M. (Eds) Unity and diversity: Essays in the history, literature, and religion of the

ancient Near East (136-45). Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.

Kitchen, K. K. (1996). Ramesside inscriptions translated & annotated translations. Vol. II.

Oxford and Massachusetts: Blackwell.

Kuhrt, A. (2000). The ancient Near East c. 3000-330BC. Vol. 1. London: Routledge.

Langdon, S. & Gardiner, A. H. (1920). The treaty of alliance between Hattusilli, king of the

Hillites, and Pharaoh Ramesses II of Egypt. The Journal of Egyptian Archaeology, 9,

pp. 179-205.

Liverani, M. (2001). International relations in the ancient Near East, 1600-1100 B.C.

Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan.

Luckenbill, D. (1921). Hittite treaties and letters. American Journal of Semitic Languages

and Literatures, 37, pp. 161-211.

Moran, W. L. (Ed. and Trans.), (1992). The Amarna letters. Baltimore and London: The

Johns Hopkins University Press.

Morris, E. F. (2005). The architecture of imperialism. Leiden: Brill.

Rowton, M. B. (1959). The background of the treaty between Ramesses II and Hattusili III.

Journal of Cuneiform Studies, 13, pp. 1-11.

Van de Mieroop, M. (2009). The history of the ancient Near East, ca. 3000-323 B.C. Oxford:

Blackwell.

Van de Mieroop, M. (2010). The eastern Mediterranean in the age of Ramesses II. Oxford:

Blackwell.

14

Spalinger, A. (1981). Considerations on the Hittite treaty between Egypt and Hatti. In Studien

zur Altägyptischen Kultur, 9, pp. 299-358.

Was the Falange fascist?

In order to determine whether or not the Falange was fascist, it is first necessary to determine

what fascism is and what is meant by the term. The historiography concerning the nature of

fascism is vast, and many varying definitions of fascism have been established by different

historians. The term ‘fascist’ was first used to define a political movement based upon both

ultra-nationalism and hostility towards the Left by Mussolini in 1919.1 This is a basic

definition of fascism at its core. However, there are many other different features of fascism

as a political movement, which means that interpretations and definitions of fascism change

depending on what is being focused on. For example, Marxist approaches to fascism all

emphasize its links with capitalism, stating that when pressure from the proletariat for the end

of capitalism rose to extreme heights, capitalists used terror to defend their monopoly over

industry, and used the mass fascist movement to destroy socialism.2

Marxist scholars therefore emphasise the difference of fascism to communism.

However, fascist and communist regimes have been compared for their similarity, despite

being at opposite ends of the political spectrum.3 This is due to the totalitarian aspect of

fascism. Totalitarianism in fascism is often part of the drive to incorporate the masses into a

total hierarchical and mobilized community serving the needs of the country.4 Totalitarian

scholar C.J. Friedrich defines totalitarianism as having seven key aspects- a single mass party

led by one man which forms the hardcore of the regime; a system of terror by the police or

secret police against the real and imagined enemies of the state; a total control of mass media;

a near monopoly of weapons; central control of the economy; an elaborate ideology which

covers all aspects of man’s existence and finally an aim to restructure society in accordance

1 Passmore (2002), p. 10.

2 Ibid. pp. 14-15.

3 Forman (1974), p. 14.

4 Passmore (2002), p. 8.

16

with an ideological blueprint.5 However, focusing solely on the totalitarian or capitalist

aspects of fascism ignores the aspects of the movement which set it apart from other political

concepts, such as its nationalist focus and attack on ‘enemies’ of the nation state on a racial or

biological basis.

Due to these many varying aspects and perspectives on fascism, many historians have

therefore attempted to make a concise definition of fascism. One such definition is that of

Stanley Payne. He argues that fascism can be defined through three ways. Firstly, through the

fascist ideals: anti-liberalism, anti-communism and anti-conservatism, though the fascists are

willing to engage in temporary alliances with groups from other sectors, most commonly

from the Right.6

Secondly, through ideology and goals: creation of a new nationalist

authoritarian state; organisation of a new kind of regulated national economic structure; and

the achievement of an empire.7 Thirdly, through their style and organisation: attempted mass

mobilisation with the militarization of political relationships; the goal of a mass party

military; positive evaluation and use of violence; extreme stress on a masculine principle;

adoration of youth; and a tendency towards an authoritarian, charismatic, personal style of

command from their leader.8 An alternative definition is one by Kevin Passmore who states

that fascism is a series of ideologies that seek to place a nation (which is defined in select

biological, cultural or historical terms) above all other potential sources of loyalty and to

create a mobilized national community. Fascism acts in the name of the people and the

movement is headed by a charismatic leader and personified in a mass militarized party, but

above all, all aspects of its policy are infused with ultra-nationalism.9

Roger Griffin also attempts to define the generic features of fascism as a movement.

His definition includes: the values of the fascist party are expressed in its writings, speeches,

5 Passmore (2002), p. 19.

6 Renton (1999), p. 21.

7 Ibid. p. 21.

8 Ibid.

9 Passmore (2002), p. 31.

17

propaganda, uniforms, and above all the style of its politics; a utopian vision of the future

under the party which will never actually be realized in practice; fascist ideology and the

impact it has is not due to any one leader; and that fascism is defined in a series of values and

goals all centred around its ideological core.10

Finally, there is the definition reached by

James D. Forman. He states that since fascism is largely a reaction to communism, the main

support of fascism will come from those groups whose social or economic positions are

threatened by communism, such as the economic elite.11

As for the fascist movement itself,

he identifies key elements of the fascist state- misfits are eliminated; politically, the

individual has been eliminated; a final objective of imperialistic expansion; the youth

participate in mandatory athletic programmes; military forces are quickly expanded; the

seizure and control of economic, social, political and cultural aspects of a state; fear of the

communists and the Left; and overall the state has become fiercely nationalistic, anti-

communist, militaristic and imperialistic.12

Overall, these many definitions demonstrate that what fascism is as an ideology and

as a political movement is subject to interpretation by the person defining it. There are also

things that one scholar may identify as a key aspect of fascism whilst another may not, or

may have missed out of their definition entirely. For example, Griffin argues that the impact

of fascism is not centred around any single leader, whilst Passmore states that a key aspect of

fascism is that the group is led by a charismatic, authoritarian leader. However, by comparing

and grouping these varying definitions, a common definition of fascism with key elements

can be identified, which can then be used to determine whether or not the Falange was a

fascist group.

The background for the rise of the Falange in Spain is one of disparity and economic

hardship, something which also gave rise to the fascist regimes in Germany and Italy. Spain

10

Griffin (1993), pp. 22-23. 11

Forman (1974), p. 15. 12

Ibid. p. 16-17.

18

boasted a slow rate of economic growth due to low levels of popular education, as well as

archaic agricultural and industrial equipment, an extremely slow rise in the standard of living,

and low wages- Spanish workers in 1914 were paid the lowest real wages in Western Europe

besides Portugal.13

Between the 1870s and the outbreak of the First World War, Spain, along

with Germany and Italy, experienced deep structural problems and the tensions of a

backwards political regime which was challenged both by the bourgeoisie and a militant

working class.14

However, Spain did not participate in the First World War and did not

experience a national psychosis of defeat or a plethora of angry war veterans to swell the

ranks of fascist groups, unlike the other two countries.15

This may suggest that nationalism in

Spain was not as contentious an issue as it was in Italy and Germany, and therefore that the

Falange was not as infused with ultra-nationalism as the definition of fascism dictates.

However, the leader of the Falange, José Antonio Primo de Rivera, did dictate that misery

would only be over once the Spanish had an empire once more, and privately talked of

absorbing Portugal.16

The Falange was formed by José Antonio Primo de Rivera, the son of the previous

dictator of Spain. He advocated national reform based on authoritarianism and a radical

national authoritarian reconstruction, aggressive towards liberals and the Left.17

This can be

seen in José Antonio's first official address of the Falange's party goals in October 1933. He

stated that the Falange aimed for unity of all classes and individuals: ‘All the people of Spain,

however diverse they may be, feel in harmony with the irrevocable unity of destiny’.18

Furthermore, the Falange wanted more respect for the liberty of man, which would happen if

13

Payne (1961), p. 2. 14

Preston (1990), p. 12. 15

Ibid. pp. 12-13. 16

Payne (1999), pp. 43-44. 17

Ibid. p. 29. 18

Ibid. pp. 38-39.

19

liberty were joined to a system of order, hierarchy and authority.19

This system may have to

be achieved by violence but that was necessary, as the Falange were fighting for all the

people of Spain, including the working class which would feel the benefits of a totalitarian

state.20

Overall, the Falange was captured by a powerful feeling for Spain and aimed to

collapse the ‘tired’ political system.21

This address encapsulates many of the key features of

fascism identified in the aforementioned definitions, such as nationalism, authoritarianism,

aggressiveness towards the Left, an enthusiasm for violence and totalitarianism. However,

there is no mention of mass militarization, which is a key part of the aforementioned

definitions. El Sol, Spain's leading liberal newspaper also stated: ‘We reject it in the first

place for wanting to be fascist...and in the second, for not truly being it, for not being a deep

and authentic fascism. This suggests that although the Falange had fascist elements to its

ideology, it was not true fascism.

Looking at the Falange throughout its time as a political party, there are many key

elements that can be identified as fascist according to the established definitions. The most

striking is that identified by Paul Preston, who states: ‘If style and ideology, rather than social

and economic function, are the main criteria for defining fascism, then the Falange is the

clear choice.’22

He goes on to talk about the Falange's cult of violence and its blue-shirted

militias with Roman salutes and ritual chants.23

The one consistent part of the Falange party

programme was its fervid nationalism and desire for economic reform,24

which is a key

element of fascism as a movement. The ideology of the Falange showing crucial fascist

aspects is a common occurrence. For example, José Antonio maintained that only an integral,

19

Ibid. p. 39. 20

Ibid. p. 40. 21

Ibid. p. 41. 22

Preston (1990), p. 9. 23

Ibid. p. 9. 24

Payne (1999), p. 76.

20

totalitarian, national state could bring Spain to glory.25

Furthermore, General Franco had used

the Falange to gain power during the Spanish Civil War and with them, created a totalitarian

national syndicalist state which remained in power until after the Second World War, until

Franco attempted to cut all ties with fascism and established a traditionalist Catholic state

instead.26

However, there are also key elements of the Falange throughout the years which

suggest that they were not a fascist group, or possibly not a true fascist group. Perhaps most

significantly, José Antonio declared publicly that Falange was not a fascist movement after

the Spanish people were beginning to reject fascism.27

There were also doubts that José

Antonio had the proper temperament to be a fascist- he continued to secretly have dinner with

liberal friends and did not act like his political opposition was inhuman or less human than

himself.28

There is also the fact that between sixty and seventy per cent of all Falangists were

under twenty-one and students.29

This is in direct opposition to Forman's definition of

fascism, which states that the majority of support for the fascists will come from those whose

elite economic and social positions are challenged by communism, a group which does not

include students. Furthermore, the Falange separated themselves from racism to avoid

comparison with other nationalistic fascist parties.30

However, the definition of fascism above

states that there must be enemies of the state defined in exclusive racial or cultural terms.

Falangist propaganda also differed radically from that of most other European fascist groups

with an emphasis on Catholicism and Christianity.31

Fascism normally eschews religion as it

implies that there is a higher and more important power than that of the totalitarian leader.

25

Ibid. p. 87. 26

del Boca & Giovana (1970), p. 236. 27

Payne (1999), p. 70. 28

Ibid. p. 75. 29

Ibid. p. 82. 30

Ibid. p. 126. 31

Ibid. p. 127.

21

Overall, it is difficult to determine whether or not the Falange was a fascist political

party. The group never fully rose to power in Spain and therefore cannot be fully assessed by

all the criteria available for determining fascism, as they never had an opportunity to

implement policies such as mandatory participation in activity programmes for the youth or a

mass militarized party. However, the Falange does display key elements of fascism such as a

total focus on nationalism, a use of violence, a goal of empire, a uniting uniform and salute,

and a goal to overthrow the current political system and implement reform. Despite this,

elements of the party which were not associated with fascism, such as it being made almost

completely of students, a lack of a racial or national enemy, a focus on religion and the party

not being centred completely around one leader who had total authoritarian power, cannot be

ignored. Due to this, it is necessary to conclude that the Falange was not a fully fascist group.

It is arguably not inaccurate to call the Falange fascist, as it certainly displayed central fascist

aspects such as those outlined above. However, when compared to the major European

fascisms of the twentieth century and the definitions which aim to encapsulate these fascisms,

the Falange is found lacking.

Catriona Allon, 791942@swansea.ac.uk

Written for Europe of Extremes (HIH-121)

Bibliography

del Boca, A. & Giovana, M. (1970). Fascism today: A world survey. London: Heinemann.

de Felice, R. (1976). Fascism: An informal introduction to its theory and practice. New

Jersey: Transaction.

Forman, J. D. (1974). Fascism: The meaning and experience of revolutionary reaction. New

York: New Viewpoints.

22

Gregor, A. J. (1997). Interpretations of Fascism. New Jersey: Transaction.

Griffin, R. (1993). The nature of Fascism. London: Routledge.

Passmore, K. (2002). Fascism: A very short introduction. New York: Oxford University

Press.

Payne, S. G. (1961). Falange: A history of Spanish Fascism. Stanford: Stanford University

Press.

Payne, S. G. (1999). Fascism in Spain 1923-1977. Wisconsin: The University of Wisconsin

Press.

Preston, P. (1990). The politics of revenge: Fascism and the military in twentieth-century

Spain. London: Unwin Hyman.

Renton, D. (1999). Fascism: Theory and practice. London: Pluto Press.

What benefits could a small city expect

from joining a large hegemonic league?

Large Leagues were formed to protect the interests of multiple states, serving as large scale

alliances, often in the face of a common enemy that required the combined power of states to

overcome. The key example of this is the union of Greek states against the Persian invaders

in 480 BC where the Spartan led defence meant that Greece was free from the control of an

outside state. The Hellenic League was first developed from the earlier Peloponnesian

League, which offered protection to members, with the power of Sparta, but also limited

some of their freedom. The effect that Leagues had on smaller members is also seen in the

Delian League, which offered safety and protection from invaders and pirates, but also forced

members to pay tribute to Athens, and limited the members’ autonomy. The Boeotian League

was also created to strengthen the overall power of its members, with Thebes as the centre,

first fighting off a common enemy and then forming a united coinage and assembly to form a

cohesive force.

The Peloponnesian League was originally formed as a collection of states, which had

treaties with Sparta, meaning that these states could war amongst themselves, but if any of

them were attacked by a non-‘member’ then Sparta would intervene and vice-versa . This

collection of Spartan allies was not formally linked together, meaning that Sparta could ask

for military support from any of the allies and they would be obliged to follow,1 this was

something which did not benefit any of the allies. Therefore around 505 BC it was decided

that all decisions would first be ratified by an assembly of representatives, with each member

getting a single vote, no matter their size, and the decision of the assembly was final (unless

1 Cartledge (2001), p. 225.

24

there was a religious reason why a state could not join).2 The democratic system of decision

making was key to ensuring that smaller states were treated in the same way as larger ones,

meaning that they had a say in the policies of the league. However, the Allies council was

counter-measured by a Spartan Assembly which had as much weight as the council, meaning

that the Spartans were the leaders of the League, and often dominated discussions.3 Despite

the power of Sparta in the league, their decision was not always forgone, with Herodotus

telling us that around 504 BC a Spartan proposal to instil a tyrant in Athens was overruled.4

The formation of a group of allies into a hegemonic league with a council of representatives

was important as it meant that all states could decide on a course of action, rather than Sparta

forcing one onto them, it gave smaller states a say in actions and meant that Sparta could not

control the members as part of an empire.

The League offered smaller states a great deal of support, as Sparta was bound to give

aid if a state was attacked by a non-member. The league was also a way to shore up support

for oligarchies, as the threat of a Spartan force to crush any anti-oligarchic movement could

be seen as a huge benefit to joining the League. However there was also the fact that any hint

of disobedience to Sparta, such as signing a treaty with a sworn Spartan enemy, or refusing to

participate in league action, was crushed by the Spartans, without the need to call an

assembly.5

In reality this meant that there were few areas in which members of the

Peloponnesian League had full autonomy. This being said the decision of the League was

always down to the will of the Allies rather than the Spartans, such as in the declaration of

war on Athens in 432 BC which started the Peloponnesian War. This decision was taken by

the Allies as a way to ensure freedom and justice against the aggressive Athenian Empire.6

The reasons for this decision, as given by Hammond (1967), seem to imply that smaller states

2 Cartledge (2001), p. 226.

3 Hammond (1967), p. 195.

4 Hdt. 5.91-3.

5 Cartledge (2001), p. 228.

6 Hammond (1967), p. 322.

25

felt threatened by the power of Athens and were using the Peloponnesian league as a way to

ensure their freedom, showing that being part of the League was a huge benefit for the

smaller members.

The Hellenic League was created from the Peloponnesian League, widening it to

incorporate the majority of Greece against the common enemy of Persia. Members took an

oath to prevent states from submitting to the Persians in 480 BC, and promised to support any

action taken against the Persians.7 The Spartans were the strongest power in the League so

they were given the role of leading the League, as well as contributing the major generals for

the war.8 The League’s primary objective was to force the Persians out of Greek lands, and

end their Greek intentions. Smaller states also joined the League, with the hopes of

continuing their autonomy, and preventing the Persians from taking over, however there was

a feeling that it was a lost cause and that victory seemed impossible.9 The League itself was

not a way to protect members from attack, through the threat of League action (as with other

Leagues) but was used as a way to join states against the Persians, as well as formally

agreeing actions against the invaders.10

The Hellenic league was a union of states that fought against the Persian advance,

with the objective of repulsing the Persian invasion, however there must also have been an

argument to continue military action against the lands that the Persians already owned once

the first objective had been accomplished. Brunt (1953) argues that the oath for the League

also bound members to free Greeks from Persian rule, as well as joining members in an

alliance that was designed to stop inter-fighting between members.11

Bearing in mind that the

members of the League made up the majority of Greece, this was a huge commitment, and so

it is unsurprising that it disintegrated after the war, when the war weary states left the League

7 Hdt. 7.145.

8 Ibid. 1.18.2.

9 Brunt (1953), p. 137.

10 Hdt. 7.145.

11 Brunt (1953), p. 151.

26

after the immediate threat had been dealt with. However, the original aim of the League

seemed to promise an end to the petty disputes between the Greeks and join them together,

meaning that it would have seemed very beneficial to smaller states to join the League. An

example of this policy in practice can be seen with Aegina, as Athens and the island are said

to clearly have stopped their hostilities when they joined the League, going as far as fighting

together at Salamis.12

This end to hostilities seems to hint towards a more peaceful Greece

under the League, along with the obvious benefits, such as a stronger military that could deal

with foreign threats (as demonstrated by the Greeks victory against Persia) there was also the

idea of liberating fellow Greeks from the tyranny of Persian rule in Asia Minor. However, the

benefits of joining the Hellenic League did not materialise, with the Union effectively ending

when Sparta and the Peloponnesians left the leadership of the continued war against Persia

(which was primarily naval) in the hands of the Athenians, virtually ending their involvement

as well as much of the benefit that the league had for small states.

The Delian league was formed to continue the naval war against the Persians;13

however it soon became clear that this collection of states was under the thumb of Athens,

dominating the states, and eventually forcing them to pay tribute to Athens for the liberty to

be part of the league. Diodorus tells us that Athens dominated the league, and ruled with

violence and terror,14

which would imply that many member states stayed in the league

because of fear of what Athens would do to them if they left. This was not an unfounded fear,

as Athens crushed several states that had wanted to leave the League, Thucydides particularly

mentions Mytilene which revolted against the League in 428 BC.15

Athens reacted to

Mytilene’s ‘revolt’ by crushing them, and then debating whether to slaughter the entire

12

MacDowell (1960), p. 119. 13

Larsen (1940), p. 175. 14

Diod. 70.3-4. 15

Thuc. 3.2.

27

population or not, eventually deciding to spare them.16

The Mytilenaean dialogue proves that

Athens was violent towards any members that preferred to rule itself autonomously, and used

its power to bring the members of the league into line with Athenian wishes.

French (1979) tells us that Thucydides shows only a few examples of Athenian and

Delian action to represent the stages that Athens went through towards dominating the

League with fear. Firstly, there are the purely league actions that were taken against Persia to

free Greek settlements, such as Eion, undertaken around 476 BC,17

then there are the more

aggressive acts that are taken toward several states, with the ‘enslavement’ of Naxos as the

key case shown by Thucydides.18

There is also the case of Thasos, which revolted against the

league, and was brutally crushed by Athens, forcing it to demolish its walls, surrender its

ships and pay tribute.19

The action taken to stop Thasos from revolting meant that Athens’

own fleet grew, and that Thasos had no defences. The destruction of Thasos’ walls could

signify that the Delian League would guarantee the safety of the city; however it would seem

more likely that it was simply a punishment for rebelling, and would make it easier to destroy

the city if they rebelled again. Therefore, the benefits for Thasos being part of the Delian

League were almost non-existent, along with their lack of defence (both in the form of a fleet

or city walls) they were also forced to pay tribute, and it seems clear that any attempt made to

distance themselves from the league would end in destruction.

One of the benefits that the Delian league could offer was the fact that Athens would

not attack members; this was a major part of the League’s structure. It was also a key way in

which members were forced to join the league. Such as the island of Aegina, which Athens

invaded and which became part of the Delian League, paying tribute to Athens, around 457

16

Thuc. 3.36-49. 17

French (1979), p. 136. 18

Thuc. 1.98. 19

Rhodes (2010), p. 22.

28

BC.20

However, even the promise of a member’s safety from Athens was not always true, as

Aegina was invaded and all the inhabitants expelled in favour of Athenian colonists during

the Peloponnesian War, despite no immediate Aeginitan action being taken to warrant such

cruel treatment.21

The action taken against Aegina would seem to prove that there was no

benefit for a small state to join the Delian League. However, this is not necessarily correct

with several states choosing to join the Delian League as a way to oust their harsh systems of

government in favour of a democratic government that Athens could support. This served as

a way to both revolutionise the state into a more inclusive government as well as joining a

league that would help to prevent any invasion of the state. States that underwent this change

often did so with the support of Athens, such as in Corcyra where the pro-democratic faction

was supported by Athens.22

Samos, a relatively large state, was part of the Delian league from its beginning,

meaning that it had originally promised some of its fleet to Athens to be used in League

actions. This policy was continued beyond the point when other states were told to pay

tribute, which was unusual for a member of the League but it served to bolster Athens’ fleet,

which was the key power base behind Athens’ influence.23

However the majority of states

were made to pay tribute, the exact amount of which varied between members, with Athens

demanding only as much as the state could afford. This system of tribute was a way to make

sure that the members could pay for their membership; it was also a way of limiting their

individual military power, as they wouldn’t have enough spare money to pay for a build-up in

military. Tribute also meant that Athens wouldn’t have to rely on other states’ military to

fight battles, as well as having more money to build up their own military. Tribute was also

beneficial for smaller states as it meant that they didn’t have to contribute citizens to wars

20

Thuc. 1.108. 21

Ibid. 2.27. 22

Ibid. 3.75. 23

Legon (1972), p. 145.

29

that Athens wanted, therefore having Athens as the protector for all members of the Delian

league meant that states could prosper in the peace that Athens guaranteed. Athens also

promised to protect members from the terror of Persia and from pirates, which helped

members of the Delian League trade, which was a major benefit for any state, and became a

huge part of the Delian League’s attraction.24

Athens was also seen as the cultural centre of

Greece and they saw themselves as benefitting the Delian League by passing on their culture

to the other members.25

These benefits were wide ranging and helped to stabilise many states

in the League, however Hammond (1967) argues that political freedom was held in greater

esteem than these benefits, and so Athens was seen as a tyrant state that sought to rule others

by force rather than through respect.26

The formation of the Boeotian League is argued by Buck (1972) as being around 520

BC, serving originally as a military alliance it soon fought off the aggressive state of Thessaly

which invaded them at this time.27

Similar to the Hellenic League, the Boeotians banded

together to fight off a common enemy, forming a group that then continued under the strong

leadership of one state, much like the Delian League. The benefit to a smaller member is

clear, with the League able to fight off a common enemy, whereas one state would not have

been powerful enough, meaning that the members could feel safe as part of the League,

whereas before they would have been vulnerable. The League also stressed a form of unity

between the members, with a shared coinage becoming part of this. The coins changed from a

unified coinage, to ones showing the individual name of the town that they were minted in,

with it being suggested that this showed that members of the league held a certain amount of

autonomy.28

24

Hammond (1967), p. 327. 25

Thuc. 2.40-41. 26

Hammond (1967), p. 327. 27

Buck (1972), p. 97. 28

Ibid. pp. 97-98.

30

The League was built around shared values, religiously, militarily and politically,

therefore members were all originally governed by a moderate oligarchic government,29

with

league action having to be approved by a council first before any action could be taken. The

council allowed all members to have a vote in league policies; however it seems clear that

Thebes was the most powerful state, and often dominated these councils. Members of the

Boeotian league did however have some say on all actions of the League, and could vote

against anything they didn’t agree with, which was a benefit to any state that was part of the

League, and despite Theban dominance it could still be outvoted. The Boeotian states also

incorporated a form of exclusivity in the league, with a property qualification to be part of the

individual city councils,30

which could be seen as a benefit to small members as the people

who presumably had the most free time could be part of the council, both in the city and

possibly as part of the League council.31

Overall, there were several benefits that large leagues could bring to small states,

often guaranteeing their safety against invasion from larger states. The Hellenistic

amalgamation of states against Persia guaranteed the freedom of all Greece; however the later

Delian League sought to destroy this freedom, in favour of Athenian dominance over smaller

states that were forced to pay tribute. The Delian League did also bring stability to its

members, and guaranteed safe trading with the destruction of pirates in the Aegean. The

league also brought about the freedom of Greek cities in Asia Minor that had previously been

under Persian control. The Peloponnesian League also helped its members in times of

struggle, with small states’ oligarchic governments being propped up by the power of Sparta,

while the states’ safety was also guaranteed by the League. The Boeotian League did a lot for

smaller states as well, by bringing about stable trading in the area with a shared currency, as

well as the shared protection of members in the League. The Boeotians were also led by a

29

Hammond (1967), p. 485. 30

Hellenica Oxyrhynchia, 19.2. 31

Mitchell (2006), p. 372.

31

council, as was the Hellenic and Peloponnesian Leagues which meant that all members had a

say in League action, giving smaller states at least some degree of sway in the Leagues. All

of these benefits meant that small states were often safer and better off being part of a larger

league as their benefits often outweighed the more negative aspects.

Oliver Leighton, 707796@swansea.ac.uk

Written for Greek City States (CLH-264)

Bibliography

Brunt, P. A. (1953). The Hellenic League against Persia. Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte

Geschichte, 2 (2), 135-163.

Buck, R. J. (1972). The formation of the Boeotian League. Classical Philology, 67, 94-101.

Cartledge, P. (2002). The origins and organisation of the Peloponnesian League. In M.

Whitby (Ed.), Sparta (pp. 223-230). New York: Routledge.

French, A. (1979). Athenian ambitions and the Delian Alliance. Phoenix, 33, 134-141.

Hammond, N. G. L. (1967). A history of Greece to 322 BC. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Larsen, J. A. O. (1940). The constitution and original purpose of the Delian League. Harvard

Studies in Classical Philology, 51, 175-213.

Legon, R. P. (1972). Samos in the Delian League. Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte,

21 (2), 145-158.

MacDowell, D. (1960). Aigina and the Delian League. Journal of Hellenic Studies, 80, 118-

121.

Mitchell, L. G. (2006). Greek government. In K.H. Kinzl (Ed.), A companion to the Classical

Greek world (pp. 367-386). Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell.

32

Rhodes, P. J. (2010). A history of the Classical Greek world: 478-323 BC. Oxford: Wiley-

Blackwell.

33

In what way can the Wehrmacht be viewed as complicit in atrocities

committed by the SS against Jews, POWs and civilians in Russia?

Following the end of the Second World War much attention was focused upon the atrocities

committed by the SS on prisoners of war, civilians and the Jewish population of the countries

occupied by Nazi Germany. It was not until forty years later, following the end of the cold

war and Germany’s unification that some historians started to suggest that atrocities against

these groups had not solely been committed by SS forces, but that the Wehrmacht had been

complicit in many of these crimes. It has even been suggested by some historians, that many

major figures within the Wehrmacht were as guilty of war crimes as the leaders of the SS

sentenced during the Nuremburg trials of 1946.1 The time taken for the discovery to emerge

was mainly due to tensions that arose after the Second World War between Western powers

and Russia. Although atrocities were committed throughout Eastern Europe, it was not until

the German forces turned their focus towards Russia in the summer of 1941 that the

Wehrmacht’s role within these appears to emerge. The reasons behind the Wehrmacht’s

complicity must therefore be associated with the way in which the war changed during the

invasion of Russia. When looking at ways in which the Wehrmacht can be viewed as

complicit in SS atrocities it is therefore important to study the possible reasons why

Wehrmacht attitudes to Jews, POWs and civilians changed once they entered Russia.

The war in Russia brought with it unprecedented numbers of deaths on both sides

with one third of German frontline soldiers having been killed, lost or wounded by March

1942.2 It is perhaps not surprising therefore that the mentality of soldiers within the armies of

both Germany and Russia quickly changed during such a bloody conflict. Based on this view,

historians have argued that as the war intensified, a desire to enact retribution on prisoners for

1 Headland (1992), p. 145.

2 Mazower (2008), p. 139.

34

things witnessed whilst fighting in Russia grew within the ranks of the German army.3 Many

within the Wehrmacht can therefore be seen to have developed a certain desensitisation to

violence that would not be present had they not been witness to atrocities themselves. This

led to reprisal killings of a vast scale within Russia, with areas within the Wehrmacht actively

cooperating with the Einsatzgruppen killing squads.4 One such example of this can be found

within an Einsatzgruppen report dated 12 November 1941, which states within that the

actions against Jews, communists and partisans in Borispol were carried out smoothly thanks

to the ‘energetic’ help of the German army forces there.5 This ‘energetic’ willingness to take

part in acts of violence against the civilian population of conquered territories was present on

both sides. This has led to some historians, such as Mark Mazower (2008), describing the war

in Russia as a ‘war of annihilation’ as this is what Hitler asked of his generals when he turned

his focus from Western Europe to Russia in 1942.6 Another possible reason suggested for the

increase in violence by Wehrmacht soldiers is that many Germans at the time had a deep set

racial hatred of Russians prior to Hitler taking power, which had been amplified through the

vast amount of Nazi propaganda targeting communist Russia. The threat of communism on

the western world had been highlighted throughout numerous anti-communist and anti-

Russian propaganda drives by the Nazi party once they had taken power in 1933.7 This

feeling of racial hatred and fear of Russian communism was present in many within the

Wehrmacht, with Russian soldiers often being referred to as Mongols.8 This racial view was

played on by the Nazi propaganda department who issued posters portraying Russians as

wolf like figures preying on Germans as well as ones focusing on the threat of Communism

3Mackenzie (1994), p. 491.

4 Headland (1992), p. 140.

5 Operational Situation Report USSR No.132 (Nov. 12, 1941) Retrieved from

http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/Holocaust/sitrep132.html. 6 Mazower (2008), p. 159.

7 Welch (1983), p. 208.

8 Mazower (2008), p. 159.

35

taking over Western Europe. This helps to explain why Wehrmacht actions towards prisoners

of war changed once they entered Russia.

When the Second World War first broke out in Europe, the International Committee

of the Red Cross asked for assurances that the Geneva Convention would be followed in

prisoner of war camps by all major parties.9 This meant that prisoners of war had to have

access to a certain standard of food, labour, shelter and hygiene. Despite this two million red

army soldiers had been allowed to starve to death whilst captured by the Wehrmacht.10

The

Nazis further went against conditions stated within the Geneva Convention when Hitler

issued the ‘Commissar Order’ which stated that all captured Russian commissars were to be

killed as they were an enforcer of the communist ideology. This moment is significant when

looking at the role played by the Wehrmacht in committing atrocities as this is the first truly

illegal order that was issued to the Wehrmacht which was followed, and can therefore be

viewed as the turning point in Wehrmacht actions during the war.11

The sheer number of

Russian soldiers captured during the war is staggering, with an estimated 900,000 being

captured in the first week alone.12

Throughout the period in which Germany was at war with

Russia, around 5.5 million soviet soldiers were captured by the German army in total and it

has been argued that as a Russian prisoner of war you were in essence sentenced to death by

slave labour.13

This treatment can be directly linked with the way those who were sentenced

during the Nuremburg trials were charged with having committed war crimes, as one case

given for war crimes was the murder or ill treatment of prisoners of war. This means that

many within the Wehrmacht were culpable of war crimes against soviet prisoners of war as

despite the SS’s involvement in camps following a decree by Hitler on 19 August 1943,

9 Mackenzie (1994), p. 489.

10 Auron (2003), p. 262.

11 Headland (1992), p. 139.

12 Mazower (2008), p. 159.

13 Krammer (2008), p. 35.

36

prisoners of war remained solely in the custody of the Wehrmacht.14

The reasons behind this

treatment can be linked to the idea of a racial hatred of communism and the believed threat

that the ‘Mongol horde’, as the Russian army was portrayed, possessed to Western Europe.

An example of racial thinking being prominent within the German prisoner of war camps can

be seen through the account of Bronislaw Szpakowski, a Polish prisoner of war at the Groves

Rosen camp. In his account he makes reference to the treatment of eastern European

prisoners in comparison to a group of Norwegian prisoners who were at the camp at the same

time as him. He explains how those prisoners from countries such as Norway were given

different levels of care by the guards at the camp, including better food and access to

packages from home.15

This example helps to highlight that even at a basic level, such as

food, racial ideals were prominent in the minds of the German soldiers in charge. He then

highlights how the lack of food given to eastern European prisoners of war often led to the

breakout of illnesses such as rickets among those held there.16

Szpakowski’s account further

highlights how the conditions specified within the Geneva Convention were not met by many

within the Wehrmacht and that some of the higher ranking members were culpable of

committing war crimes against those in their custody.

Collaboration between Wehrmacht forces and the specialised SS killing squads

known as the Einsatzgruppen is perhaps the most shocking example of how some within the

Wehrmacht can be seen as complicit in SS atrocities. Although these elite killing squads

operated predominately behind the main bulk of the German army as it advanced into Russia,

there are dozens of examples, within the reports sent by Einsatzgruppen commanders to the

German high command, of operations in which the killing squads were assisted by members

14

Vourkoutiotis (2003), p. 105. 15

Szpakowski, Arbeit Macht Frei, as in unpublished lecture given on time in Groves Rosen prisoner of war

camp. 16

Ibid.

37

of the German army. The two groups have been long thought of as ‘hostile bedfellows,’17

and

the rivalry between the SS and the Wehrmacht throughout the Nazi regime within Germany

had led many to believe that the Wehrmacht leaders had not been aware of the role played by

the Einsatzgruppen as they advanced into Russia. Following the end of the war however

during the Nuremburg trials, Walter Schellenberg the head of counterintelligence for the

Reich Security Main Office stated in his affidavit that he was convinced that the Wehrmacht

were aware of the murderous nature of the tasks given to the Einsatzgruppen prior to the war

with Russia.18

Whilst this shows that many within the Wehrmacht were conscious of the

systematic killing of Jews within Russia, it was not until the Operational Situation Reports by

the Einsatzgruppen were discovered in early 1947 that the true role played by the Wehrmacht

was unearthed. This (alongside the strenuous relationship between America and Russia

during the decades after the war and Germany’s position at the centre of this) is perhaps one

of the main reasons why many high ranking officials within the Wehrmacht were not put on

trial for war crimes alongside those key figures within the SS involved with the

Einsatzgruppen. Although Wehrmacht leaders were aware of SS activities it is only when you

look at how the regular army units took part in the killings carried out that you get a true

understanding of the Wehrmacht’s overall role in SS atrocities. Just as seen with Russian

prisoners of war, the motivations behind these killings can be viewed as stemming from a

mixture of a deep set racially geared view of Jews, as well as in reprisal to crimes committed

by Russian soldiers against Axis forces. Both of these motivations can be seen within one

report in particular in which several hundred Jews were sentenced to death by Wehrmacht

forces in Zloczow in retaliation for the killing of Ukrainians in the area by Soviet soldiers.19

This example is especially striking as the order is given by commanders within the

Wehrmacht instead of the Wehrmacht playing a side role in an Einsatzgruppen task as found

17

Headland (1992), p. 135. 18

Ibid. p. 138. 19

Ibid. p. 141.

38

within a lot of the other reports. A source such as this helps to support the view that many

within the German army had become desensitised to the brutality of war. While at first the

killing of Jews, such as those in Zloczow, can be viewed as sporadic reprisals, the methods

used by SS and Wehrmacht forces soon became much more systematic in their nature.20

It

was because of this method of warfare that the war with Russia has become synonymous with

the term ‘a war of annihilation.’ The scale of atrocities involving Wehrmacht collaboration

during this can be clearly seen within a winter draft report for Einsatzgruppe A, in which it

states that as of December 1941 ‘about 19,000 partisans and criminals, that is, in the majority

Jews’ had been killed by Wehrmacht forces alone in just white Russia.21

The Einsatzgruppen

reports can therefore be extremely useful when studying the role played by Wehrmacht forces

in war crimes carried out during the Nazi invasion of Russia as they give clear examples of

how the German army heads not only know of Einsatzgruppen tasks but they actively

participated with them.

Although the main role of the Einsatzgruppen was the liquidation of Jews in eastern

European territories, the reports also mention several cases of other groups within Russia

being targeted by the killing squads, including gypsies and those with mental disabilities. As

with the killing of Jews, the Wehrmacht can once again be viewed as being complicit in

crimes against these groups. Two separate occasions can be used to show how the

Wehrmacht played a role in the deaths of members of groups outside of Jews and prisoners of

war. The first is from Polatava in which 595 mental patients were killed following the

approval of Wehrmacht commanders.22

The second example once again shows the racial

ideology of the Wehrmacht that was present in the murder of other groups within Russia.

Wehrmacht actions in the Karasubasar region of Russia led to the murder of 800 gypsies and

20

Mazower (2008), p. 140. 21

Headland (1992), p. 141. 22

Ibid. p. 142.

39

‘insane’ people.23

The fact that the report gives no reason as to why gypsies were targeted

further suggests that many crimes committed by the Wehrmacht were motivated simply by

race. These two examples both further support the idea that the Wehrmacht were complicit in

SS atrocities and were guilty of committing war crimes against the people of Russia.

To conclude, despite the initial belief that war crimes against Jews, prisoners of war

and other civilians had been carried out by the SS alone, it is clear that this was not the case

and that the Wehrmacht played an important part in many of the atrocities committed by the

SS during the invasion of Russia. Through the emergence of primary evidence such as the

Einsatzgruppen Operational Situation Reports, Walter Schulenburg’s testimony at the

Nuremburg trials and the personal accounts of surviving prisoners of war such as Bronislaw

Szpakowski, historians have discovered the truth of Wehrmacht atrocities. It was only

because of political tensions between Russia and the western powers brought about by the

cold war in the middle of the twentieth century, and the German position within this, that

historians did not study the matter to a greater degree out of fear of shaming the army of an

allied nation. The reasons behind the violence shown by the German soldiers have been

linked to the bloody and unforgiving nature of the ‘war of annihilation’ that occurred once

the German army reached Russia in 1941. This is believed to have desensitised those

involved and allowed pre-existing racial views of Jews, Communists and Asiatic people to

play a much stronger role in the psychology of the German army. There is therefore no doubt

that many within the Wehrmacht were not only complicit in atrocities committed by the SS

but also, as shown in attacks on civilians such as the reprisal killings of Zloczow, often acted

on their own in committing crimes against Jews, prisoners of war and other groups. These

acts of violence against civilian groups and prisoners of war can be directly compared with

offenses committed by those found guilty of war crimes at the Nuremburg trials and therefore

23

Headland (1992), p. 142.

40

many leading members of the Wehrmacht can also be viewed as guilty of committing war

crimes.

Sam Price, 707355@swansea.ac.uk

Written for Occupied Europe (HIH-258)

Bibliography

Auron, Y. (2003). The banality of denial. New Jersey: Transaction Publishers.

Headland, R. (1992). Messages of murder: A study of the reports of the Einsatzgruppen of the

Security Police and the Security Service, 1941-1943. London: Associated University

Presses.

Krammer, A. (2008). Prisoners of War: A reference handbook. Westport: Greenwood

Publishing Group.

Mackenzie, S. (1994). The treatment of Prisoners of War in World War II. Journal of Modern

History, 66 (3), 487-520.

Mazower, M. (2008). Hitler’s empire. London: Penguin.

The Einsatzgruppen operational situation reports collection. Retrieved from

http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/Holocaust/sitreptoc.html.

Vourkoutiotis, V. (2003). Prisoners of War and the German High Command. Hampshire,

Palgrave Macmillan.

Welch, D. (1983). Propaganda and the German cinema 1933-1945. Oxford: Oxford

University Press.

How important was religious affiliation to the reception of the

Copernican account of the universe in the

sixteenth and seventeenth centuries?

Nicolaus Copernicus’ De revolutionibus orbium colestium was recognised as an extremely

important book by the late sixteenth century, with its revolutionary heliocentric account of

the universe, which Owen Gingerich argues to be ‘the most significant astronomical treatise

since antiquity.’1 Throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, natural philosophy and

Christian belief were heavily interwoven, with the ‘Copernican Revolution’ and the

Reformation both causing the emergence of a ‘new astronomy.’2 Copernicus was a supporter

of Erasmian humanism, not reform, as seen by him dedicating De revolutionibus to the first

Counter Reformation Pope, Paul III. This demonstrates that the ‘Copernican Revolution’ did

not originate from the reformation, although it was essential for the publication and wide

scale distribution of De revolutionibus, with Adam Moseley arguing that without the

Lutheran reformation, ‘the astronomical revolution as traditionally understood might never

have happened.’3 This prompted a startling response to De revolutionibus from Lutherans,

notably from the scholars at the University of Wittenberg, where they shaped their

interpretation of the Copernican account of the universe by praising its mathematical

proficiency, but denying the reality of Copernican cosmological models, which Peter Barker

argues to have been essential in ‘motivating Lutheran interest in astronomy.’4 This caused the

wide scale reception of Copernican ideas throughout protestant Europe.5 It took much longer

for the Copernican account of the universe to rise to prominence in Catholic Europe, most

1 Gingerich (1993), p. 269.

2 Mosley (2008), pp. 232-233.

3 Ibid. pp. 234-235.

4 Barker (2000), p. 62.

5 Ibid.

42

notably with Galileo Galilee. Nevertheless, it is clear to see that religious affiliation with

Galileo’s attempts to interpret some areas of the bible to fit Copernican theories led to the

famous ‘Galileo Affair,’ with the subsequent condemnation of heliocentric theory by the

Catholic Church.6

Religious affiliation was important for the circulation of the Copernican account of

the universe throughout reformed Europe in the late sixteenth century, as seen by the ‘Ad

Lectorem’ of De revolutionibus, added by its editor, Andres Osiander.7 Osiander, a leading

protestant reformer of Nuremberg, was given the job of editing De revolutionibus after Georg

Joachim Rheticus’ departure.8 During this process, he added an ‘Ad Lectorem,’ which alleged

that astronomers were not making ‘true claims’ about the universe, but merely providing a

basis for calculations regarding Copernicus’ theory, which Osiander stated to ‘not be true or

even probable.’9

The Ad Lecturum has traditionally been renowned for increasing the

negative reception of De revolutionibus, although it has been interpreted more favourably by

Bruce Wrightsman, who argues that by not signing it, and effectively branding it with the

name of an infamous Protestant reformer, saved De revolutionibus from incurring ‘criticisms

had Osiander’s name appeared on it.’10

Osiander’s name on Copernicus’ work, a Catholic

Cannon, would have increased scrutiny and the chances of an unfavourable theological

reaction, as seen by Dennis Danielson, who contends that the Ad Lectorem brought ‘time for

heliocentrism.’11

The Ad Lectorem protected the work in the politically unstable city of

Nuremberg, where the independence of the city and Protestants were being threatened by the

Catholic authorities.12

Therefore, by not signing Ad Lectorem, Osiander succeeded in

protecting De revolutionibus from controversy, meaning the work was studied by scholars

6 Wisan (1986), p. 473.

7 Gingerich (1993), p. 271.

8 Mosley (2008), p. 235.

9 Osiander (2002), p. 28; Mosley (2008), p. 235.

10 Wrightsman (1975), p. 233.

11 Ibid.; Danielson (2006), p. 107.

12 Wrightsman (1975), p. 233.

43

throughout both Catholic and Protestant Europe, which is why Adam Mosley argues that ‘the

potential of De revolutionibus to excite controversy’ was only ‘properly realised’ with the

Galileo Affair of the seventeenth century.13

The Lutheran response to the Copernican account of the universe can clearly be seen

in the northern universities, especially the University of Wittenberg, where scholars used

Copernican theories to pursue practical mathematics.14

This led Robert Westman to formulate

the ‘Wittenberg Interpretation,’ showing how scholars at the University of Wittenberg and its

satellite universities developed a ‘consensus on how to ‘read’’ De revolutionibus.15

The main

aspect of Wittenberg scholar’s interpretations of Copernicus’ theory was by praising his

cosmological models, but ‘flatly denying’ their representation of reality.16

A key contributor

to the ‘Wittenberg Interpretation’ was Philipp Melanchthon, a major Lutheran intellectual

reformer and collaborator with Martin Luther, who was influential in reforming universities

and whose religious affiliation for studying the heavens had a resounding impact upon the

Lutheran adoption of De revolutionibus.17

Melanchthon’s main reasons for studying

astronomy were because he thought celestial motions implied the existence of a creator, with

natural philosophy revealing God’s providential plan, as shown by Sachiko Kusukawa, who

argues that Melanchthon’s natural philosophy was ‘shaped into a distinctive Lutheran

formula.’18

This interpretation was spread throughout the other reforming universities

through scholars ‘who carried with them Wittenberg models of teaching and scholarship,’

which is why Robert Westman argues that satellite universities, such as Jena and Tübingen,

‘reflected the Melanchthonian humanist spirit of education.’19

This resulted in Lutherans,

especially those at the Wittenberg universities, appropriating the new astronomy to support

13

Mosley (2008), pp. 235-236. 14

Westman (1975), p. 168; Mosley (2008), p. 236. 15

Ibid. p. 166. 16

Mosley (2008), p. 236. 17

Westman (2011), p. 143. 18

Kusukawa (1995). 19

Westman (2011), p. 143.

44

their doctrines regarding the ubiquity of Christ, leading to their beliefs of a ‘providential

deity,’ whose cosmic design could be discovered through studying natural philosophy.20

This

attitude towards natural philosophy in Lutheran Universities shows that Lutheran tradition

was ‘favourably inclined’ towards Copernicus’ cosmological models, as demonstrated by

Melanchthon writing that he started ‘to love and admire Copernicus more,’ which is why

Peter Barker asserts that ‘Lutheranism was a positive force in the spread of the new

science.’21

This clearly shows that Lutheran religious affiliation was vital for the reception of

the Copernican account of the universe in the late sixteenth century, albeit only to the extent

of the cosmological models, meaning Melanchthon’s legacy was inherited by future scholars

such as Johannes Kepler, who explored Copernicus’ astronomy further, along with other

contemporary astronomers trying to find alternative systems to those explained in De

revolutionibus.22

An example of scholarly use of Philipp Melanchthon’s Lutheran reception of the

Copernican model can be seen through Johannes Kepler, who Peter Barker and Bernard

Goldstein argue to be an ‘heir to a Lutheran project that succeeded in publicising Copernican

astronomy.’23

Kepler was trained in theology at the University of Tübingen, with the aim of

becoming a Lutheran pastor, meaning his views on theology were ‘well formed’ and ‘firmly

held’ from a young age.24

This meant that Kepler adapted the Lutheran stance on De

revolutionibus to suit his personal, religious, astrological and theological beliefs, such as his

rejection of the Lutheran doctrine representing the ubiquity of Christ, with him referring to

himself as a Lutheran astrologer ‘throwing away the chaff and keeping the kernel.’25

However, instead of using the Copernican account for the universe as a mere mathematical

20

Barker (2000), p. 62. 21

Ibid. p. 64. 22

Ibid. p. 71; Mosley (2008), p. 238. 23

Barker & Goldstein (2001), p. 89. 24

Mosley (2008), p. 238. 25

Ibid. pp. 238, 241; Caspar (1993), pp. 213-20.

45

tool for solving mathematical problems, Kepler produced the ‘first major defence of

heliocentrism after the death of Copernicus,’ in books such as Mysterium cosmographicum

(Secret of the Universe).26

This was because Kepler believed that God fashioned the cosmos

according to an ‘intelligible plan’ which he was discovering through mathematics and

astronomy.27

This can be seen through Kepler mentioning in the preface for Mysterium that

he is searching for ‘God’s motive and plan for creating the universe,’ showing that Kepler

believed God was a ‘geometric’ entity, supporting the Lutheran belief of God’s ‘providential

design.’28

Kepler attributed the causes of the differing planetary positions to ‘God’s

geometrical plan,’ with the choice of the geocentric Ptolemaic system or the heliocentric

Copernican system to demonstrate the patterns of the cosmos ‘and the divine laws by which

God regulated its moving parts’ through mathematics.29

Kepler postulated that only the

Copernican system worked for the ordering of the planetary positions, therefore fitting in

with God’s providential plan. In 1619 he concluded that ‘it is absolutely certain...that all the

planets revolve around the sun.’30

This shows that Kepler’s religious affiliation was essential

for his acceptance of the Copernican system because he believed that God’s providential

design was to be discovered through studying natural philosophy, which is why Barker

argues that Kepler wanted to ‘determine the divine blueprint underlying the cosmos.’31

This

demonstrates that without his religious affiliation, Kepler would not have given ‘the strongest

possible defence of Copernicus’ system in the later sixteenth century,’ although many of his

views derived from teachings at the Lutheran Universities of Wittenberg and Tübingen.32

The ‘Wittenberg Interpretation’ not only inspired natural philosophers such as Kepler

to defend the Copernican account of the universe, but also inspired natural philosophers to

26

Barker & Goldstein (2001), p. 112. 27

Barker (2000), p. 84. 28

Barker & Goldstein (2001), p. 84. 29

Ibid. 113; Barker (2000), pp. 85-86. 30

Kepler (1619) trans. C. G. Wallis (1952), in Oster (2002), p. 57. 31

Barker (2000), p. 240. 32

Barker (2000), pp. 87-88; Methuen (1996), pp. 230-231.

46

develop rival cosmic systems which still held religious merits, such as the ubiquity of

Christ.33

The Danish astronomer, Tycho Brahe, introduced a geo-heliocentric celestial

scheme in 1588, while using the argument of the immovability of the earth to ‘undermine

Copernicus’’ account of the universe, causing some astronomers to renounce

Copernicanism.34

Tycho, like Kepler, was heavily influenced by the teachings of

Melanchthon through his studies at the universities of Wittenberg and Leipzig, where he was

first introduced to Copernican cosmology.35

Although Tycho was a Lutheran, Adam Moseley

argues that his piety was not readily apparent in his works or daily life, as opposed to

Kepler's well-formed theology, because ‘he made some efforts to distance himself’ from

theological disputes.36

However, he referred to scripture in his efforts to prove the

Copernican hypothesis to be incorrect, although he refused to ‘treat religious matters... under

the guise of mathematics.’37

Despite this, Tycho did site scripture as a primary obstacle to the

regular and perpetual revolution of the earth’ which is why Ann Blair argues that Tycho took

the Bible seriously when regarding ‘its silence when concerning the reality of celestial

spheres.’38

This scriptural ambiguity prompted Tycho to question the existence of ‘orbs’

carrying the planets, although his main arguments focused on astronomical and mathematical

problems with the Copernican system.39

Christine Schofield argues that the combination of

the physical problems with the motion of the earth along with scriptural evidence is what

‘sealed Tycho’s rejection to heliocentrism.’40

This clearly shows that Tycho’s Lutheran

religious affiliation contributed to his rejection of the Copernican system, although his

33

Barker & Goldstein (2001), p. 92. 34

Ibid. p. 92; Christianson (2003), pp. 123-124. 35

Westman (2011) 305-306; Mosley (2007), p. 82. 36

Mosley (2007), p. 242. 37

Ibid. 38

Blair (1990), p. 362. 39

Ibid. pp. 363-364. 40

Schofield (2003), p. 38; Blair (1990), p. 364.

47

primary issues were with the physical and cosmological problems of Copernican

cosmology.41

The Copernican account of the universe rose to prominence in Roman Catholic

Europe later than that of Protestant Europe because the reformation had the effect of

‘diminishing contact’ with Catholic countries.42

This became apparent with the increase in

communication with northern Protestant Europe, with Tycho Brahe attempting to ‘widen his

circle of acquaintances,’ to include Catholics, such as the Italian mathematician Giovanni

Magni, which is why Isabelle Pantin calls Tycho a ‘pioneer in scientific [natural

philosophical] communication.’43

Moreover, this was apparent with Johannes Kepler, who

sent two copies of his Mysterium cosmographicum to Italy in 1597, where they found their

way to Galileo Galilei, who admitted to be a Copernican to Kepler, although their

correspondence dwindled, possibly because Galileo realised the flaws in Kepler’s work.44

Galileo’s rise to prominence regarding cosmological issues spanned from the invention of the

telescope in 1608, with his startling discoveries such as the phases of Venus, published in The

Slidereal Messenger (1610) which saw the first occurrences of Galileo using scripture to

support his views on celestial matters.45

Galileo’s Letters on Sunspots (1613) uses scriptural

evidence in support of the Copernican theory was censored by the Catholic authorities,

although they left the earlier passages where Galileo declared his ‘open support’ for

Copernicanism.46

This shows that at this stage, the Roman censors did not associate

Copernicus’ theories with heretical thought, although they did have significant problems with

Galileo using it to interpret scripture. This was because the interpretation of scripture was

reserved for the highest levels of Catholic clerical society, which is why Thomas Mayer

41

Blair (1990), p. 362. 42

Pantin (1999), pp. 239-241. 43

Ibid. p. 239. 44

Voelkel (1999), pp. 38-40. 45

Lindberg (2003), p. 41; Blackwell (1991), p. 57, Gingerich (2005), p. 197. 46

Blackwell (2008), p. 261.

48

argues that ‘Galileo moved in a dangerous direction when he tried to interpret the bible to fit

his Copernican views.’47

However, it was not until Galileo visited Rome in 1615 to join the

debate in support of Copernicus’ ideas did the authorities begin to take an interest in

heliocentric theory, especially when Galileo persuaded the young cardinal, Alessandro

Orsini, to defend Copernicanism before Pope Paul V, who subsequently turned the matter

over to the inquisition.48

This resulted in the Roman inquisition finding the fact that the earth

moved to be ‘erroneous in the faith’ and the sun to be at the centre of the universe

‘heretical.’49

This led to Galileo receiving a precept, which forbade him ‘from defending or

teaching’ Copernican views ‘in any way at all,’ which gained importance in his later trials.50

This shows that although De revolutionibus had not been prohibited in the seventy years

since its publication in 1543, it was Galileo’s actions which alerted the church to the dangers

De revolutionibus posed to its authority, which is why Andrea Frova and Mariapiera

Marenzana argue that Galileo ‘forced the ecclesiastics into taking a stance.’51

This suggests

the root of Galileo’s problems with the Catholic Church was the interpretation of scripture,

not the theories expressed in De revolutionibus, which Winifred Wisan argues to be the

problem of Galileo feeling ‘quite sure that it was he himself who best understood God’s

creation,’ ultimately leading to the condemnation of Copernicus’ theory.52

Religious affiliation was important for the reception of Copernicus’s account for the

universe in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, in both Protestant and Catholic

Europe. Religious affiliation becomes apparent in Andreas Osiander’s Ad Lectorem, which he

wrote in an effort to cause opponents ‘antagonism’ to ‘disappear’ so they would ‘go over to

47

Mayer (2011), p. 5. 48

Mayer (2010), pp. 237-238. 49

Ibid. p. 238. 50

Ibid. 51

Frova & Mariapiera (2006), p. 279. 52

Wisan (1986), p. 486.

49

the opinion of the author.’53

Although Georg Rheticus felt this degraded De revolutionibus,

with him crossing out the Ad Lectorem in every copy which came into his possession, the Ad

Lectorem did save Copernicus’ theories from theological scrutiny for the next seventy

years.54

Religious affiliation and Copernicanism were heavily intertwined in northern

Protestant Europe, with the reformation being an essential element for ‘spreading a special

Lutheran interest in astronomy,’ because of the Lutheran doctrines regarding the ubiquity of

Christ and their belief that god’s ‘Providential design’ could be discovered through studying

natural philosophy.55

This is why Barker and Goldstein argue that Lutheranism ‘succeeded in

publicising the new astronomy,’ particularly through the reformed universities, to which

Kepler owed a lasting legacy.56

Lutheranism was essential in shaping the ‘Wittenberg

Interpretation of the Copernican Theory’ with this family of scholars ‘reading’ De

revolutionibus in a similar way, under the reformed curriculum of Philipp Melanchthon.57

This meant that Phillippist teachings, which praised Copernicus’ cosmological models and

denied there reality, were ‘reflected’ in Wittenberg and its satellite universities such as

Tübingen, which influenced Copernicans such as Kepler, allowing him to ‘give the first

defence of heliocentrism through his interpretation of Copernicus’ scheme [being] nothing

less than God’s plan for the world.’58

The ‘Wittenberg Interpretation’ also had a clear impact

upon Tycho Brahe with the development of his Geo-heliocentric system, with his

interpretation of scripture contributing to his rejection of heliocentrism, although it was not

his primary issue with Copernican cosmology.59

With an increase in contact between

Catholic and Protestant countries, the issue of heliocentrism was brought to the attention of

53

Danielson (2006), pp. 107-108. 54

Ibid. pp. 109-110; Gingerich (2005), pp. 158-159; Mosley (2008), p. 235. 55

Barker (2000), p. 62. 56

Barker & Goldstein (2001), p. 89. 57

Westman (1975), pp. 165-166. 58

Barker & Goldstein (2001), pp. 88, 93. 59

Blair (1990), p. 362.

50

the Roman inquisition by Galileo using the bible to ‘fit his Copernican views.’60

This clearly

shows that Galileo’s religious affiliation to Roman Catholicism was essential for his

acceptance of the Copernican account of the universe, and its subsequent condemnation by

the Catholic Church.61

Religious affiliation to the Copernican account of the universe was

essential for its acceptance and rejection throughout Europe in the sixteenth and early

seventeenth centuries.

Edwin Rose, 741876@swansea.ac.uk

Written for Athens to Los Alamos: science in the ancient and modern worlds (HIH-260)

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(Ed.). Rethinking the scientific revolution (pp. 59-88). New York: Cambridge

University Press.

Barker, P, and Goldstein B. R. (2001). Theological foundations of Kepler’s astronomy.

Osiris, 2 (16), 88-113.

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Dame Press.

Blair, A. (1990). Tycho Brahe’s critique of Copernicus and the Copernican system. Journal

of the History of Ideas, 51, 355-77.

Caspar, M. (1993). Kepler. London: Dover Publications Limited.

Christianson, J. R. (2003). On Tycho’s island: Tycho Brahe, science, and culture in the

sixteenth century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

60

Mayer (2011), p. 5; Blackwell (1991), p. 58. 61

Wisan (1986), pp. 473, 486.

51

Danielson, D. (2006). The first Copernican: Georg Joachim Rheticus and the rise of the

Copernican revolution. New York: Walker and Company.

Finocchiaro, M. A. (2008). The Church and Galileo. The Catholic Historical Review, 94 (2),

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relevance to the present day. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Copernicus. London: Arrow Books.

Gingerich, O. (1993). The eye of heaven: Ptolemy, Copernicus and Kepler. New York:

American Institute of Physics.

Kepler, J. (2002). Harmonices Mundi (The Harmonies of the World), 1619. trans. C. G.

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Kusukawa, S. (1995). The transformation of Natural Philosophy: The case of Philip

Melanchthon. Cambridge & New York: Cambridge University Press.

Lindberg, D. C. (2003). Galileo, the Church and the cosmos. In Lindberg, D. C. & Numbers,

R. L. (Eds.). When science and Christianity meet (pp. 33-60). London & Chicago:

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Mayer, T. F. (2010). The Roman inquisitions precept to Galileo (1616). British Journal for

the History of Science, 43, 327-351.

Mayer, T. F. (2011). The censoring of Galileo’s Sunspot Letters and the first phase of his

trial. Studies in the History and Philosophy of Science, 42, 1-10.

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52

Mosley, A. (2008). The reformation of astronomy. In B. Heal & O.P. Grell (Eds.) The impact

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Mosley, A. (2007). Bearing the heavens: Tycho Brahe and the astronomical community of

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In Oster, M. (Ed.). Science in Europe: 1500-1800. London: Palgrave Macmillan.

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How important was rope to antiquity?

The importance of hemp rope to ancient ships

Rope and cordage are essential to almost every aspect of ancient seafaring. The fundamental

uses of rope on board a vessel are; anchorage, docking, rigging, cargo transit and hauling the

boat out of water when not in use. The biggest difference between ancient and modern ships

is the hypozoma, a bracing rope which enables warships to withstand the forces of the

turbulent sea. All of these uses of rope on board will be studied in this chapter to show how

essential rope was to seafaring in antiquity.

Lionel Casson puts it beautifully that ‘men of the ancient world... were loth to stray

far from the sea. It was woven into the fabric of their lives, and among their great

contributions to later ages was their mastering of this superbly useful but tricky and

dangerous way of communication’.1 The ancients’ use of water transport can be traced back

10,000 years,2 and seafaring was probably being used before this, with deep sea fish bones

such as tunny being found in Greek Neolithic sites.3 The use of sea travel was important to

the ancients because it facilitated provision of adequate food supplies for cities such as Rome

enabling them to grow beyond the surrounding capabilities of their land ‘its chief item,

outstripping all others by a wide margin, was grain’.4 It enabled conquests and expansions

around the Mediterranean without having to walk or ride for thousands of miles allowing

empires to be built and broken. It encouraged the trade of luxury goods and metals to distant

shores, allowed new skills and industry to spread and develop across countries, whilst

enabling faster communication between different cultures and civilisations; amongst other

1 Casson (1971), p. vii.

2 Stieglitz (1984), p. 134.

3 Vinson (1990), p. 13.

4 Casson (1965), p. 31.

54

things. The epics of the time The Odyssey and The Iliad revolve around warfare and sea

journeys, demonstrating how important to these people their ships and nautical skill was so

that it became impregnated within their cultural identity.

The Egyptians like the Greeks used rope as an integral part of the build in their ships,

but unlike the Greeks they used this rope to ‘ships the mortice and tenon joints were

reinforced by cord lashings’.5

This demonstrates that rope was used all over the

Mediterranean as a vastly integral point of the ships structures, and without it the kinds of

vessel that the ancients used for voyaging would have been undoubtedly impossible to make.

It also demonstrates the variants in ways that rope use at sea had developed within different

communities.

The first boats or rafts were made from bundles of logs or ‘rafts of reed bundles came

into use’6 before structured hulls came into play, tied together using primitive rope made

from hemp or leather pieces showing that rope has been important from the first aspect of

travel over water. Hemp was the most common type of rope used on these early ships

throughout antiquity and well into the following millennia, although flax is also frequently

seen. Hemp rope was even found on the wreck of the Tudor ship the Mary Rose who sank

around five hundred years ago,7 and is still being made commercially today. It is however

now far more common to use a hemp blend or steel ropes because hemp can break because of

its ability to hold water. This is due to the capillary effect of the fibre, keeping it wet on the

inside when dry on the outside and causing the rope to rot resulting in breakages.8 This would

mean that the ancients had to keep replacing their rope on board and require them to keep

spare lines on deck. In antiquity the standing rope (rope that does not move i.e. hypozoma)

5 De Souza (1999), p. 165.

6 Casson (1971), p. 4.

7 www.maryrose.org [last accessed 17/04/2013]

8 Schubert (2009).

55

would be coated in tar or pitch to help protect from water damage, as would the hull of many

ships.9

The hypozoma is a bracing rope structurally important to ancient warships and galleys

‘hypozoma that was standard on both galleys and sailing ships’10

but until the experimental

archaeology that was the trireme The Olympias, conducted in 1987,11

was its role fully

realized. Frank Brewster postulates that the now known use of the hypozoma was ‘such use

of a rope would be of no practical value... a conversation with a sailor, who expressed an

equally positive opinion of the uselessness on such a contrivance’12

this demonstrates that the

research on ships and seafaring has hugely developed in the past century, Casson explains

that ‘no scholar came close to doing it (ancient marine research) justice until the end of the

last century’13

like rope seafaring was massively under searched until very recently. The

hypozomas’ role on the ship now shown by the reconstruction was to ‘put a tension on each

extremity, so that the planks should fit well together with the dowels and withstand the

opposing force of the sea’. The role of this rope simply put is to ensure that the ships’ hull

won’t crack when offshore due to adverse weather. Casson explains another reason for the

hypozoma ‘another argument for this style of structure is that it would better enable so light a

hull to take the strains of combat’14

so the hull would also be strong enough to withstand the

characteristic ramming that happened in ancient naval battles. The hypozoma’s length is

described as ‘twice the length of a trires, with a good deal to spare’15

(this can be anything

from 85-108m) and so is a huge single amount of rope to be made using ancient techniques.

The reason the hypozoma needed to be so long because it ran ‘from stern to stem and back

9 Casson (1971), p. 211.

10 Ibid. p. 250.

11 www.triremetrust.org.uk [last accessed 17/04/2013]

12 Brewster (1923), p. 63

13 Casson (1971), p. vii.

14 Ibid. p. 91.

15 Morrison & Coates (1986), p. 170.

56

again within the hull’16

to ensure the adequate amount of bracing support needed by the ship

was supplied. The hypozoma’s importance to warships is not only shown by its role on board

but by inscriptions written about shipbuilding. The hypozoma rope is always ‘the first named

and hence the most important and considerable of the ship’s ropes’17

showing its significance

as the first rope needed when equipping a vessel of this kind. Not only this but ‘a decree lays

down the minimum number of men to be employed in fitting it to a ship (but unfortunately

this number is not preserved)’18

this decree demonstrates not only how important this rope is

to a ship, but that its proper installation must be done with maximum care also showing how

complex this rope is.

The ropes concerning anchorage and mooring were vital to boats in antiquity. They

are used to secure the ship when it is not moving or moored, and can be useful in times of

heavy fog where the crew cannot navigate so are forced to drop anchor, amongst other

reasons. Anchors are even mentioned in the bible, showing the magnitude of influence they

have had over society for thousands of years (Acts 27.29-30). Cecil Torr writes in concern to

the rope holding anchors that ‘cables of each sort were carried by each ship, one set to serve

the two anchors at the bows, and the other for making the ship fast to the shore by her

stern’.19

Casson embellishes on this point concerning galleys saying ‘each galley carried two

anchors with arms and a shank of iron that weighed less than 50lb’20

along with ropes ladders

and fending poles for mooring. Torr goes on to describe that ‘the cables were sometimes

made of chain, but usually of rope: and a thicker rope was needed for large merchant-ships

than for the war ships’21

and later that ‘cables of two sizes were used in the Athenian navy,

one described as six-inch the other as four-inch and a half but unfortunately there is nothing

16

Morrison & Coates, (1896), p. 170. 17

Ibid. 18

Ibid. 19

Torr (1964), p. 75. 20

Casson (1971), p. 251. 21

Torr (1964), p. 73.

57

to show whether these measurements refer to the circumference or diameter’22

so we know

the ropes they were using would be very thick and like the chain heavy to haul from the

water. Casson however explains that ‘its use (chain) was strictly exceptional’23

demonstrating

how rope is more useful to ancient ships and seafaring. He also goes on to say that sailing

ships with larger and numerous anchors would be ‘equipped with winches and capstans’24

to

help draw them up from the seabed.

Ships and seafaring were heavily involved in trade and exploration, so secure

moorings for ships are essential so the crew can go and do this. The moorings are used to tie

the ship somewhere secure near land so the crew can disembark. In The Odyssey the crew

moor their ships in a natural harbour when visiting the Laestrygonians showing that this was

common practice. The ships would also be moored when arriving at ports where the later

Greeks would go to trade, although there are many instances when if a harbour is unavailable

the boats would be dragged up onto the shore ‘ships were small and drawn easily up on

shore’25

as we also see in the Odyssey and Iliad, but this practice appears less as communities

developed fortified harbours and it is also only possible for shallow light boats such as

galleys or warships. Regardless rope would be needed to help drag the ships up the shore and

back to the sea. Casson explains that these lighter ships ‘warships needed lighter mooring

lines and ground tackle than merchantmen since they were much less heavy in construction

and most often hauled up on the beach or put into slips instead of lying at anchor. In the

Athenian navy each trireme and quadreme had two sets of lines... the other (set) of four lines

of c.3.65cm in diameter; one set, probably the heavier, were the mooring lines the other the

anchor cables’26

this comment shows us the multitude of ropes used on a ship for mooring

22

Torr (1964), p. 73. 23

Casson (1971), p. 252. 24

Ibid. 25

Ludlow (1883), p. 193. 26

Casson (1971), p. 250.

58

and anchorage two sets of four ropes so at least eight lines, demonstrating the magnitude of

use that rope presented just to mooring and anchorage, a key aspect of seamanship.

Rigging is the term used for the equipment on a ship used to propel it forwards. That

is anything to do with the sail, mast, and cordage used in conjunction with these items on a

ship. Here the role of rope is to manipulate the sail so as to move the vessel in the right

direction, an essential role. Torr tells us that ‘in every age and every district of the ancient

world the method of rigging ships was substantially the same: and this method is first

depicted by the Egyptians’.27

Casson explains this in further detail that ‘its rig consisted of a

retractable mast steeped amidships on which hung a single broad square sail. We see rigging

in numerous representations, and it is described in Homer’s verses’.28

He also describes in

detail the rig of a sixth century ship ‘a broad type bent by lacings ... the yard was held to the

mast by a parrall, a collar of twisted cords ... Apparently they were made of lightweight cloth,

for they had to be reinforced with ropes running at fixed distances horizontally from the edge

over the front surface; these together with the brails, which they crossed at right angles

marked off the face of the sail like a checkerboard’29

In this passage alone we can see several

ways that rope helped to keep the mast in place and fulfil its role of propelling the ship

forwards. Rigging on ancient vessels tended to consist of one mast carried by two supporting

ropes or lines to keep it steady, this is a very basic but effective kind of rigging. As most

ancient triremes and galleys were rowed by a team of oarsmen in conjunction with the

rigging its importance to the structure of these ships is not as significant as later vessels and

the merchants’ ships that graced the Mediterranean Sea. The mast would not be sufficiently

supported without the ropes and this shows us another reason as to how important rope was

on board.

27

Torr (1964), p. 78. 28

Casson (1967), p. 43. 29

Casson (1971), pp. 68-69.

59

Casson describes the emergency rigging that was used in the fourth century BC in the

Athenian Navy. It was used to flee when the ship was crippled as it was common practice at

this time to pack away the usual rigging or leave it onshore if possible as it got in the way.

These kits consisted of ‘not a smaller scale version to replace the working mast and the sail

but rather what we see on certain Roman galleys, a bow-sail’30

but in the next century (third

century BC) the emergency rig was abandoned and ships ‘returned to the old practice of

using two rigs’.31

This demonstrates to us that the Greeks were experimenting on what was

most useful to their ships showing that they had a hugely well thought out criteria and

considered many possibilities when constructing ships. It also shows one of the trends that

rope plays a part of the emergency rig was for a time useful, but fell out of fashion being

replaced with a spare standard rig that also heavily relied on rope.

As we can see rope plays a vital role in many aspects of ships and seafaring. It is

essential to all kinds of ship from the first boats being tied together to the triremes and

merchant ships that graced the Aegean Sea in later centuries. Casson’s book Ships and

Seamanship is one of the most in depth studies of this topic, drawing huge amounts of

research from the marine archaeology that occurred after the Second World War. His work

demonstrates the importance of cordage in every aspect of; rigging, anchorage, docking,

mooring, and structural importance to ships and hugely embellishes on the previous authority

to his book, the publication of Ancient Ships by Torr. Both of these studies have been

incredibly important to my brief exploration of the importance of rope to ships warships and

seamanship. It is obvious that rope is a key element in all of these topics, perhaps the reason

as to why it has been so overlooked in research and why some scholars such as Brewster have

speculated about its usefulness as it is so obvious it can be overlooked.

30

Casson (1971), p. 264. 31

Ibid.

60

Lois Robinson, 635911@swansea.ac.uk

Written for Ancient History Dissertation (CLD-300)

Bibliography

Brewster, F. (1923). The ὑποζωματα of ancient ships. Harvard Studies in Classical

Philology, 34, 63-77.

Casson, L. (1965). Parts 1 and 2 harbour and river boats of ancient Rome. Journal of Roman

Studies, 55, 31-39.

Casson, L. (1967). The emergency rig of ancient worships. Transactions and Proceedings of

the American Philological Association, 98, 43-48.

Casson, L. (1971). Ships and seamanship in the ancient world. Princeton: Princeton

University Press.

De Souza, P. (1999). Piracy in the Graeco-Roman world. Cambridge: Cambridge University

Press.

Haldane, D. (1990). An underwater view of the ancient world. The Biblical Archaeologist, 53

(1), 19-24.

Ludlow, T. W. (1883). The harbours of ancient Athens. American Journal of Philology, 4 (2),

192-203.

Morrison, J. S & Coates, J. F. (1986). The Athenian trireme: The history and reconstruction

of an ancient Greek warship. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Schubert, P. (2009). Our ropes are much stronger than we believe. Union Internationale Des

Associations D'Alpinisme.

Stieglitz, R. R. (1984). Long-Distance seafaring in the ancient Near East. The Biblical

Archaeologist, 47 (3), 134-142.

Torr, C., Tarn, W. W & Podlecki, A. J. (1964). Ancient ships. Chicago: Argonaut.

61

Vinson, S. (1990). An underwater view of the ancient world. The Biblical Archaeologist, 53

(1), 13-18.

Why is water an effective ingredient in rituals,

when it is considered a source of danger in Ancient Egypt?

Rituals played a significant role in both the religion and daily life of Ancient Egypt. Of the

many ingredients which could be used in rituals, one of the most intriguing is water.

Although to a modern audience it seems trivial and almost mundane, it is one of the more

elusive ingredients in the ancient world. In particular, what is striking is how it is used as a

source for purification and rejuvenation, despite the inherent dangers water, especially the

Nile, brings to Egypt.

Water for the Ancient Egyptians appears to have largely been regarded as a symbol of

rejuvenation and renewal. It was one of the more commonly used liquids in temple rituals.1

Moreover, it was vital for the purification of the temple and consequently appears to have

been a prominent ingredient in rituals. It can therefore be suggested that they were an

effective way of activating HkA2in such instances. Such rituals were well attested in Egypt

3

where water was either poured onto the ground or an object, or it was offered as a drink or

libation.4 In particular, deities were ‘urged’ to drink water offered in rituals as it symbolised

rejuvenation and life.5 In the second night hour of Stundenwachen Horus explicitly states that

he is purified with water, amongst other things,6 demonstrating that it is even acknowledged

on a divine level that water had a purifying quality which could not be ignored.

A papyrus found in a Roman Period temple reveals that at least 6 rituals involving

libations were included as a part of the daily temple ritual.7 The temple needed to be cleaned

1 Poo (2010), pp. 1-2.

2 Pinch (2006), pp. 9-11.

3 Dils (1993), p. 109.

4 Poo (2010), p. 5.

5 Ibid.

6 Dils (1993), p. 110.

7 Poo (2010), p. 5.

63

and purified before any ritual could take place,8 and so the water used was symbolically pure.

The sacred lakes in temples were representations of the watery Nun and so their use within

the sphere of temple rituals represents the regenerative nature of this primordial element. This

property of the Nun is a seemingly unique Egyptian perception: that water existed as a

‘primordial element’ was a general feature of creation in many cultures, although it appears

its abilities and uses in regeneration were entirely native.9 The Nun itself was attested solely

in the mythical sphere until the New Kingdom, when it became synonymous with the Nile

and was incorporated into its terminology.10

Moreover, this new representation of the Nun

was assimilated with the Nile god Hapy, a manifestation of the inundation. A stela of

Thutmose III in Karnak details that a ‘podium of hard stone’ had been in place since the

temple was flooded, ‘because of the Nun, when he was coming at his season’.11

This brief

reference indicates that now the annual flood, which revitalised the land and enabled crops to

grow, was now associated with the primeval waters and consequently with renewal and

rebirth. This appears to be a logical connection: it was the Nun which rejuvenated the

sleeping, and where the dead reappeared in a new form of life.12

It is therefore not surprising that water was considered the most significant means of

purification. Its connotations with life meant that it was an entirely positive force in Egyptian

culture.13

Moreover, its importance can be demonstrated in the emergence of the epithet nw

wr, or the Great or High Nun. This became an aspect of individual gods from the New

Kingdom, particularly Amun and Ptah. Papyrus Berlin 3048 presents the High Nun as Ptah,

‘who does create the food offerings’. Amun is likewise presented as a provider of food in

royal decrees of Pinodjem and Neskhonsu, describing him as the ‘High Nun who emerges at

8 Heiden (2003), p. 309.

9 Bickel (2005), p. 191.

10 Rotsch (2005), p. 229.

11 Ibid. p. 230.

12 Bickel (2005), p. 191.

13 Ibid. p. 192.

64

his due time’.14

The epithet here emphasises the rejuvenating nature of both the gods it

becomes associated with and the cosmic forces it invokes, consequently demonstrating the

symbolic significance of water. Allusions to the inundation were often made in rituals too,15

further suggesting that there was an awareness of the revitalising potential of the inundation,

and an eagerness to incorporate this imagery in order to emphasise the aim of the invocation.

This suggestion can further be explained by the associations made between the Nile

and Osiris.16

By the end of the Late Period, Osiris was the principal figure of Egyptian

funerary beliefs, largely because of the nature in which he was revived after death.17

Papyrus

Rhind mentions ‘lustral water’ from Elephantine, near where Osiris was supposedly buried at

Biga Island.18

According to the Coffin Texts, the deceased who bathed in water issued from

Osiris were then associated with him, acquiring divine attributes.19

In particular, CT94, Osiris is ‘remade’ from the ‘efflux which was in his flesh’.20

The

Nile efflux, rDw, was physically the flood, and symbolically the life force of the god Hapy.

Libations were therefore essential in funerary contexts as they revitalised the deceased,

allowing them to become youthful.21

This can be demonstrated by a scene at the temple of

Osiris at Abydos. Horus and Thoth libate Seti I, pouring anx and was signs over him, thereby

‘conferring life and divine power’.22

Such scenes are representative of the regenerative

qualities of water which are symbolically transferred through libation to the deceased,

enabling them to continue to live in the afterlife.

Moreover, from around the New Kingdom, water used in rituals was said to have

come from the Nun: in a nineteenth dynasty ritual outlined in the Cairo Papyrus, it is stated

14

Rotsch (2005), pp. 231-232. 15

Poo (2010), p. 5. 16

Delia (1992), p. 182. 17

Ibid. 18

Ibid. p. 185. 19

Ibid. p. 183. 20

Ibid. pp. 183-184. 21

Ibid. p. 183. 22

Ibid. p. 184.

65

that ‘what is in the Nun’23

will be brought as an offering,24

highlighting that now the Nun was

represented in a physical manifestation, providing a force of HkA which could be invoked

and activated in rituals. The Greco Roman period in particular saw the increase in use of

objects known as Horus Cippus stelae,25

which were activated by pouring such water over the

object, which was then drunk by the one who was invoking its power.26

Intended to cure

snake and scorpion bites, the artefact depicts a young Horus facing forward standing on two

crocodiles, holding back snakes and other wild animals.27

The inscriptions make it clear that

the amulets are activated by libation and that they invoke the protection of Isis as the role of

mother in the Osirian mythology. In particular, she healed Horus when he was bitten by a

snake, and so the stela acts as both a ritual ingredient and a deterrent against dangerous

creatures.28

The water used in this ritual was to be consumed,29

reiterating its revitalising

properties. Although a symbolic action, the consumption of this water, infused with HkA,

demonstrates the way in which it could be used as a positive, regenerative force, echoing the

powers of the Nun and the purifying temple rituals.

Water was also seen as a source of pleasure. In Papyrus Westcar, the priest

Djadjaemankh suggests that the king organises a group of girls to row up and down the lake

in order to ‘refresh’ his mind.30

The imagery here is all beautiful, natural, floral descriptions

which further emphasise the intention of relaxation and enjoying one’s self. Imagery of

fishing and fowling in a funerary context were laced with erotic symbolism with a focus on

rebirth and indeed this is reflected in the literature.31

The Tale of the Herdsman refers to a

23

pr.t m N W. 24

Rotsch (2005), p. 233. 25

See appendix Fig. 1. 26

Ritner (1989), pp. 106-107. 27

Seele (1947), pp. 43-44; Fig 3. 28

Hart (1986), p. 88. 29

Frankfurter (1998), p. 107. 30

Simpson & Ritner (2003), p. 16. 31

Booth (2005), p. 350; Loprieno (2005), p. 30.

66

water spell, which reads here more like a “pastoral fertility poem” than a spell,32

further

emphasising the beneficial nature of water and the tranquillity it can provide in a pastoral

setting. The eighteenth dynasty text on the ‘Pleasures of Fowling and Fishing’ also

emphasises the enriching qualities of water and praises ‘idyllic pleasures.’33

There is a

distinct appreciation for the life and harmony provided by pastoral settings, which

complements the function of water as a vital resource in society. A fishing scene from the

tomb of Montuemhat in Thebes utilises the necessity of water whilst hinting towards its

danger.34

The fish are speared in the water, encompassing both the death of a creature and

sustenance of the fisherman. These scenes first appeared in the Old Kingdom, going out of

fashion towards the nineteenth dynasty until they were revived in the twenty-fifth dynasty as

a part of a reflection of the past.35

The revival of scenes like this indicate that there was an

appreciation for the idyllic values they portrayed, further generating a respect and admiration

of these qualities of water which would otherwise be missing.

However, the Egyptian records rarely record anything negative, and so the official

records ignore the negative connotations that come with water. Texts never record how

someone dies, and the Nile as a source of disaster seems to be only mentioned in

comparisons.36

Although it was a significant provider of life, it had the potential for

incredible danger and one of the ‘most frightening possibilities’ of death.37

Storms, plague,

floods and rain had catastrophic consequences for the Egyptians. Disasters, such as a great

flood during the 6th

year of Taharqo’s reign, were commemorated in a positive manner,

32

Loprieno (2005), p. 30. 33

Ibid. p. 32. 34

Robins (2008), p. 220. 35

Ibid. 36

Bickel (2005), p. 193. 37

Muhlestein (2005), p. 179.

67

paralleled with the cosmogony surrounding the Nun. Consequently, they were often reflected

upon as a new beginning.38

Moreover, drowning was such a frequent occurrence that special conceptions were

developed in order to allow the drowned, whose bodies would be lost and therefore would not

receive a proper burial, a guaranteed access into the afterlife.39

If someone lost their body in

such a way, its consequent destruction meant that there would be no afterlife, and therefore

their existence, and the practices of the funerary cult, would be compromised.40

In Papyrus

Westcar, the wife of the Ubainer is burnt, destroying her body and denying her an afterlife,

then scattered on the Nile as a method of ensuring that she cannot receive any of her burial

rites. In the Osirian mythology, Osiris’ body is rescued from the Nile. This is done not to

ensure that he lives, but rather that he can be buried properly and receive an afterlife.41

It is

clear that the necessity for a body in the afterlife was a fundamental principal of Egyptian

society,42

and so its loss or destruction could be described as an ultimate death.

There was no afterlife for the many that drowned, and so the funerary cults adapted in

order to make allowances for this. This can perhaps be best emphasised by the Book of Gates,

a text similar to the Amduat concerning the twelve hours of night of the solar journey.43

The

fifty-eighth scene, and central motif, of the ninth hour portrays a lake of water containing

four types of the drowned. These are labelled as ones who are submerged, capsized,

swimming and spread out. Here they benefit from the regenerative properties of the Nun,

their bA remaining intact. Their noses are also clearly depicted, demonstrating that they can

breathe.44

Ra addresses these deceased, stating that their bau are ‘pleased with what you are

38

Bickel (2005), pp. 195-196. 39

Ibid. p. 192. 40

Loprieno (2005); Muhlestein (2005), p. 177. 41

Muhlestein (2005), p. 177. 42

Ibid. 43

Hornung (1999), p. 59. 44

Ibid. p. 162; Hornung (2005), p. 64.

68

breathing, without them decaying,’45

demonstrating that despite their bodies being lost,

allowances have been made in order to accept these people into the afterlife.

It is also interesting to note that water in the third hour is presented as a lake of fire,

which is damaging to the damned but benefits the ‘provisioned dead’.46

In the fourth hour,

the lake of life is guarded by jackals: ‘the bau of the dead cannot approach’ it and so it is

protected from any force.47

The imagery here indicates the unique nature of water and how it

affects something as fundamental as funerary culture. Although it has these refreshing, life-

giving qualities, it is essentially a danger and where possible, it should be treated with the

caution and respect it is given in the Book of Gates.

Furthermore, the danger of water is loosely reflected in mythology. The Nun in the

mythical sphere is located outside of the order of creation, and so is by definition, outside of

order.48

The Pyramid Texts and the Late Period Monument of Memphite Theology also

mention the drowning of Osiris,49

whose recovery facilitated the potential of life after death,

rather than rejuvenation.50

The battles between Horus and Seth, in particular when Seth

transforms into a hippo and their race across the Nile, also indicates that water is a dangerous

element. When Seth is defeated, his blood runs into the Nile, turning the river red.51

His

destruction within the body of the Nile under the guise of a hippopotamus reveals two things:

although water is portrayed as a source of rejuvenation its powers are primarily symbolic; the

Nile is also home to threats other than the possibility of drowning.

In this instance, the hippopotamus is possibly considered one of the most potentially

dangerous creatures in the Nile. Residing primarily in the marshes of the Delta, it was a

45

Hornung (2005), p. 163. 46

Hornung (1999), p. 60. 47

Ibid.; Hornung (2005), p. 129. 48

Loprieno (2005), p. 28. 49

Ibid. pp. 28-29. 50

Muhlestein (2005), p. 177. 51

Dils (1993), p. 120.

69

largely peaceful creature considered a threat by people.52

This fear stemmed from its

overbearing size and its aggression when threatened.53

It was also the only true enemy of the

crocodile in Egypt,54

making its place as a ‘Sethian animal’55

a justifiable representation. The

crocodile, however, was utilised in stories as a ‘symbol of all maliciousness,’56

and so its

ferocious nature is utilised to emphasise danger. This is perhaps most evident in Papyrus

Westcar, where a crocodile of wax is used to emphasise the dangers of swimming and is

eventually used in the downfall of the townsman,57

who is taken into the lake and presumably

drowned. This is later reiterated at the end of the papyrus, when a maid is snatched by a

crocodile as she goes to tell the king of the three children born to Ruddjedet.58

Crocodiles are also depicted on the Horus Cippus stelae,59

demonstrating that they are

a powerful force whose power is both invoked and suppressed by Isis and the child Horus.

Seth also attacked Horus under the guise of a crocodile after attacking him with scorpions,60

indicating that there was a connection in mythology between the protective nature of the

Cippus, which invokes the healing abilities of Isis, and the destructive nature of the creatures

the artefacts display, in particular crocodiles. It is also perhaps out of respect for such

creatures that gods are portrayed with animal manifestations: these portrayals would extract

the element of power and respect held by such animals and so they can be revered in a similar

way. In the Greco-Roman period, men would place clay crocodiles in small lead coffins with

names of power and the names of their wives inscribed on them, in order to keep their wives

from cuckolding them.61

This manner of invoking HkA is similar to the use of wax models to

52

Jong (2001), p. 100. 53

Ibid. 54

Ibid. p. 101; Brunner-Trout (2001), p. 321. 55

Velde (1977), p. 26. 56

Booth (2005), p. 348. 57

Simpson (2003), p. 16. 58

Booth (2005), p. 352; Simpson & Ritner (2003), p. 24. 59

Walter Museum: Horus Cippus stela. Accession number: 22.173. Available from

http://art.thewalters.org/detail/39655/horus-stele-cippus/. 60

Ritner (1989), p. 105. 61

Pinch (2006), p. 97.

70

invoke various gods during this period,62

indicating that crocodiles were creatures worthy of

respect in Ancient Egypt; their images were used in rituals in a similar way as invocations of

deities, demonstrating that there was an element of danger. This is further reminiscent of

Papyrus Westcar, where a crocodile of wax is thrown into the water, becoming the threat in

the case of the adulterous wife.

However, perhaps one of the most widespread dangers of water in Ancient Egypt was

the constant threat of disease. Many of these diseases were caused by parasites in the water

and can only be attested now through the analysis of mummies. In particular, the mummy of

the weaver Nakht was unfortunate enough to display symptoms of a handful of these

diseases, which has illuminated the extent of the dangers which were caused by parasites in

the water.

Ova of a parasite causing schistosomiasis were found in his liver, intestines and

kidneys. This disease may have caused Symmer’s Fibrosis in some cases: representations of

Akhenaten’s chief sculptor, Bak, demonstrate symptoms of the disease.63

There were also

lice eggs found in his hair, remnants of epidemic typhus. Hair was usually shaved to

eliminate this problem, and soldiers’ hair was likely to have been cut short to minimise the

risk.64

Finally, Nakht’s intestines also contained taenia solium eggs, or pork tapeworm.65

Filariasis, a disease caused by thread-like worms which eventually causes swelling

and thickened skin, is more difficult to detect as it does not affect the bones, but it can be

seen in representations. The Queen of Punt is a particularly plausible sufferer.66

Guinea worm

in particular may have been a painful parasite to endure. The worm grows up to a meter in

length, settling in the legs. It causes ulceration and blisters, which burst when the foot is

immersed in water. Mummy 1770 had sores associated with the worm, along with smaller

62

Ibid. 63

Heagren, (2005), pp. 151-152. 64

Ibid. pp. 154-155. 65

Ibid. pp. 156-157. 66

Ibid. pp. 155-156.

71

male worms found in the remains. Ebers Papyrus outlines the treatment for Guinea worm: it

was wound out using a stick and the area was to be kept clean and bandaged during this

process, which lasted about three weeks.67

There were three diseases caused by water which

were of particular danger to armies on campaign: malaria, typhus and poliomyelitis, a disease

predominantly associated with childhood, which caused deformities in the leg.68

Heagren’s list of water-related diseases demonstrates that there was a constant threat

to Egyptian society in almost every aspect of life.69

It is likely that many people died or

suffered greatly because of the unsanitary condition of water, made more dangerous during

times of Low Nile Tide. The term jAdt rnpt, or ‘yearly plague’ emerged: during times of low

water the most diseases appear to have been contracted too.70

The highest mortality rate in

nineteenth century Cairo was recorded in March and April, when the water table was at its

lowest.71

It is therefore almost certain that the same problems with parasites and diseases

would have arisen as a result of the low water table. It is not surprising that from the Old

Kingdom this period of low tide was associated with death, rather than the connotations of

life the flood brought with it.72

The tale of the Shipwrecked Sailor can also be used to explain the potential for death

and demonstrates the extent of the power of water. As the result of a storm, the boat sinks,

leaving one survivor, who is carried to an island ‘by a wave of the sea.’73

The threats of water

seem to be an underlying theme in such texts of the Middle Kingdom.74

The Shipwrecked

Sailor is unable to completely avoid such a catastrophe, but survives nonetheless, whilst the

Eloquent Peasant urges the steward not to ‘taste the evil/peril of the river.’75

With the dangers

67

Heagren (2005), pp. 153-154. 68

Ibid. pp. 156-157. 69

Heagren (2005). 70

Bickel (2005), p. 198. 71

Ibid. p. 199. 72

Ibid. p. 198. 73

Blackman (1972), p. 42; Simpson & Ritner (2003), p. 48. (Rdj.kw(j) r jw jn wAw n) 74

Loprieno (2005), p. 28. 75

Ibid.; Simpson & Ritner (2003), p. 29. (Nn dp=k Dw.t n.t jtrw).

72

presented by crocodiles, these examples indicate that despite the idealism of fishing and

fowling scenes, there was a constant threat posed by water, whether it was contained within

the Nile or out at sea. It was therefore something which needed to be respected. In the

Shipwrecked Sailor, it was the god who saved the sailor by appearing to him. The Eloquent

Peasant shares his wisdom with the steward in his appeals, potentially saving him from

danger.

Records in Deir el-Medina also reveal that water was used in trials. The phrase ‘taken

to the river’ appears, but it is unclear as to what this alludes to. It may be that their sentence is

to be drowned.76

Interrogations also took place there, in the case of the great tomb

robberies,77

demonstrating that it could be seen as a symbol of both great power and the

threat of punishment. In military campaigns, armies left and returned via the Nile,78

using it

as a positive, victorious force whilst also demonstrating the potential destructive qualities.

Enemies were tied to the prow of ships upon successful campaigns; an action recorded in

detail by Tutankhamun at Karnak, and Amenhotep III in Amarna and Elephantine.79

These

scenes outline a more sinister nature encompassing victory processions on the Nile. The

destruction of foreign power was represented by the enemies’ undignified portrayal on the

ships and it is therefore not surprising that the smiting scene can be seen on representations of

royal barques, such as in the tombs of Akhenaten, Ramesses III and Herihor.80

Such

representations reveal the harsh, destructive qualities of Egyptian victory and in particular,

the way in which water was used to advertise these qualities.

Allusions to water are also made in reference to women. The Teachings of Ptahhotep

in Papyrus Butler is concerned about the treatment of his wife, evoking the potential dangers

76

Muhlestein (2005), pp. 175-176. 77

Ibid. p. 176. 78

Muhlestein (2005), p. 173. 79

Ibid. pp. 173-174. 80

Muhlestein (2005), pp. 174-175.

73

of ‘untamed water.’ In this comparison, it is ‘a woman left to herself,’81

and so he alludes to

the whimsical, unpredictable nature of water. This aspect is also utilised in some love poems

to emphasise the lengths people would go for their loved ones. In one poem, the narrator

states ‘I enter the water and brave the waves,’82

whilst Loprieno notes that others used water

to emphasise a new perspective on purification, with heavy religious overtones.83

Ramesside literature in particular seems to highlight the negative aspect of water and

regards it with a degree of scepticism, whilst the New Kingdom in general appears to have

focused on how it was both a vital and dangerous element.84

Wenamun’s ship is robbed

during an expedition to Dor,85

where he is forced to stay for 9 days, that the prince may help

search for the thief.86

It is by the water that this event takes place, not as a result of it,

indicating that although it was a problematic and dangerous force, water was not the direct

cause of many problems, rather a circumstance. In the case of Papyrus Westcar, it is the

crocodile that is the true threat, not the lake. The fifth dynasty autobiographical text of

Kaemtjanet demonstrates the dangers of sailing on the Nile in a storm.87

Again, it is the storm

which causes the problems, not the Nile itself.

Water, especially the Nile, was a powerful force in Ancient Egypt. From the New

Kingdom onwards, its function became more prominent in religion as the mythology of the

Ennead developed and more stories concerning the death of Osiris emerged. Consequently

the importance of the Nile, which was also assimilated with the primeval Nun, was elevated

to such a position that it was now an embodiment of power and creation. Despite the dangers

and the constant threat of death and disease water posed, and still poses, to Egyptian society,

81

Loprieno (2005), p. 31. 82

Booth (2005), p. 349; Lichtheim (1976), p. 193. 83

Loprieno (2005), p. 37. 84

Ibid. p. 35. 85

Gardiner (1932), p. 62. (twj Tay-tw n tAy=k mr). 86

Ibid. p. 63. 87

Loprieno (2005), pp. 27-28.

74

it was used in rituals as an effective ingredient to invoke its positive aspects, rather than to

accentuate the negative connotations.

Charlotte Watts (554258@swansea.ac.uk)

Written for Ancient Egyptian Magic and Ritual (CLE-335)

Appendix: Image

Figure 1: British Museum: Horus Cippus stela. Accession

number: EA 60958.

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Booth, C. (2005). Uses and abuses of water in papyrus Westcar. In Amenta, A., Luiselli, M.

& Novella Sordi, M. (Eds.). L’acqua Nell’antico Egitto: Vita, Rigenerazione,

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Brunner-Trout, E. (2001). Crocodiles. Translated by J. Harvey In Redford, D. (Ed.) The

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Brill.

Batavia was built as a clear cut copy of a Dutch town at that time with

canals, drawbridges, canal houses, step-gables, a church, church

bell-ringing and streets paved with cobble stones.

In what ways did the city slowly adapt to the

realities of life in tropical Java?

Batavia, the ‘Jewel of Asia’, was established by the VOC (Vereenigde Oost-Indische

Compagnie) in 1619, after the razing and burning of the former settlement Jayakarta.

Throughout the 17th

Century, it saw unprecedented economic prosperity mostly in the hands

of the Dutch, whilst the neighbouring regencies of the Sultanate of Mataram acted effectively

as ‘agents’ and ‘tributaries’ to the VOC. However, within a century, it had become a

‘graveyard’1 and the need to ‘adapt’ or acclimatise to the climate change was fundamental.

However, as many earlier and recent commentators have attested such as J.J. Stockdale,

Blussé and Windodo collectively argue, it was more of a case of the eventual ‘desertion’ of

Batavia, led by the upper echelon of society, often VOC officials, for the cooler highlands

that became the key approach to dealing with the tropical conditions that Java had presented.

During VOC rule, Dutch colonial cities were built alongside rivers which flowed

perpendicular to the coastline. Water features were an important aspect of Dutch colonial

cities, and Dutch civil engineering specialised in managing these waterways.2 Batavia was

similarly planned in this manner by Simon Stevin, a mathematician and engineer, who

became an advisor for its construction.3 Under his ‘Ideal Scheme for a City’, the town

planning for Batavia resembled a typical Dutch city with canals.4 According to Putri and

1 Blussé (1986), p. 16.

2 Oers (2000), p. 164.

3 Devresse (2008), p. 105.

4 Oers (2000), p. 163.

79

Rahmanti, Dutch water management during 1500-1800 took on an aggressive characteristic,

challenging delta areas,5 perhaps because the Dutch had a natural affinity with water, and to

build a permanent base against inland native rivals such as the Sultanate of Mataram.6 Similar

to other ‘Indonesian’ settlements like Bantam and Makassar, Batavia was situated by the

coast, with a river-like partition separating two parts of the settlement.7 Likewise, Batavia

followed the formula of an ideal town plan, later depicted in Cornelis Speelman’s

Memorandum for Dutch Makassar: a fortified castle, kampong (native quarters) and a

merchant town.8

At first, visitors were astounded by how magnificent the city was; Christopher

Schewitzer arrived in Batavia around June 1676 and noted that Batavia, despite having

become a commercial port, still retained its defensive characteristics, remarking how strong

the city and fort were and how all the Dutch enemies could be housed within the fort.9

Similarly, in late 1680, Christoph Fryck described the city in detail, considering it greater

than Amsterdam itself. Attention was paid to the river Jacatra (probably a reference to the

Ciliwung) which was used extensively, as well as the abundance of fruit, vegetation and life

encountered in the city.10

Thus, Batavia soon became the ‘Jewel of Asia’ (for the city

structure, see figure 1 in the appendix).

The residents of Batavia also helped to shape the city itself, most notably the Chinese

immigrants of Java. They outnumbered native Javanese, Balinese and the Dutch in Batavia

and were the richest on average. Jan Coen was said to have initially welcomed and

incorporated the Chinese traders and were soon perceived as an ‘indispensable element to the

5 Putri & Rahmanti p. 64 and p. 67.

6 Ibid. p. 67.

7 Wake p. 76.

8 Sutherland (1989), p. 109.

9 Frick & Schewitzer, (1700), pp. 250-251.

10 Ibid. p. 33.

80

city’.11

They were assigned their own kapitan who conducted civil affairs for his own people.

‘Bencon’ or Jan Con, (心肝 , sam gon), was the kapitan under Jan Coen. He became

fundamental in procuring the limestone and wood for the city and fort walls, but fell into

heavy debt towards his demise in 1639.12

Similarly, the Bandanese, Bengalese slaves and

other Asians were segregated in their kampongs with their own headsman, sent to the

Ommelanden as agricultural workers. The Mardijkers, freed Christian slaves who became an

infantry force, were another population whose numbers stood around 5,000-7,000 in the

period 1691-1739.13

Unsurprisingly, Europeans constituted the smallest population, but had a

disproportionate amount of power.14

P.L. Gie argues that the Chinese had denunciated their

citizenship to their motherland and that they were at the mercy of their hosts.15

However,

Kratoska suggests that the Dutch were at the ‘mercy’ of the extensive Chinese trading

network and argue that the Dutch required the Chinese and their trade for their survival in

Batavia.16

Furthermore, their tried-and-tested clay method of processing sugar and arak

meant they monopolised sugar refineries in Batavia between the 17th

-18th

centuries. This led

to the opening of the Ommenlanden, beyond the walls of Batavia, further changing the

physical dynamics of the city.17

Unfortunately, sugar plantation became one of the causes of

the decadence of the city due to the water contamination that occurred.18

By 1740, 15,000

resided outside the wall and 2,500 inside the citadel.19

It was the same year as the Chinese

massacre, which marked deterioration in Dutch-Chinese relations, and the Chinese quarter,

the Glodok, outside the city walls.20

11

Gie p. 9. 12

Blussé (1986), pp. 51- 68. 13

Kanumoyoso pp. 4-5, 50, 51. 14

Ibid. p. 54. 15

Ibid. p. 8. 16

Kratoska, (2001), p. 120. 17

Matsuyama (2009), pp. 259-260 18

Blussé (1986), p. 26. 19

Kumar (1997), p. 32. 20

Blussé (1986), p. 95.

81

In contrast, the tropical swamp and the climate soon proved to be a physical hindrance

to economic progress for the VOC. These conditions were exacerbated due to the

construction of canals and tightly-packed buildings, both contributing to the manifestation of

water-borne diseases such as cholera. Several commentators associated these attributes to the

decay of the city, and suggested ways for the city to adapt to tropical Java. Sir Raffle’s

publication History of Java indicated a clear contrast between the natural beauty and wealth

of the island Java and the wretchedness of Batavia as a hovel of disease.21

Stockdale and

another author, whose name is unknown, described Batavia as an ‘ancient and dilapidated

aspect strangely at variance with the luxurious verdure of the tropical scenery’.22

The

‘demise’ of the Old City and the suburbanisation of Batavia are described briefly. All well-to-

do individuals gradually moved out as a result of the ‘insalubrious’ climate and miasma that

permeated Batavia.23

More contemporary critics of this issue include Blussé, who argues that

the tropical climate was the main cause of logistical problems in the city, and that Batavia

became a graveyard within a century of its founding due to reckless sugar plantations.24

Van

der Brug indicates how the fish ponds were situated next to a thriving culture of malaria-

carrying mosquitos.25

Additionally, Gillen-Wood agrees with Blussé that the irresponsible

and unsustainable sugar plantations caused the decay of the city, criticising Raffles for his

incorrect deduction of the compactness of the building layout.26

Conversely, Widodo argues

it was the direct transplantation of European architecture in an unfamiliar, tropical

environment that was the catalyst for the ‘insalubriousness’ of the city.27

He suggests, at the

beginning of the Early Modern period, when European influences were at its zenith, the

architecture built emphasised security, not comfort nor adaptability to the local climate. This

21

Raffles (1883), Appendix A, ix-xi. 22

Unknown Author (1875), p. 130. Also see Stockdale (1812), p. 129. 23

Unknown Author (1875), p. 135. 24

Blussé (1986), p. 17. 25

Nas (1993), p. 9. 26

Wood p. 5. 27

Widodo (2007), p. 19.

82

was demonstrated through the construction of military forts, garrisons and trading posts: thick

walls, flat façades and lack of ventilation allowed the ‘insalubriousness’ to manifest

throughout the city.28

The uninhabitable conditions meant medicine was consumed as

frequently as food in order to cope with the depravity of the environment.29

Yet this did not

seem to halt the rate of mortality. At the time of the malaria outbreak in 1733, there was a

general rise in mortality. A 54% decline in 1735 with 910 deaths was recorded, in

comparison to 1692 deaths in 1732. In the period 1735-1737, the death rate sharply rose to

2671 deaths, an increase of 293.5 per cent.30

Unmistakably, there was a fundamental need to adapt to the environment of tropical

Java, lest the entire commercial operation of the VOC collapse. A conscious move to the

south of Batavia and changes in architecture adopting characteristics, brought about by

Indische culture, were ways to cope with the tropical climate of Java amongst the ‘elite’ of

Batavian society.31

Due to the lack of a Dutch female population during the establishment of

Batavia, many Dutch soldiers chose to intermarry with the local female population as they

did not pass on a typical Dutch bourgeoise culture onto their wives or offspring.32

Furthermore, Asian women tended to not have as many material demands as their European

counterparts. European women wished to return home as soon as possible to show off their

new riches in front of their acquaintances in Holland.33

Thus through miscegenation there

was a gradual ‘indianisation’ of the Dutch and ‘europeanisation’ of the natives.34

An intentional move outside of the city walls was prominent among this class, though

the original intentions for suburbanisation had been a desire to have country houses away

28

Widodo (2007), p. 19. 29

Stockdale (1812), p. 130. 30

Raffles (1883), Appendix iv-v. 31

Milone (1967), pp. 410-411. 32

Hollander (2008), 10. 33

Ibid p. 11. 34

Nas (1993), p. 10.

83

from the city and display their wealth in the form of gardens and estates.35

Similarly,

Protschky argues the southern suburbs of Buitenzorg (meaning ‘without care’) and

Weltevreden (‘well-kept’) became a place of retreat away from the swampy mouth of the

Ciliwung. However, these detrimental features of Kota Batavia later became the primary

reason for relocation. People began to commute to the city, as opposed to residing there.36

Additionally, the human impact upon Batavia (tightly-packed, and later, abandoned,

buildings) restricted airflow and allowed the spread of disease.37 38

With these estates,

emerged an architectural peculiarity which reflected the indische culture, the pendopo,

incorporating a roof design with large gaps to allow air flow to circulate, thus allowing a

constant cool breeze to enter these houses.39

This limited the effects of the tropical climate

that Java presented as well as reduced the mugginess that European-styled buildings in

Batavia were known to have.

Meanwhile, in the city, conditions only worsened for the average inhabitant.

Furthermore, a lack of social consciousness of the ‘common’ people, who settled in Batavia,

impeded living standards.40

Therefore an effort to improve physical amplifications to the

canals were installed such as levied edges, heightened streets and deepened canals to

accommodate the increasing amount of waste and refuse dumped into these waterways.41

Despite these measures, the phenomenon of banjir (flooding) continued to be a recurring

problem through the VOC and colonial era. Another approach employed by the VOC was to

convert Batavia from a trade and administration centre to a garrison city by the turn of the

19th

century.42

By the mid-1800s, the canals, which were seen as one of the causes of disease

35

Taylor (1983), pp. 52-53. 36

Molen (1993), p. 317. 37

Raffles (1883), Appendix xi-xii. 38

Molen (1993), p. 317. 39

Milone (1965), p. 418. 40

Ibid. p. 413. 41

Nas (1993), p. 11. 42

Blussé (1986), p. 34.

84

in the city, were filled up and converted into streets.43

This enabled the suburbanisation of

Batavia, to the extent that Buitenzorg became the administrative centre in the early 19th

century.44

To conclude, Batavia was a striking city built with Dutch, native and Chinese

influences. However, by the 18th

and 19th

centuries, the effects of the tropical environment

and human impact upon the city turned it into a blot. The city attempted to acclimatise to

tropical Java, but arguably failed in its attempts, and these problems persisted throughout the

colonial era. The gradual ‘exodus’ of citizens, most notably of the gentry, from the centre of

the city towards the newly-founded suburbs best demonstrates this.

Howard Leung

Written for European Empires in the East (HIH-3178)

Appendix: Image

Figure 1: National Museum of World

Cultures. Coll. no. TM-496-3. The city

of Batavia, circa. 1627. Notice the

extensive use of canals and walls, as

well as Casteel Batavia.

43

Cobban (1985), p. 309. 44

Protschky (2011), p. 53.

85

Bibliography

Primary sources:

Crawford, J. (1920). History of the Indian Archipelago. Vol. 1. Edinburgh: Archibald

Constable and co.

Frick, C. & Schewitzer, C. (1700). A relation of two several voyages made in the East Indies.

trans. By S. L, London: D. Brown, S. Crouch, J. Knapton, R. Knaplock, Y. Wyate, B.

Took and S. Buckley.

Raffles, Sir T. S. (1883). A history of Java. Vol. 2. London: John Murray.

Stockdale, J. J. (1812). Sketches, civil and military, of the island of Java and its immediate

dependencies: Comprising interesting details of Batavia, and authentic particulars of

the celebrated Poison-Tree, London: J.J. Stockdale.

Unknown Author (1875). Many lands and many people with one hundred and forty-seven

illustrations. Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott & Co.

Secondary literature:

Blussé, L. (1986). Strange company: Chinese settlers, mestizo women and the Dutch in VOC

Batavia. Holland: Foris Publications.

Cobban, J. L. (1985). The ephemeral historic district in Jakarta. Geographical Review, 75

(3), 300-318.

Devresse, J. T. (2008). ‘Magic is no magic’: The wonderful world of Simon Stevin. Billeria:

WIT Press.

Gie, P. L. (1992). The changing economic position of the Chinese in Netherlands Asia. In

Fernando, M.R. & Bulbeck, D. (Eds.). Chinese economic activity in Netherlands India:

Selected translations from the Dutch (pp. 5-18). Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian

Studies.

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Hollander, I. (2008). Silenced voices: Uncovering a family’s colonial history in Indonesia.

Ohio: Ohio University Press.

Kratoska, P. H. (2001). Colonial history: Imperialism before 1800. London: Routledge.

Kumar, A. (1997). Java and modern Europe: Ambiguous encounters. Richmond: Curzon

Press.

Matsuyama, A. (2009). Traditional dietary culture of Southeast Asia: its formation and

pedigree. London: Routledge.

Milone, P. D. (1967). Indische culture and its relationship to urban life. Comparative Studies

in Society and History, 9 (4), 407-426.

Molen, W. V. D. (1993). Glory of Batavia: The image of a colonial city through the eyes of a

Javanese nobleman. In Nas, P. (Ed.). Urban symbolism (pp. 315-329). Leiden: Brill.

Oers, R. V. (2000). Dutch town planning overseas during VOC and WIC rule (1600-1800).

Zutphen: Walburg Pers.

Protschky, S. (2011). Images of the tropics: Environment and visual culture in colonial

Indonesia. Leiden: Brill.

Sutherland, H. (1989). Eastern emporium and company town: trade and society in eighteenth-

century Makassar. In Broeze, F. (Ed.). Brides of the sea: port cities of Asia from the 16th

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20th

centuries (pp. 97-128). Kensington: New South Wales University Press.

Taylor, J. G. (1983). The social world of Batavia: European and Eurasian in Dutch Asia.

Madison: University of Wisconsin Press.

Wake, C. (1997). Banten around the turn of the sixteenth century: trade and society in an

Indonesian port city. In Broeze, F. (Ed.). Gateways of Asia: Port cities of Asia in the

13th

-20th

centuries (pp. 66-108). London: Kegan Paul International.

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Widodo, J. (2007). Modern Indonesian architecture: Transplantation, adaptation and

accommodation and hybridization. In Nas, P. (Ed.). The Past in the present: Architecture

in Indonesia (pp. 17-25). Leiden: KITLV Press.

Online resources (including unpublished dissertations and articles):

Kanumoyoso, Bondan. Beyond the city wall: Society and economic development in the

Ommenlanden of Batavia.

Retrieved from

https://openaccess.leidenuniv.nl/bitstream/handle/1887/17679/Bondan's%20Dissertation

%20Complete%20Version.pdf?sequence=2.

Putri, Prathiwi. W. & Rahmanti, A.S. Jakarta waterscape: From structuring water to 21st

century water hybrid nature?.

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06.pdf.

Reproductie van een plattegrond van Batavia uit circa 1627.

Retrieved from

http://collectie.tropenmuseum.nl/default.aspx?idx=ALL&field=*&search=496-3#.

Wood, Gillian D’Arcy. Tambora 1815: Climate change, natural disaster and colonial

government.

Retrieved from http://www.icarus.info/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/Gillen-Wood.doc.

To what extent has the concept of ‘deformity’ affected

Richard III’s image and character?

Shakespeare’s portrayal of Richard III as the evil ‘crook back’ has dominated his image for

centuries.1 A villainous king supposedly responsible for the death of his young nephews,

Richard III was the embodiment of an evil and malformed soul beneath. As the eleventh child

of Richard Duke of York, he was ‘very little’ unlike the powerful and domineering build of

previous Plantagenet’s , including his elder brother Edward IV, but whether he possessed any

form of physical disfigurement has been subject to question, and until very recently,

dismissed.2 The confirmation of the skeleton, found at Greyfriars in Leicestershire, as

Richard III in February 2013, adds an interesting dimension to the contention that surrounds

his deformity.3 Concrete evidence that Richard III had a curvature of the spine and the

seeming significance of this leads, naturally to the question of why this mattered. This essay

will adopt a chronological approach in an attempt to assess when, how, and why the concept

of ‘deformity’ or disfigurement became so integral to the central argument surrounding

Ricardian historiography, and whether Richard was a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ king.

Exploring the king’s appearance becomes challenging when few contemporary

accounts, and no contemporary portraiture survives. Early surviving accounts do not mention

a deformity, although the body and appearance of Richard III was commented upon. The

earliest documentary evidence was written before he was eight in Richard Duke of York’s

lifetime and states no more than ‘Richard liveth yet.’4 This has often been interpreted to mean

that Richard was a sickly child, which is supported by John Rous’ description of ‘a small

1 Martin (2006), p. 181.

2 Ellis (1968), pp. 183-184; Ross (1999), pp. 138-139; Potter (1983), pp. 9-141; Hicks (1991), p. 49; Kendall

(1955), p. 500; Rhodes (1977), pp. 1650-1652. 3 Dockray & Hammond (2013), p. 3.

4 Halsted (1844), p. 409; Peter, Hammond & Weeks (1985), p. 5.

89

body… weak in strength’. As the chronicler of the Earls of Warwick and Chaplain at the

Chapel of Guys Cliff, he would have almost certainly have met him. 5 Further accounts of

his ‘smallness’ can be seen in ‘Archibald Whitelaw’s Address to Richard III’ where ‘never

before has nature dared to encase in a smaller body such spirit,’ and ‘in his small body the

greatest valour held sway.’6 Further description is offered by Nicholas von Poppelau, a

Silesian nobleman, who was acquainted with Richard in 1484 and held a private audience

with the king on the 1st

of May. 7

Von Poppelau does not comment on a deformity but

provides similar allusions to a ‘smallness’ of physique in that Richard was described as

‘slimmer’ and possessing ‘delicate arms and legs.’8 This absence of comment on any form of

deformity is apparent in the two authoritative works from the period, Dominic Mancini and

the Croyland Chronicle, whereby we only learn of Richard’s appearance from the Croyland

Chronicle’s depiction of a lean face and pale complexion.9

The first mention of any noteworthy physical anomaly is in the form of a striking

monstrous birth and is depicted in John Rous’ account following the accession of Henry VII.

In marked contrast to Rous’ previously mentioned description in the ‘Rous Roll,’ his History

of the Kings of England described Richard as ‘retained within his mother’s womb for two

years… emerging with teeth and hair to the shoulders.’10

Whilst the only significant post-

natal physical difference presented by Rous at this later date is that of ‘unequal shoulders, the

right higher than the other’ it is notable that Rous used Richard’s physicality as one way of

reverting his previous commendations of Richard prior to Henry VII’s accession.11

The

earliest surviving portraits of Richard similarly provide a visual representation of the

transformation found in Rous’ two descriptions. The earlier Society of Antiquaries portrait

5 Rous (1745), p. 218; Peter et al (1985), p. 5; Walpole (1768), p. 107.

6 Pollard (1996), pp. 193-195.

7 Peter et al (1985), p. 5; Potter (1983), pp. 138-139; Ross (1999), p. 141; Armstrong (1989), pp. 136-138.

8 Ibid. pp. 136-138.

9 Hammond & Weeks (1985), p. 5; Potter (1983), p. 137.

10 Hammond & Weeks (1985), p. 5; Dockray & Hammond (2013), pp. 9-10.

11 Ibid. p. xix.

90

ring-tree, dated c.1516-22, is free from the allusion of the hunched back found in the portrait

in the Royal Collection. However, an x-ray of the Royal Collection portrait for the special

exhibition of 1973 revealed that the ‘hunch-back’ was an over-painting, and the original

shoulder line was straight.12

This disfiguring alteration, which also included a narrowed eye

shape, has been carried through by all subsequent editions.13

The editing process undergone

by the two most overt allusions to physical abnormality relates to the ‘monster making’ effect

ascribed to history by Jeffrey Cohen whereby the figure of the ‘real’ Richard III has been

distorted by posthumous accounts and culture.14

The only other written account prior to the

sixteenth century which includes deformity is found in an incident at York in the early 1490s,

where Richard was accused of being a ‘hypocrite, a crookback.’15

Although deemed

unreliable by Charles Ross, the source is valuable for it shows the apparent need for John

Payntour to deny these claims and therefore correspondingly suggests the contemporary

negative connotations that surround the use of the term ‘crookback.’16

Rous, portraiture and

the brawl at York suggest the possible negative connotation for which disability could be

utilised, yet based on near-contemporary evidence alone, the notion of Richard actually

possessing any deformity is ambiguous.17

The sixteenth-century authorship of Thomas More and Polydore Vergil erased any

form of ambiguity surrounding the body of Richard.18

Vergil describes a king ‘deformed of

body, the one shoulder being higher than the other’ and Thomas More suggests a man of ‘ill-

featured… limbs, crook-backed, his left shoulder much higher than his right.’19

The works of

More and Vergil have been viewed collectively by historians as pioneering a century’s worth

12

Ross (1999), p. 139; Potter (1983), p. 262; Tudor-Craig (1977), pp. 80-93. 13

Ibid. 14

Cohen (1996), p. 9. 15

Dockray & Hammond (2013), p. 5; Ross (1999), p. 139; Tudor-Craig (1977), p. 80; Hammond & Weeks

(1985), p. 5; Potter (1983), p. 140. 16

Raine (1978), pp. 71-73. 17

Potter (1983), p. 136; Ross (1999), p. 139. 18

Ross (1986), pp. 139; Myers (1954), pp. 511-21. 19

More (2005), p. 7; Ellis (1968), p. 227.

91

of elaborate historical writing termed the ‘Tudor Myth.’20

Vergil’s work has often been

viewed with more historical merit as a more subtle account for it contains admiration for a

king of ‘sharp wit… courage also high and fierce…rather yieldeth [death] to take with the

sword, than by foul flight to prolong his life.’21

More’s work has received more criticism

however, Polydore Vergil likewise claims to state the truth when a component of his purpose

was to present the Tudor dynasty favourably. 22

Yet, these writers are not inventing a so-

called myth.23

Their ‘histories’ were not just a construction for Tudor propaganda but it is

significant that both More and Vergil utilise the ‘monstrous’ references to Richard’s

appearance which were markedly fewer and did not appear in the contemporary accounts. It

has been argued by Ross and R. Sylvester that the value of the Tudor works rests in their

representation of the current and popular view of the time.24

This begs the question of how

contemporaries would have perceived this ‘deformed’ image and why Shakespeare likewise

exploited Richard III’s ‘lump of foul deformity’ as central to his evil character.25

Irina Metzler has cautioned the medieval and later-medieval connection between

deformity and sin to have often received sweeping misinformed and generalised statements.26

Henri-Jacques Stiker likewise states ‘for the middle ages as a whole physical aberrancy was a

‘normal anomaly’… there was neither revulsion, nor terror.’27

Yet Richard was a king, not a

‘normal anomaly,’ and the conflicting and transforming accounts of his physical appearance

fits more into the context of sixteenth-century physiognomy as opposed to contemporary

reactions to physical difference. At the beginning of Thomas More’s account Richard’s

physical malformations and negative appearance is juxtaposed next to a description of his

20

Ross (1999), p. xxxiv; Kendall (1955), p. 500. 21

Ross (1999), p. xxxvii; Hipshon (2011), p. 213; Ellis (1968), pp. 226-227. 22

Ross (1999), p. xxxvii; Hipshon (2011), p. 216; Potter (1983), pp. 110-111; Kendall (1955), p. 500; Hanham

(1975), pp. 194-195; Hay (1952), p. 154. 23

Ross (1999), p. xlv; Kendall (1955), p. 504. 24

Ross (1999), pp. xxv and xlv; Sylvester (1963), p. lxxviii. 25

Hammond (1981), pp. 139 and 163-164. 26

Metzler (2006), p. 5. 27

Ibid.; Stiker (1999), p. 66.

92

character as ‘close and secret, a deep dissimuler… outwardly companionable where he

inwardly hated’, he was ‘dispitious and cruel.’28

Whilst perhaps More only hints at a possible

link between the two, William Holinshed in The Third Volume of Chronicles beginning at

Duke William the Norman published in 1587 asserted ‘that the full confluence of these

qualities, with the defects of favour and amiable proportion, ague proofe to this rule of

physiognomie.’29

Anthony Hammond argues that Shakespeare had read and was aware of the

1587 edition of Holinshed’s work which contains not only the idea of Richard’s deformity,

but also alludes to this so-called ‘science’ of physiognomy.30

Physiognomy was founded in classical antiquity but it peaked in popularity in the

sixteenth century and was based on the value that the physical body and soul are reflective of

each other.31

Shakespeare’s deformed character of Richard III demonstrates this

physiognomical notion that a malformed outer appearance automatically represents that of an

inner evil soul: ‘Why, I… Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to see my shadow in

the sun/ And descant on mine own deformity.’ 32

His soul is not only warped but his actions

are pre-determined in a form of ‘moral logic’ that his body presents.33

The contextual focus

on appearance and character may have caused Shakespeare, More and Vergil, even Rous, to

create an appropriate body according to these physiognomical ‘rules’ and their interpretation

of Richard as ‘evil.’ This intertwined relationship between the body and soul is not an

isolated phenomenon with physiognomical references to a hunched back found in the

seventeenth-century work of James Ferrand whom based on the ‘sympathy… betwixt the

body and the mind… seldom saw any person, being crooke backed, which were of a good

28

More (2005), p. 7. 29

Torrey (2000), pp. 124-125. 30

Hammond (1981), p. 79. 31

Metzler (2006), pp. 54-55. 32

Hammond (1981), pp. 126-127. 33

Williams (2009).

93

nature.’34

In terms of Richard III, physiognomy persists beyond these later accounts and the

relationship between appearance and character has made its mark on the subsequent

historiography.

The effect of deformity on Richard III’s character can perhaps be best seen following

the end of the Tudor dynasty where the defence of Richard emerged alongside the traditional

image in what could almost be described as a ‘battle’ for his reputation.35

Sir George Buck’s

The History of the life and reigne of Richard the Third, written in the early seventeenth

century and published in 1646, was the first attempt to deconstruct the traditional image.36

An

Elizabethan and Jacobean courtier, Buck’s comprehensive account defends the king against

all his charges, including that of his ‘pretended deformity.’37

Questioning the physiognomical

concept that ‘a man of blemish’ is unable to have a ‘wise, valiant… liberall and religious

soule’, Richard is proportioned and ‘decently compacted’ and therefore a victim of the

‘harsh… most nobly’ furnished fabrications of previous commentators.38

Yet this was soon

met with criticism from Thomas Fuller in 1655 who accused Buck of not only ‘eveneth his

shoulders’ and ‘smootheth his back’ but ‘proceeding from his naturals to his morals, maketh

him as virtuous as handsome.’39

Although not necessarily intentional Buck and Fuller, despite

their differences in opinion, were seemingly unable to separate the question of the king’s

physical appearance and his character.

Fuller’s more traditional stance trickled into the early eighteenth century where Paul

Rapin de Thoyras’ two publications on a history of England between 1723 and 1725 not so

cautiously painted Richard as ‘sirnamed Crook-back’d because he was so in reality.’40

However, the defence of Richard was gathering pace, most especially in Horace Walpole’s

34

Ferrand (1640), sig. L4v, sigs. X8v-Y I. 35

Hipshon (2011), p. 218. 36

Ibid. p. 217; Myers (1968), p. 187. 37

Myers (1968), p. 187; Buck (1647), p. 79. 38

Buck (1647), pp. 79-80. 39

Fuller (1847), p. 528. 40

Myers (1968), p. 190.

94

appropriately titled Historic Doubts on the Life and Reign of Richard the Third. Describing

the previous centuries as having ‘transmitted… ignorance and misrepresentation’ Walpole

clears Richard of all his charges in a similar manner to Buck.41

Richard once again is pictured

as a ‘correctly’ formed king ‘who was slender, and not tall.’42

He does however accept that he

may have ‘had one shoulder a little higher than the other’ but as ‘with regard to the person of

Richard, it appears to have been as much misinterpreted as his actions.’43

Yet, like Buck and

Fuller, Walpole still finds the apparent relationship between appearance and character

imperative in his analysis by dismissing the ‘amplification’ of his deformity through tradition

with the question: ‘cannot a foul soul inhabit a fair body?’44

By this mid-eighteenth century

period only one historical account stood out against the general pattern of defence and that

was David Hume’s History of England published in 1761 a few years prior to Walpole’s.

Hume depicted a king who fitted his own opinion on the Middle Ages, the ‘barbarous’ era

prior to ‘the dawn of civility and science.’45

Richard III’s ‘hump-back’ physique had come

full circle for Hume was adamant that ‘his body was in every particular no less deformed than

his mind.’46

At the turn of the twentieth century the historiography of Richard III has maintained a

polarisation of opinion in terms of the traditional Tudor image and his defence.47

Two

approaches are adopted when addressing the question of Richard’s possible deformity,

complete reform or a process of ‘explaining away.’ The Richard III Society was established

in 1924 and was ‘dedicated to reclaiming the reputation of a king of England who died over

500 years ago.’48

Integral to this defence of Richard was the desire to disprove any form of

41

Hipshon (2011), p. 219; Walpole (1768), p. iii. 42

Walpole (1768), pp. 102-103. 43

Ibid. pp. 102-103. 44

Ibid. pp. 102-103. 45

Hume (1767), p. 311; Myers (1954), pp. 190-191. 46

Hume (1767), p. 311; Potter (1983), p. 185. 47

Myers (1954), p. 199; Hipshon (2011), pp. 226-227. 48

http://www.richardiii.net/aboutus.php.

95

deformity as ‘merely inventions of those trying to blacken his image.’49

To use Jeremy

Potter’s words, this ‘obsessively personalised’ aspect of Ricardian studies has gone to much

effort to reform the bodily appearance of this misinterpreted king.50

Personal identification or

justification to slight physical difference as ‘normal’ is one method. It is not just found in

Paul Murray Kendall’s defence but also on assessment it is in the earlier works of Horace

Walople and Sir George Buck whose modern biographer, Arthur Kincaid, felt obliged to

argue that it was not a ‘heated emotional defence.’51

Focusing on the unreliability of More

and a lack of contemporary evidence, they firmly disprove any monstrous physicality.

However, even in the twentieth century, the reasoning behind this need to disprove deformity

is evident in Potter’s conclusion which juxtaposes character and appearance: ‘ambitious to do

well and good, Richard was far from abnormal.’52

The other approach has been to provide explanation. Paul Murray Kendall does this

when ‘reforming’ the appearance of Richard by providing a rational reason for an uneven

shoulder height. As a result of ‘rigorous training’ Richard’s right shoulder became more

muscular than the left, and Potter provides consensus to this theory by stating that more

modern cavalry regiments provide evidence of this imbalanced physique.53

This explanatory

method highlights the seeming need for historians to address the contention surrounding

Richard’s ‘deformity’ but it also leads to conclusions more inclined to admit mild physical

difference as a possibility. Michael Hicks determines that he was a king of ‘uneven shoulders

as those who knew him said, but was certainly neither a cripple nor incapable of bearing

arms.’54

Similarly, Charles Ross addresses Richard’s appearance and concludes the likelihood

49

http://www.richardiii.net/aboutus.php. 50

Potter (1983), pp. 141-142. 51

Walpole (1768), pp. 103-107; Kendall (1955), pp. 47-48 and 458-459; Kincaid (1979), pp. cxxviii & cii-cxxx. 52

Potter (1983), p. 144; Kendall (1955), p. 500. 53

Kendall (1955), pp. 47-48; Potter (1983), pp. 141-142. 54

Hicks (1991), p. 49.

96

that he ‘had no great deal of bodily deformity.’55

Philip Rhodes in the British Medical

Journal provides the most focused modern analysis on Richard III’s deformity where in a

similar manner he suggests that Richard had no great degree of physical abnormality.56

Proposing that the nerve lesion caused by Klumpke’s paralysis or Erb’s palsy was unlikely,

Rhodes concludes that Richard may have suffered from a minor degree of Sprengel’s

deformity for the best medical hypothesis is that he showed a ‘normal though unusually

raised shoulder.’57

More interestingly, Rhodes dismisses the hypothesis that Richard could

have suffered from kyphoscoliosis on the basis that contemporary description, ignoring later

Tudor works, does not mention a severe enough abnormality of this kind. Hammond and

Weeks likewise in their study of the king’s deformity follow the same logical pattern in the

belief that any arguments of scoliosis or a more severe disfigurement would require an over

reliance on the image that Shakespeare presents.58

The explanations to Richard’s deformity in

these works are brief, less symbolic and more significantly are not in conjunction with

character or kingship.

However, the discovery and later confirmation of a skeleton with a spinal curvature,

the seemingly improbable scoliosis, brought Richard’s appearance back to the fore.59

The

response of Ricardians is best portrayed in Philippa Langley’s reaction of disbelief in the

television documentary ‘Richard III: The King in the Car Park.’ The repetition of ‘no’ and

her request to sit down highlights the impact of such a discovery by those who had gone to

great efforts to revert this opinion of Richard.60

The argument that Tudor propaganda was not

merely invention could be applied with new confidence to Richard’s physical appearance

because the curvature was likely to have caused one of Richard’s shoulders to have been

55

Ross (1999), p. 139. 56

Rhodes (1977), p. 1652. 57

Ibid. p. 1652. 58

Rhodes (1977), p. 1651; Hammond & Weeks (1985), pp. 5-9. 59 http://www.theguardian.com/higher-education-network/blog/2014/feb/04/richard-iii-researchers-stories-

discovery-anniversary. 60

http://www.channel4.com/programmes/richard-iii-the-king-in-the-car-park/4od

97

higher than the other.61

What is more alarming is that, even with a modern perception,

subsequent studies saw this new evidence as an opportunity ‘to re-evaluate his personality,

especially in light of what we now know about his physical condition.’62

The newly

discovered physical anomaly though was not the hunchback, limping or withered arm of

Shakespeare but it could fit Vergil’s description of ‘deformed of body, the one shoulder being

higher than the other’ and More’s ‘ill-featured… his left shoulder much higher than his

right.’63

However, it is important to note Metzler’s application of the modern disability

studies model to the medieval period arguing that the Middle Ages would have perceived

‘impairment’ as opposed to ‘disability.’64

Richard did not have a ‘disability’ in its modern

sense but his skeleton almost certainly reveals some form of physical ‘impairment.’65

The discovery of Richard III’s skeleton potentially raises more questions than

answers. What can be definitely ascertained is that the curvature would not have created the

debilitating hunch-back ascribed by Shakespeare.66

Yet the real significance of the discovery

is its absence among the contemporary accounts. It could be possible that Richard was able to

literally “clothe [his] naked villainy” as stated in Shakespeare and hide his mild deformity

from view.67

However, this explanation does not answer for the silence following his defeat

at Bosworth, especially if we are to believe the accounts of Jean de Molinet, the Great

Chronicle of London and Polydore Vergil that he was ‘displayed to the people… without any

clothing,’ the opportune moment to discredit him. 68

Richard III provides the prime example

of the ‘monster-making’ effect of history coined by Jeffrey Cohen.69

Despite its

contemporary obscurity, historical argument regarding Richard III’s character has rarely been

61

http://www.richardiii.net/2_4_0_riii_appearance.php#intro 62

http://www.le.ac.uk/richardiii/science/psychology.html 63

More (2005), p. 7; Ellis (1968), p. 227. 64

Metzler (2006), p. 5. 65

Oliver (1990). 66

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-leicestershire-21282241 67

Hipshon (2011), p. 169. 68

Bennett (1985), p. 161; Thomas & Thornley (1983), pp. 237-238; Ellis (1968), pp. 223-236; Dockray &

Hammond (2013), p. 3. 69

Cohen (1996), p. 9.

98

without a reference, albeit if only in passing, to his physicality. Whilst history may have

shifted in the later twentieth century to a less subjective approach, the discovery of the

skeleton was enough to show that in the eyes of the popular imagination it had not come very

far. A curvature of the spine, even if only in the first aftershock moment, remained

inextricably bound to the character of a man who was ‘determined to prove a villain.’70

Gemma Almond, 655580@swansea.ac.uk

Written for Blood and Roses: England 1475-1500 (HIH-3258)

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The editorial team

The editorial team of History and Classics students proofreads, edits, and formats Gorffennol. The

team currently comprises of the following students:

Silke Davison (first year Ancient History)

Jess Fallon (third year Classics)

Emma Garland (MA Modern History)

William Murphy (MA Ancient History and Classical Culture)

Jed Rual (third year Egyptology and Classical Civilisation)

Patrick Tweed (third year History)

Leah Wateridge (second year Classical Civilisation)

Mollie Warboys (second year Ancient History)

Julian Wojtowicz (History graduate).

The student editorial team are coordinated by Dr Evelien Bracke. For more information on us, see

http://gorffennol.swansea.ac.uk/?page_id=26.

Publish your assignment

Gorffennol accepts assignments on any topics, from any year, and from any section of the

Department of History and Classics. The only condition is that you received a first class mark on

your assignment. We will ask the module coordinator for permission to publish your assignment

as well. We will not publish assignments for the same piece of assessments twice (not in the first

three years) as we want to publish articles on the majority of our Department’s modules on offer,

so please check whether something has already been published on your assignment.

To submit a piece of assessment for publication, please send it in Word format to Evelien Bracke

(e.bracke@swansea.ac.uk), including your name, student numbers, module title and code for

which you wrote the assessment, and the mark you received.

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