BRIBERY IN CLASSICAL ATHENS Kellam ... - Historia Antigua

BRIBERY IN CLASSICAL ATHENS
Kellam Conover
A DISSERTATION
PRESENTED TO THE FACULTY
OF PRINCETON UNIVERSITY
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OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
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BY THE DEPARTMENT OF
CLASSICS
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March 2010

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ABSTRACT
This dissertation proposes a fresh look at bribery and its regulation to examine
how bribery shaped the development of the ancient Athenian democracy (508/7-322
BCE). Political scientists and economists commonly treat bribery as a kind of
inefficiency that can be minimized through proper institutional incentives and legal
sanctions within a static polity. Yet Athens’ democracy was anything but static, and the
very ‘problem’ of dōrodokia changed considerably over time. Exploring this dynamic
change thus refocuses our understanding of the relationship between bribery and
democracy.
As Chapter One shows, the concept of dōrodokia was used to distinguish between
legitimate and illegitimate forms of political collaboration vital to the success of the
democracy. Rather than define dōrodokia by the context in which the gift, favor, or
payment was made, the Athenians looked to the outcome of the transaction. ‘Good’
results, processes, and players were aligned with dēmokratia, ‘bad’ with dōrodokia.
Chapters Two through Four show how changing conceptions of dōrodokia were
consistently tied to evolving ideas about what good democratic politics looked like. The
figure of the corrupt man, or dōrodokos, was consistently conjured up in public discourse
to explain bad political results. In this way, he played a central role in public discourse as
a conceptual bogeyman to changing ideals within democratic politics.
As Chapters Five through Seven investigate, the very hallmarks of the Athenian
democracy—public accountability, selection by lot, and a clearer demarcation between
public and private spheres—were developed in opposition to dōrodokia. In this sense,
the Athenians articulated the constantly changing shape of their democracy by heavily
i

legislating dōrodokia. Rather than focus on minimizing profit from public office, the
Athenians designed their institutions so that frequent dōrodokia would be leveraged for
the common good.
In both public discourse and political practice, dōrodokia emerges as an integral
mode of democratic politics. Not only did the Athenians think through their democracy
by thinking with the figure of the dōrodokos, but they designed democratic institutions
expressly as anti-dōrodokia measures. The central question about Athens thus becomes
how she succeeded not in spite of, but because of such prevalent bribery.
ii

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thinking about corruption for an extended period of time does funny things to
one’s brain. It’s a disconcerting, frustratingly intricate topic, and prolonged exposure
slowly corrupts one’s thinking, causing significant distortions to one’s social life and
livelihood. In my case I fear writing this dissertation has made me a slight bit insane. It
is with great pleasure, then, that I acknowledge here those who had a hand in
precipitating my condition; it is hoped that others will take my words to heart, lest they
incur the same affliction.
The ideas in this dissertation have unsettled me for a long time. In my first
graduate seminar, the play of economic images and justice in Aeschylus’ Oresteia kept
me up for nights on end, and the interpretive problems I encountered at that time have
lingered in my mind, festering and causing many a sleepless night since. I give fond
thanks to David Rosenbloom, who encouraged me then to obsess over these images, and
to the custodial staff of East Pyne, whose bright smiles tricked me into correlating
positive feedback with my incipient insomnia. I doubt they knew the utter madness
towards which they were leading me, but they meant well.
A few other guides were not so innocent. I say ‘guides’ because they have, in
their own ways, been unwitting mentors to me over the years; ‘not so innocent’ because I
suspect they knew full well what they were doing in welcoming me into their fold. It is
in no small part to them that my affliction took the particular form of this dissertation.
Dirk Hartog introduced me to the Dark Side of law and legal history, and with that he
made my life inestimably more complicated. Kim Scheppele completely dismantled my
own understanding of law and its myriad roles in society; and it was her unfailing
iii

encouragement that made me crazily think it a good idea to add three chapters to this
work. And Viviana Zelizer, who took a chance on a maddened classicist, has generously
illuminated a path to still more frustration, anxiety, insomnia, and lunacy. For their
guidance and unflagging support, I owe profound thanks.
My readers know particularly well the fits and fixation this work has caused me.
Each and every time I felt utterly shattered, defeated by the conundra I faced, with a few
choice words, a smile or an open door, and always a continuing faith that I would prevail,
they helped me to put the pieces together again. Marc Domingo Gygax has been a true
colleague; his warmth, humor, and strong vision of my project provided much-needed
moments of clarity amid years of confusion. Josh Ober gave detailed comments on every
chapter and consistently encouraged me to embrace the crazy by thinking big and outside
the box. His perspective and sage wisdom have been continuing sources of inspiration.
Andy Ford, friend and toughest critic, has been a stellar advisor, better than I could have
dreamed. He has always known the right remedy to free my thinking, and he has taught
me to grow upward from my roots. As a token of my heartfelt appreciation, and for their
masterful management of a difficult, irrational, and often elusive student, I dedicate this
work to my teachers.
Any other institution probably would have sought to quell a neurotic student’s
angst, but Princeton University has proven an uncommonly rich place for breeding
anxiety. Under the extremely generous support of a Porter Ogden Jacobus Fellowship, a
Robert Hoffman ’58 Scholarship, and a Center for Human Values Graduate Prize
Fellowship, I was ensured to spend my every waking thought, for years, obsessing over
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ibery and the law. Without these gifts, my anxiety might never have transformed into
full-fledged neurosis. Thank you, Princeton.
Writing a dissertation is often a psychological battle. Luckily, every time I
thought I had answered one question, a number of people reminded me that, actually,
there were many, many more unanswered questions that should be gnawing at me, daily.
Warm thanks, then, go to audiences who heard presentations of parts of various chapters
at the Princeton Research Symposium, the Hoffman Scholars presentation, LEGS, the
CHV seminar, and the Classics Department’s dissertation colloquium, masterfully led by
Brent Shaw. I owe a special debt of gratitude to Jessica Clark, Meredith Safran, Arudra
Burra, Philip Pettit, and Rahul Sagar for their pointed, friendly reminders that my task
was far vaster than ever I had imagined.
If my experience writing this dissertation appears unusually sunny, it is only
because along the way I have had such loving, supportive friends who have distracted
me—repeatedly and unabashedly—from conquering these demons. A certain few have
left an indelible mark on me, and, far from distracting me—good friends, they—they
have but heartened me to bang my head against the wall all the more. Dana Fields,
Emma Ljung, Sydnor Roy, Alana Shilling, and Tom Zanker are all bright lights each of
whose warmth, heart and distinctive mind has been an inspiration. Sean Corner, Luca
Grillo, and Mira Seo, carissimi, have enabled my neurosis seemingly without end. Their
insistence that I eat lavish meals has taught me to taste and savor life; for their ever-
loving support I am profoundly grateful.
Though bearing the brunt of my madness, Breanden Beneschott repeatedly went
above and beyond the call of duty as dear friend, drill sergeant, and disc jockey; his love
v

and long-lasting patience were critical throughout the revision process. I cannot thank
him enough. My family, especially my parents Pam Conover and Chris Conover, would
probably prefer not gratitude but a sincere apology for letting myself succumb to the
insanity that was this dissertation for so long. No doubt they were positively dismayed at
holiday dinners when I was unable to stop talking about the intricacies of Athenian tax
collecting, among other arcane topics I was writing about at the time. Yet they always so
graciously pretended that I was not even the slightest bit loony. From the bottom of my
heart, I’m sorry.
Last but certainly not least, I would like to thank Jill Arbeiter and particularly my
work spouse Stephanie Lewandowski for all they have done to make the department feel
like my home for six years. As consummate administrators for the Classics Department,
they made my job so easy it felt like a vacation. And as friends armed at all times with a
bright smile and a warm hello, they duped me into thinking that being crazy wasn’t so
bad after all. Either way, they have my warmest gratitude and sincere pledge to keep
some madness with me forever.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
ABSTRACT: i
INTRODUCTION:
In the Shadows of Democracy: Bribery in Classical Athens 1
CHAPTER ONE:
Bribery, Politics, and the Problem of Definition 26
CHAPTER TWO:
Dōrodokia, Elites, and the People’s Authority, 508/7-404 BCE 81
CHAPTER THREE:
Dōrodokia in the Generation after the Peloponnesian War, 403-378 BCE 126
CHAPTER FOUR:
Dōrodokia and the Rise of the “Crop of Traitors,” 378-322 BCE 169
CHAPTER FIVE:
Approaching Bribery and the Law at Athens 212
CHAPTER SIX:
Legal Innovation and the dōrodokos 252
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CHAPTER SEVEN:
Athenian dōrodokia Legislation in Practice 295
CONCLUSION:
Rethinking Political Bribery: The View from Athens 322
REFERENCES: 333
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Introduction
In the Shadows of Democracy:
Bribery in Classical Athens
In the early summer of 367 BCE two Athenians, Timagoras and Leon, set out on
an embassy to negotiate the terms of an alliance between Athens and Persia. Envoys
from both Athens and Sparta were making the three-month journey to the Persian capital
at Susa to discuss a most pressing concern: the recent aggression of Athens’ northerly
neighbor Thebes. Just a few years prior, Thebes had overwhelmingly defeated Sparta
and thereby set into motion a seismic shift in alliances. Renouncing her former alliance
with Athens and turning instead to ravage Sparta’s allies in the Peloponnese, Thebes
quickly became the dominant force in Greek politics. Understandably, Athens and Sparta
were uneasy, and they were sending envoys in the hopes that the Persian King might help
limit the Thebans’ strategic gains. 1
For the Athenians, the Congress at Susa was not without its complications.
Timagoras was apparently not at full health, and the trip to Susa in the summer heat
would have been hard on the Athenian. When he arrived, he inexplicably refused to
room with his fellow ambassador Leon, and the two spent an entire month sleeping in
separate quarters. Nor was this clash of personalities Athens’ only cause for concern.
Within a few weeks of Timagoras and Leon’s departure, Thebes got wind of the embassy
to the King and sent forth her own ambassador, the renowned general Pelopidas, together
with envoys from her new allies in the Peloponnese. Given Timagoras’ sickness and
1 Xen. Hell. 7.1.33-8; Dem. 19.31, 137, 191; Plut. Pelop. 30.6-7, Art. 22.4-6; Athen. 6. 251b; Val. Max.
6.3.ext.2. Mosley (1968), Perlman (1976: 228-9), Buckler (1980: 153-8), Lewis (1989: 228-9), Heskel
(1997: 101-8), Mitchell (1997: 128-9). For the chronology of this embassy, see especially Heskel (1997:
105-7). Thebes’ ascendancy during the 360’s: Davies (1978: 217-27), Buckler (1980).
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Introduction
unexpected unfriendliness with Leon, and up against the peerless reputation of Pelopidas,
Athens increasingly seemed to be fighting a losing battle at Susa. The city’s hopes were
finally dashed when Timagoras supported Pelopidas’ counsel to the King, in effect
defending Thebes’ interests, not Athens’, and leaving only Leon to protest the final, pro-
Theban terms of the alliance. 2
Even so, Timagoras surely emerged from Susa in good spirits. Given Thebes’
recent ascendancy, it was unclear whether Athens would have any real bargaining power
with the King, so the pro-Theban terms of the alliance were not unexpected. And, in any
case, Timagoras’ embassy had secured at least the chance for further negotiation, for the
King had explicitly invited the Athenians to send another embassy if they found the terms
of the treaty unfair. Personally, too, the Athenian fared quite well at the Congress, for the
King had held him in esteem second only to the Theban Pelopidas. At his departure he
consequently received substantial parting gifts (dōra) from the King. All told, he
returned to Athens with a number of aids for his ailment: among other dōra, an
amazingly expensive couch made with luxurious bedding so intricate that slaves were
provided solely to make it (because Greeks did not know how); 80 cows with 80
cowherds to tend them so that he could have cow’s milk for his illness; and even a litter
to ride on from Susa, together with four talents’ pay for the carriers. 3 Of course, the rest
2 Timagoras’ ailment: Plut. Pelop. 30.6, Art. 22.4-6. Plutarch’s biographies of Pelopidas and Artaxerxes
are the only sources referring to Timagoras’ ailment, and both depict the King’s gifts to Timagoras as relief
for his illness. Although it is entirely possible that the narrative of an illness was a later rationalization
added to the story, it is difficult to understand when or why this element would have been added; one
possibility, however, is that, in order to defend himself against Leon’s accusations and suspicions about the
King’s gifts, Timagoras himself later claimed that he was sick. Problems during the embassy: Xen. Hell.
7.1.35-38.
3 Plut. Pelop. 30.6, Art. 22.5. Future negotiations: Xen. Hell. 7.1.37 with Heskel (1991: 107-8).
According to Demosthenes, the King gave Timagoras the colossal sum of 40 talents, but this figure is more
likely an exaggeration by the orator himself or by others (cf. w(j le/getai, Dem. 19.137), a total reached by
multiplying by ten the misthos given Timagoras in Plutarch’s account (Pelop. 30.6).
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Introduction
of the Athenians were not so pleased with the ambassador’s efforts. Upon his return to
Athens, Timagoras was brought to trial for bribery (dōrodokia) and sentenced to death.
No doubt shocked by this turn of events, the King reportedly never gave an ambassador
money again. 4
To modern eyes, Timagoras’ fate provokes diametrically opposed reactions. In
reading our sources, one is struck by how quickly the charming details of the story give
way to its macabre conclusion. Particularly in Plutarch’s hands, Timagoras’ embassy
becomes a parable writ large: in a dramatic twist of Sophoclean irony, the seemingly
innocuous gifts the Athenian takes to cure his illness become the very cause of his
demise. Yet in that case it is equally striking just how much the story of Timagoras lurks
only in the background of Plutarch’s narrative, in the shadows of the history he crafts.
Timagoras’ fate is something of a tangent in Plutarch’s Life of Pelopidas, at best a
counterpoint for Pelopidas’ own virtue in taking but few gifts from the Persian King. In
this sense, Plutarch uses Timagoras’ bribery as only a narrative foil, an implicit reminder
of how things with Pelopidas could have turned out.
And this leads to a second reaction, common among ancient historians in
particular: no reaction at all. Classical Athenian history is rife with stories of bribery. A
4 Conviction of Timagoras: Xen. Hell. 1.38; Dem. 19.31, 137, 191; Plut. Pelop. 30.6, Art. 22.6; Athen.
6.251b. The charge was most likely one of dōrodokia, as given in Plutarch (Art. 22.6) and as accords with
Demosthenes’ references (esp. Dem. 19.137). Contrary to this view, on the basis that Xenophon seemingly
does not mention any bribery of Timagoras, Perlman (1976: 229) presumes that dōrodokia was not part of
the original charge against Timagoras, but was later added to the story. Yet Xenophon does appear to
allude to some kind of dōrodokia: in describing how Antiochus the Arcadian ambassador refused the
King’s gifts, Xenophon refers to them as ta\ dw=ra (Xen. Hell. 7.1.38). The use of the definite article here
presupposes that the dōra had already been mentioned—in other words, that they were, in fact, implicit in
the historian’s remarks about Timagoras’ conviction. On this reading, we should understand the
w(jclause describing Timagoras’ conviction as an elaboration from Leon’s prosecution of Timagoras, not
as the formal charge itself. Similarly, Athenaeus’ explanation that Timagoras was prosecuted for obeisance
to the King (w(j basile/a proseku/nhsen, Athen. 6.251b) is most likely just another way of indicating that
he had been bribed to join allegiance with the King. On the King’s subsequent refraining from dōrodokia,
see Dem. 19.137.
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Introduction
bribe-taker like Timagoras appears on average once in every twelve pages of Greek for
the democracy, amounting to well over 450 accusations and descriptions of bribery in
extant sources ranging from tragedy and comedy to historiography, inscriptions, forensic
oratory and philosophy. 5 When we encounter yet another instance of Athenian bribery,
the sheer familiarity of the phenomenon, its omnipresence, renders it invisible. 6
As the shocking events surrounding Timagoras’ execution call to witness, though,
bribery was never so invisible in the democracy. Just as Timagoras’ own politicking
serves as a narrative foil to Pelopidas’ virtuous course in Plutarch’s biography—a bad
alternative, a reminder of how Pelopidas could have erred—at every incremental step in
the development of the democracy bribery seems to have been there, lurking, reminding
the Athenians of how their polity might still err. Far from being invisible, instances of
bribery always brought to light an important decision for the Athenians to make. Should
they follow the course of a Timagoras or of a Leon? Should they punish the purported
bribe-taker or legitimate his actions? To chart the course of the democracy, therefore, is
to uncover from its shadows a continuous series of historical foils, points at which the
Athenians briefly considered which direction their polity should take.
5 Particularly given our dearth of contemporary sources for nearly half of the democracy, this number
seems remarkably high. It amounts to, on average, one accusation per oration of Lysias, one account of
bribery per year in Thucydides’ Histories (excluding the Archaeology in Book I), and three accusations per
Aristophanic comedy. My count is derived from the index of sources in Harvey (1985) as compared to
pages of non-fragmentary Greek in the Oxford Classical Text series of classical authors.
6 Within the past 80 years, there have been only a handful of articles devoted expressly to Athenian bribery,
despite the fact that each author notes the omnipresence of bribery in our sources: see recently Perlman
(1976), Wankel (1982), Cargill (1985), Harvey (1985), Strauss (1985), Kulesza (1995), Taylor (2001); cf.
Lipsius (1905-15: esp. 2.401-6), MacDowell (1983a), Herman (1987: 73-81), Mitchell (1987: 181-6),
Noetlichs (1987), von Reden (1995: 93-99, 117-20), Mastrocinque (1996), Hashiba (2006). Athenian
bribery features in only two footnotes in Noonan’s (1984) otherwise magisterial study of bribery and was
absent from Heidenheimer’s handbook on political corruption until the second edition.
When Athenian bribery has been analyzed, scholars have been content merely to answer basic
questions: what was bribery? who committed it? how prevalent was it, and why was it so prevalent? and
how was it kept under control? To my mind these kinds of questions, while undoubtedly helpful, only
perpetuate the invisibility of Athenian bribery as a phenomenon, for they do not engage with the more
profound ways in which bribery, as practice or idea, fundamentally shaped the democracy.
4

Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Introduction
This dissertation seeks to recover Timagoras and countless others like him from
the shadows of the democracy: to restore to mind the significance, for Athenians then as
for us now, of viewing bribery as a foil to the desired course of political history. I aim
here to uncover how someone like Timagoras understood his own actions: not simply
whether they were ‘good’ or ‘bad’, but how they were envisioned as fitting into the
workings of the democracy. Such an inquiry certainly entails examining what the
Athenians thought about bribery. Yet in bringing to light the significance of bribery as an
alternate trajectory for democracy—an alternate path for conceptualizing and practicing
politics, an alternative that the people could always choose to legitimate at any given
time—I am especially interested in uncovering how the Athenians thought with and
through bribery. In essence, this dissertation hopes to rid our minds forever of the
assumed familiarity of Athenian bribery. My hope is that, for every mention of bribery,
we might take to heart both why an Athenian in that position chose to take dōra and why
Athens in that context responded as she did.
Rescuing Timagoras from the murky shadows of Athenian history is a difficult
endeavor, for we must thereby confront our own preconceived ideas about why he might
have taken bribes or how Athens should have responded. The more we peer into the
story, picking out the details that give it such distinct color—the lingering illness, the in-
fighting with Leon, the extensive list of dōra, the death sentence—the more bizarre and
alarming it becomes. Specifically, two glaring incongruities emerge: why, after all, did
Timagoras take the King’s gifts, and why did the Athenians kill (!) him for doing so?
Our sources note that certain other ambassadors refused to take gifts (Xen. Hell.
7.1.38) while even the Theban Pelopidas limited himself in what he took home (Plut.
5

Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Introduction
Pelop. 30.6). Even with the well-documented Persian custom of giving dōra to
ambassadors, then, Timagoras did not need to take any gifts. 7 He certainly did not need
to take home such an ornate couch, together with 80 cows and 80 cowherds, a litter and
attendants. So why did he?
Plutarch’s account of Timagoras’ embassy attempts to answer this question, but in
so doing it only complicates our efforts at understanding the ambassador’s motivations.
According to Plutarch, Timagoras recalled what a certain Epicrates had once said about
receiving gifts on an embassy and apparently not being punished. Presumably it was this
memory that gave Timagoras confidence in his own gift-taking with the Persian King
(Plut. Pelop. 30.7). This Epicrates had been a prominent politician in the 390’s, and here
we should understand reference to an embassy to the Persian King in the late 390’s
during the Corinthian War. 8 On the face of it, the pair had much in common. Both were
sent to draft an alliance with the King in an effort to curb the aggression of one power:
Sparta in Epicrates’ case, Thebes for Timagoras. And both, apparently, took bribes.
Plutarch’s Timagoras recalls Epicrates’ embassy ostensibly as a reminder that the
Athenians did not care if an envoy received gifts, but this is a baffling, selective reading
of the earlier embassy. Though Plutarch does not indicate this, the specific anecdote that
Timagoras purportedly recalled seems to have come from a comedy lampooning
Epicrates’ expedition to the King. There, having returned laden in dōra from the King,
7
On bribery and gifts from the Persian King, see especially Perlman (1976), Lewis (1979), and Mitchell
(1997: 111-33).
8
Epicrates is called ‘shield-bearer’, sakesfo/roj at Plut. Pelop. 30.7. Ancient scholiasts note that this was
the nickname of Epicrates because he had a big beard: schol. Ar. Ec. 71, Harpocrat. ad ’Epikra/thj. This
confirms the identification. The embassy of Epicrates and Phormisius, along with Plato Comicus’ Presbeis
can be dated to 394/3 or 393/2. The embassies of Timagoras and Epicrates are juxtaposed again in
Athenaeus 6.251b. Conceivably, both Plutarch and Athenaeus were drawing on the same source, i.e. the
third-century collector of anecdotes Hegesander, but we have no indication that Plutarch had actually read
Hegesander’s work. Epicrates’ embassy: Lys. 27.3; Plato Com. frr. 119-27; Hegesander FHG
4.414=Athen.6.251b; Athen. 6.221f, 6.251a-b.
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Introduction
Epicrates wittily remarks that the Athenians should send to Persia numerous ambassadors
drawn from the ranks of the poor, that they, too, might share in the King’s wealth and
thereby solve the city’s financial woes. 9 As Timagoras recalls, the people on that
occasion—that is, at the comic performance—laughed at Epicrates. By no means,
however, did this laughter signal approval. The entire embassy seems to have been put
on trial for dōrodokia; while Epicrates was famously acquitted in that trial, Epicrates’
fellow ambassador Onomasas was found guilty and sentenced to death, just like
Timagoras later would be. 10 And within two years Epicrates himself would be sentenced
to death, again on a charge of dōrodokia while on an embassy. 11
If we follow Plutarch, Timagoras’ fatal misstep came in recalling the wrong
ambassador, or perhaps the wrong embassy altogether. In that case, though, we are hard-
9 That Epicrates is here referred to by his nickname as ‘shield-bearer’ strongly suggests that Timagoras was
recalling not a private conversation between himself and his ‘shield-bearer’, but some public event that had
involved the well-known figure of Epicrates ‘shield-bearer’. I propose that the event he recalls was the
very scene parodied in Plato’s Presbeis, precisely the kind of context in which we would expect the dēmos
to ‘laugh’ at Epicrates’ words. Dover (1950) notes, contra the standard view, that the comedy itself need
not have referred to any actual expedition but could have been a comic fiction, much like Trygaeus’ private
embassy in Aristophanes’ Peace. Yet in response it should be pointed out that even a private fiction could
have parodied an actual expedition.
10 Following Lysias 27.3. There are, however, considerable problems with the chronology of Lysias 27 and
the reference therein to an expedition with Epicrates and Onomasas. Including these two embassies, there
were potentially five different major events involving Epicrates in the second half of the 390’s. In 395
Timocrates was sent by the King to bribe Greek leaders, including Epicrates and Cephalus at Athens, to
adopt an anti-Spartan alliance: Paus. 3.9.7-8, Hell. Oxy. 2.2-5, Xen. Hell. 3.9.1-2 with Bruce (1967: 60 ad
Hell. Oxy.II.2) and Rung (2004). Epicrates’ envoy to Persia with Phormisius (394/3 or 393/2) is parodied
in Plato Comicus’ Presbeis; see also Athen. 6.251a-b. Finally, Epicrates was part of the embassy to Sparta
to secure ratification of the King’s Peace (392/1). I follow Davies’ (1971: 181 ad APF 4859) suggestion
that the reference at Lys. 27.3 is to the very embassy parodied in Plato’s Presbeis, meaning that that
embassy included Epicrates, Phormisius, and Onomasas.
The date of Lysias 27 is more problematic. It cannot be from 394/3, for then when would the
previous embassy with Onomasas have occurred? It might refer to 393/2, but we would have to posit an
otherwise unattested embassy in that case. One difficulty with assuming that the speech comes from the
trial of 392/1 is that Philochorus records that Epicrates and the others were tried in absentia (328 FGrH
F149a); still, Epicrates potentially was present for his own trial but left before he was sentenced. This
accords well with other instances in which those sentenced to death left Athens before the sentence was
pronounced: see Chapter Six below.
11 Dem. 19.277-80, Philochorus 328 FGrH F149a, Aristid. 1.283 Dindorff with schol. Our evidence is
inconclusive, but possibly Epicrates was allowed to return to Athens: see APF 181 on an early fourthcentury
gravestone for an Epicrates of Cephisia (IG ii 2 6444).
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Introduction
pressed to answer how Timagoras could have been so wrong or why he would have
risked the decision that he did, particularly when the stakes for being wrong were so
incredibly high. Framed this way, we have fundamental problems in understanding
Timagoras’ intent in taking the King’s dōra.
And this leads us to the second apparent incongruity in the story: why were the
stakes so high? Given the ascendancy of Thebes, Athens had effectively little bargaining
power when Timagoras’ embassy went to Susa; she realistically could have hoped for
little more than the negotiations gained her. As a result, any bribes from the Persian King
had probably little effect on the resultant terms of the alliance, so it is difficult to see how
Timagoras was solely to blame for the treaty. It is hard to understand, moreover, how his
offense could have been considered egregious enough to warrant capital punishment. On
both counts, we fail to understand the Athenians’ intent in killing Timagoras.
Addressing both of these ‘incongruities’ entails placing ancient Athens into
critical dialogue with the present: confronting differences between ‘then’ and ‘now’, but
also—I would argue ‘especially’—using the past to refocus how we think about the
present. Certainly there were considerable differences between Athenian-style
democracy and the democracy we are used to: notably the exclusion of women, slaves,
and resident aliens from the political franchise; direct participation as opposed to
representation and delegation; in the second-half of the fifth century the largest Greek
empire over other Greeks; and no robust conception of ‘rights’ as we might think of
them. 12 Still, there were striking similarities as well, particularly in terms of the
12 See generally Finley (1973), Ober and Hedrick (1996). On Athens’ treatment of slaves, metics, and
women, see variously Whitehead (1977), Cohen (2002), and the essays collected in Hunter and Edmondson
(2001). Empire: e.g. AE (passim), Finley (1973: esp. 95-6), Raaflaub (1994). Increased participation:
Sinclair (1988a). Rights: Finley (1976), cf. Wallace (2006).
8

Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Introduction
ideological principles that underpinned political organization. Political and legal equality
among citizens, cooperation and collective action, public accountability, and the
preservation of certain quasi-rights like personal security or the liberty to speak out in
public were all hallmarks of the Athenian democracy. 13 In this respect, trying to
understand Timagoras’ motivations does not require stepping into a wholly ‘different’
world; as such, it can allow us to look back and see that our own world might be more
‘different’ than we normally assume.
By confronting the assumptions that differentiate ‘then’ from ‘now’, I mean to
call into question why we make those assumptions in the first place. In other words,
examining the potential trajectories of Athens’ democracy—recovering bribery from its
shadows—can be a valuable exercise in re-examining the potential paths of our own
government, in rethinking the tenuous line we draw between politics and corruption, and
in reconceptualizing the relationship between bribery and democracy. One goal of the
chapters to come is to present a different way of drawing these lines, using Athens as an
example but always being careful to abstract an analytical framework that can readily be
applied to the contemporary world. That said, this dissertation can provide only
suggestions for future work and ultimately leaves such application to others.
There are three main assumptions, three specific ways of thinking about bribery
and its regulation that must be set aside if we are to understand the actions of Timagoras
and the Athenians. We can group these assumptions into theoretical problems as follows.
In order to understand Timagoras’ motivations in taking dōra, we must first clearly
13 Viewing Athens as a case-study in democratization has been recently championed by Ober (2008); cf.
Lanni (2006; forthcoming), Karayannis and Hatzis (2008). For detailed studies of the development—
though not necessarily the ‘democratization’—of the Athenian polity, see Ostwald (1986) and Sealey
(1987); for an overview of the Athenian democracy in the fourth century, Ober (1989), Hansen (1991).
Equality: Raaflaub (1996). Quasi-rights: Ober (2005: 92-127).
9

Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Introduction
define what actually constituted his action—was it bribery or not? This is the problem of
definition. With that established, we can move on to his intent in performing that action:
how did he frame his decision, and what, accordingly, was his motivation? This is the
problem of intent. Finally, we must investigate the motivation behind Athens’ use of the
death penalty here. Why was Timagoras killed, rather than fined or sentenced to some
other punishment? This is the problem of the role of law. Each of these problems will be
discussed in a bit more detail here before we turn to a different, more fruitful way of
understanding Timagoras’ embassy.
When we think of bribery, we tend to think of a kind of abuse of public power for
private gain, but how should this ‘abuse’ be defined? 14 This problem was hotly debated
by political scientists and legal scholars in the 1960’s and 1970’s. Three distinct
definitions of the ‘abuse’ inherent in bribery emerged from that literature, each of which
proved helpful as an analytical category, yet none of which was commonly accepted as a
comprehensive definition of bribery. Certain social scientists defined ‘abuse’ according
to formal, legal regulations: bribery was thus a kind of illegal use of public power for
private profit. Alternatively, recognizing that legal definitions were not always
comprehensive and were sometimes at odds with the interests of the public at large, other
scholars posited that ‘abuse’ should be defined according to what is against the public
interest: bribery, so defined, was when an official profited from public office in a way
detrimental to the public interest. Finally, a third group posited that, in part because the
public interest was a complex idea often difficult to gauge, ‘abuse’ was to be defined
14 See especially Johnston (2005: 10-12) and Chapter One below.
10

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according to prevailing public attitudes about the proper use of public office. On this
definition, bribery constituted an illegitimate use of public power for private profit. 15
With the rise of a market-centered approach to studying bribery, in recent decades
the problem of definition has been eschewed or, to be more precise, thought settled. On a
market-centered model, public officials are a kind of agent who, in abusing their power,
thereby violate the terms of a contract they have between themselves and their principal
(usually the people as a whole). By viewing public office through a principal-agent
relationship, political economists have reached some striking albeit conventionally
accepted conclusions: namely, that all public officials are inclined to use their office to
maximize private gain or influence provided the costs do not outweigh the gains; and
that, accordingly, bribery can be minimized but never completely eliminated. 16 The
significance of this model will be clear in a moment when we examine the problem of
intent. For now it is enough to point out that, in reality, a market-based approach is
predicated on a legalistic definition of bribery, as ‘bribery’ is always defined in reference
to the ‘contract’ between principal and agent. 17
Note how all of these definitions focus on the intent of the bribe. By positing that
private gain is the reason for the abuse of public power—however we define it—these
15 This is a modification of the categories set forth by Heidenheimer (1989); cf. Caiden and Caiden (1977),
Philp (1997, 2002), Johnston (2005) and Chapter One below. Instead of the public opinion, Heidenheimer
includes market-based approaches, on which see further below. Legalistic definitions: Leys (1965), Nye
(1967), Scott (1972). Public interest approach: Gronbeck (1978). The public opinion model set forth by
Peters and Welch (1972) and Gibbons (1989) never gained much traction with other scholars, but see the
recent legal anthropological approach in Pardo (2004a), Haller and Shore (2005).
16 Market-based model: Banfield (1975), Rose-Ackerman (1978, 1999), Goudie and Stasavage (1998),
della Porta and Vannuci (1999), Lambsdorff (2002). A principal-agent model is also employed in section 1
of the British Prevention of Corruption Act (1906). This kind of approach has been criticized both for
failing to explain collaboration and cooperation within politics (i.e. ‘altruistic’ acts at odds with an
inherently selfish rational actor) and for failing to predict the efficacy of certain anti-corruption reforms:
see DiIulio (1994) for the former and Robinson (1998) for the latter. Sarat and Simon (2001: 11-12) point
out that the turn to rational actor modeling is a broader shift in legal studies more generally.
17 On this point, Philp (1997: 445) is particularly helpful.
11

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definitions hinge on an actor’s self-conscious decision to commit an abuse in order to
receive, or because she has already received, a bribe. In this sense, a bribe is constituted
by a corrupting intent. This is precisely how numerous laws define bribery. 18 When we
ask whether or not bribery was committed, therefore, we tend to frame this question in
terms of intent. In the case of Timagoras, the question becomes, “Did Timagoras intend
to abuse his power in order to receive dōra from the King?”
By focusing on the intent of the bribe, these definitions all implicitly answer the
very problem of intent: “What was Timagoras’ motivation in abusing his power? To win
dōra from the King.” Market-based approaches to bribery have been particularly popular
theoretical models, in this regard, precisely because they promise to predict the behavior
of political agents who, like Timagoras, are placed into a situation in which they must
represent the interests of their agent, here the Athenian people. Perhaps unsurprisingly
given that this model was developed by political economists, such predictions stem from
rational actor models of behavior. Why, then, did Timagoras take the King’s dōra? A
more specific answer would posit that the incentives—the dōra themselves—outweighed
the risks of any potential costs, such as death, loss of prestige, or, in Timagoras’ case,
prolonged illness. In gauging the intent of someone like Timagoras, the question is thus
framed in terms of a cost-benefit analysis, precisely as we asked earlier: “why, given the
high risk of death, did Timagoras take bribes?”
It should be noted that the most prominent factor in structuring an agent’s cost-
benefit analysis is usually taken to be the law itself; this is, in fact, a major reason why
market-based approaches feature so heavily in public policy debates today. To be sure,
18 See, for example, 18 U.S.C. § 201 (b) and, generally, “Campaign Contributions and Federal Bribery
Law,” 92 Har. L. R. 451 [1978]; section 1 of the British Prevention of Corruption Act (1906).
12

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this assumes that the law plays a particular role in society—namely as a force that deters
people from performing certain actions, and as the sole legitimate force in society for
doing just that—but ultimately this assumption is presumed to be trivial. Yes, the law
seems to act as a deterrent after all; and, yes, it seems reasonable to conclude that laws
are intended to be legitimate. Given these assumptions, our question about the use of the
death penalty against Timagoras becomes, “why did the Athenians place such a high
penalty on bribery? Was bribery that bad? Or was no other punishment acting as a
deterrent?”
I have reframed each of the problems of definition, intent, and the role of law in
terms of questions that might typically be posed by someone, scholar or layman, coming
across the story of Timagoras. As we will see shortly, however, these questions are
essentially dead-ends in the Athenian context for they incorporate theoretical assumptions
that simply do not apply to ancient Athens—ironically, I would argue, they may not
apply to most contemporary polities, as well. 19 A more particularistic analysis is needed
for examining the Athenian case, and this dissertation aims to provide just such an
analysis. The above theoretical questions about how to approach bribery provide a
skeleton for the dissertation. Turning now to the ways in which Timagoras’ embassy
19 Finally, it should be noted that my account focuses solely on dōrodokia, which, unlike extortion,
coercion, or blackmail, was thought to have been devoid of any violence or force (bia). While I do not
deny that bribery can often be combined with these other forms of corruption, dōrodokia, as the Athenians
conceptualized it, was a discrete problem and will be treated accordingly. It was also a far more prevalent
problem, based on the relatively scarce reference made to extortion during the democracy. Note how the
practice of sycophancy, in which a citizen blackmailed another citizen by bringing a false suit against him,
was in fact depicted in the language of violence and coercion: Christ (1998) is essential here; cf. Osborne
(1985) and Harvey (1985). Yet even such blackmail was relegated to the judicial sphere and does not
appear to have carried over into other political spheres. That an official like Miltiades might extort money
was, by comparison to the frequency of dōrodokia charges, exceedingly rare: Hdt. 6.136, Corn. Nep. Milt.
7; cf. Plut. Them. 21.
13

Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Introduction
signals a different approach to bribery and its regulation will thus motivate a synopsis of
the larger argument to come.
In defining what bribery was, the Athenians focused on outcome, not intent. The
Athenian word for bribery was dōrodokia, which literally meant “the receipt of gifts in
anticipation of some bad outcome.” 20 There was no word for ‘bribes’, and without a bad
outcome associated with the gifts, there was no bribery to speak of. Thus, the main law
against dōrodokia explicitly defined the offense of bribery as whenever someone gives or
receives “to the harm of the people” (e)pi\ bla/bh| tou= dh/mou, Dem. 21.113). The
Athenians conceptualized dōrodokia by focusing on the outcome: what mattered was the
result of the gifts, not the context in or intent with which they were given. Gifts with bad
outcomes were bribes; and bad outcomes were presumed to be caused by bribery. 21 In
this sense, the appropriate question we should ask about Timagoras was not whether or
not he intended to abuse his power, but whether or not the outcome of his actions was
acceptable.
Surely disagreements over what constituted an acceptable outcome arose in the
democracy: witness Timagoras’ misestimation of Athenian attitudes towards his gift-
taking and especially towards the outcome of the treaty he negotiated with the King.
These evaluative discrepancies underpin Chapter One, in which I respond to the problem
of definition by outlining a relational model of bribery. This model treats bribery not as a
class of political actions, but as a political claim about actions. Bribery, on my view, is a
kind of social frame: a normative assessment of a sequence of events positing a
20 This is a controversial translation, defended at length in Chapter One. Usually scholars translate
dōrodokia as “receipt of gifts”: Harvey (1985: 83), Kulesza (1995: 11-12), Taylor (2001: 53), Hashiba
(2006: 62), but this is inherently problematic: Chapter One below.
21 I thank Arudra Burra for clarifying for me the distinction between these constitutive and denominative
definitions of bribery.
14

Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Introduction
particular exchange as the cause of some normative violation. Whether or not an
exchange really did cause the violation is beside the point, I argue, because accusing
someone of bribery was a particular mode of Athenian politics. In this sense, it would
have mattered little to the Athenians whether Timagoras’ actions as ambassador were
caused by, specifically, the dōra he received from the King; all that would have mattered
was that he had failed to advocate Athens’ interests enough.
Accordingly, we can see how discrete claims that bribery had been committed
could be linked up with broader political narratives about bribery and the democracy.
This is the value of the ‘potential trajectory’ represented by Timagoras’ bribery. By
weighing whether or not Timagoras’ actions should be deemed legitimate, the Athenians
transformed an accusation of bribery into a constitutive part of public discourse. As will
be outlined in Chapter One, individual accusations of bribery framed a bribe-giver or
bribe-taker in terms of a broader social type, the dōrodokos or ‘corrupt man’. By casting
an offending individual as a stereotype, each accusation of bribery thus negotiated broad
public norms structuring who the dōrodokos was and what role he should play in the
democracy.
For his contemporaries, Timagoras qua a dōrodokos was an example of a bad
friend, a man who betrayed his friend and fellow ambassador Leon for money and the
company of others. Timagoras was thus prosecuted in part because he refused to room
with his fellow ambassador and because he followed the Theban ambassador Pelopidas’
counsel in all matters (Xen. Hell. 1.35). As Demosthenes clearly indicates, these two
accusations were conceptually linked, for both represented the breaking of a “compact”
15

Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Introduction
(spondai/), whether between friends or between a citizen and his country. 22 By not
rooming with Leon, Timagoras was thought to be signaling his alignment with a different
set of political friends—here, Pelopidas, whose policy recommendations he endorsed
even when they proved detrimental to Athens’ interests (Xen. Hell. 1.35-6). Similarly,
when the King followed Pelopidas’ recommendations and demanded that Athens beach
her warships, Leon warned that the King was no longer behaving like Athens’ friend (cf.
fi/lon, Xen. Hell. 1.37). Just as the King’s policy suggested a rupture of the friendship
he enjoyed with Athens, Timagoras’ actions towards Leon and his counsel to the King
suggested that he was betraying friend and city, alike. 23
In Timagoras’ case, the dōrodokos was, specifically, a traitor to the city. So the
end of Plutarch’s story hints that it was Timagoras’ implicit treason that explains his
punishment, for the Athenians had a hard time accepting that everything had gone to the
Thebans’ advantage. This explanation also underpins the more contemporary treatments
given by Xenophon and Demosthenes. In both of these accounts, there is considerably
more at stake than an unfavorable peace settlement. Instead, these versions underscore
that what was Thebes’ gain was explicitly Athens’ loss: in this light Timagoras’ actions
reflected a reprehensible readiness to join with Athens’ enemies; he was a traitor. 24 From
this we can begin to see that the way in which Athenians conceptualized dōrodokia might
22
Note here the parallel structure of Demosthenes’ thought, which syntactically balances public and private
compacts: oi9 a)dikou~ntej dhlono&ti ta_j ta_j o3 o3lhj o3 lhj ge th~j patri/doj sponda&j sponda&j...ou) sponda&j
mo&non ta_j ta_j i0di/aj i0di/aj (Dem.
19.191). Moreover, the orator underscores how such private bonds emphatically connoted public bonds, as
well, for he fronts the word o3lhj (“entire”), which is itself already intensified by , within the articleadjective-noun-noun
sequence.
23
In the same vein, Xenophon contrasts Timagoras’ actions in being a bad friend to Leon with those of
Antiochus the Arcadian, who refuses the King’s gifts precisely because the Arcadian League was
“slighted” by the King (h)lattou=to, Xen. Hell. 7.1.38.).
24
Dem 19.137, 191; Xen. Hell. 7.1.37. Plutarch is even more explicit on this point in calling the King’s
gifts a “reproach unto treason more than a token of friendly charis” (o)neidismo\j e)j prodosi/an ma=llon h) \
xa/ritoj u(po/mnhsij, Plut. Art. 22.6).
16

Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Introduction
have a significant effect on how they regulated it. After all, we might be less inclined to
query the death of a traitor than that of a venal politician.
It is precisely on this point that Plutarch’s juxtaposition of Epicrates and
Timagoras becomes so instructive, for accounts of Epicrates’ embassy condemn him not
for treason, but for profiteering. With Epicrates, the excessive amount of the King’s gifts
seems to have been the only issue. In his comedy The Presbeis, Plato Comicus describes
in detail the range of different gold and silver cups that Epicrates took (Plato Com. frr.
119-21K). The comic poet even comments on how many of them there were (cf.
plei=sta, Pl. Com. fr. 119.2K) and notes that both ambassadors made off like thieves (cf.
e)klepte/thn, Pl. Com. fr. 120K; kle/yaj, Pl. Com. fr. 121K). Indeed, the entire anecdote
is framed around how Epicrates had profited, while the rest of the city remained poor
(Plut. Pelop. 30.7). Earlier, too, when Epicrates purportedly took dōra from Timocrates,
the author of the Hellenica Oxyrhyncia notes that the dōra themselves did not change
Epicrates’ mind; they were pure profit (Hell. Oxy. 2.2-5). Instead of being a traitor,
Epicrates seems to have been much closer to a thief.
In this way we can tease out of Plutarch’s account the idea that conceptions of
who the dōrodokos was actually changed throughout the democracy. This fundamental
point courses through Chapters Two through Four, which examine how and why political
narratives about the dōrodokos changed throughout the democracy. Building on the
relational model developed in Chapter One, these chapters explore how changing
economic and political circumstances, as well as patterns of social relations in politics all
shaped how the dōrodokos was conceived: he changed from a kind of disobedient citizen
in the fifth century (Chapter Two), to a thief in the early fourth century (Chapter Three),
17

Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Introduction
and finally to a traitor in the last half century of the democracy (Chapter Four). As will
be clear, by focusing on changing social relations and the obligations that inhere therein,
we are forced to frame the intent of the dōrodokos in a very different light. Rather than
behave like a rational actor pursuing his own (financial) utility, the dōrodokos emerges as
a bad friend unsuccessfully negotiating a range of different relationships, in particular his
‘friendship’ with the community itself. In these cases, the ‘motivation’ we seek to
explain is not so much why a given individual violated a norm for personal gain as why
he failed to frame his actions in those terms.
This was true of Timagoras, who delicately balanced relationships with Leon,
Pelopidas, and the Persian King, in addition to his civic ‘friendship’ with the Athenian
people. Hence, contemporary accounts of the embassy focused intensely on the
friendships forged and broken in Susa. Timagoras effectively renounced his personal
friendship with Leon (a major reason for his subsequent trial) and in doing so signaled
that he was renouncing his friendship with Athens, too. In addition, the details of
Xenophon’s and Demosthenes’ versions suggest that Timagoras may also have been
thought to have conspired with Pelopidas and the King: this would explain why
Timagoras “testified on behalf of” Pelopidas’ speech and why the King subsequently held
Timagoras in such high esteem (sunemartu/rei, Xen. Hell. 7.1.35). On this
reconstruction, for Timagoras’ critics, the danger he posed was that he was actively
colluding with political friends outside the city in order to do damage to the city itself.
As Plutarch notes, the gift given by the King was not in itself considered bad, but the
exchange was blamed because of the collusion and treason it concealed. For all we
know, however, Timagoras simply viewed things differently: he might have thought
18

Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Introduction
Athens had little negotiating power, and he might have blamed his sickness for why he
would not room with Leon. In short, we must take seriously the possibility that
Timagoras never considered himself a traitor. To that extent, a rational actor model
simply fails to understand his motivation.
Timagoras was not alone in being wholly ignorant of the ways in which he was
unsuccessfully negotiating his relationship with the community. The first four chapters
reveal how Athens’ greatest politicians—Themistocles, Cimon, Pericles, Cleon,
Aeschines and Demosthenes—were all accused of dōrodokia, yet few seemed to think of
their actions as ‘bribery’. Indeed, if Timagoras and countless other officials like him
were somehow unaware that they had failed the Athenians, they must have understood
their own actions as benefiting the democracy in some way. They must have slotted their
own actions into some larger political narrative about how a ‘good’ democracy functions.
This claim will be taken up extensively in Chapters Two through Four, which
collectively show how dōrodokia operated very much in the shadows of democracy: the
monies taken by the dōrodokos were constantly weighed against the monies of
democracy as two sides of the same coin. In effect, Timagoras and other dōrodokoi may
have thought they were dealing in legitimate political monies, only to discover, too late,
that the Athenians considered them bribe monies. Considerable disagreement arose, in
large part, because within both dōrodokia and the democracy, monies were used as
metaphors for the relationships they negotiated. Bribes signified corrupt social relations
in politics, just as the legitimate monies of the democracy—e.g. state pay, public honors,
tribute—signaled the proper social relations constitutive of the democracy itself. Such
‘weighing’ of monies, then, underscored a more profound weighing of how politics
19

Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Introduction
should be conducted. Whereas the dōrodokos might have thought his actions were
legitimate, even downright beneficial to the polity, his opponents called them dōrodokia
and corruptive of the democracy.
It is in this sense that discursive shifts in the figure of the dōrodokos reflected
changes in broader political narratives about the democracy. As the polity developed,
new monies were used to negotiate new social relations within politics, and these new
monies reflected new ways to conceptualize the ideal relationship between citizen and
community. What we will discover in these chapters, though, is that the Athenians
essentially thought through such discursive shifts by thinking with the figure of the
dōrodokos. Bribe monies signaled illegitimate relations, processes or outcomes; by
articulating what constituted such illegitimate monies, the Athenians implicitly outlined
the contours of the legitimate practice of politics.
In detailing how the Athenians conceptualized dōrodokia, the first four chapters
illustrate just how far removed we are from intent-based, rational actor approaches to
bribery. Indeed, the Athenians focused on outcomes, and they located bribery squarely
within the framework of gift exchange and the relationships it negotiates. The relevant
questions they would have posed of Timagoras would have been: “was the outcome of
his actions good?” and “what made him think he was successfully negotiating his
relationship with the community?” Answering these questions would have answered, for
an Athenian, whether Timagoras’ actions constituted dōrodokia, and what his ultimate
motivation was. Again, accusing someone like Timagoras of dōrodokia was a way to
signal that a given political outcome was bad. It opened up public discussion about
20

Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Introduction
whether or not the ‘potential trajectory’ constituted by his actions was, in fact, a desirable
path for the democracy.
Judging by the rates of bribery trials in the democracy, the Athenians apparently
thought that a lot of just such ‘potential trajectories’ in their democracy had been bad; in
this sense, the outright presumption of bribery was perhaps not entirely unwarranted.
Scholarly estimates of the prevalence of Athenian bribery have varied considerably, but
the number of bribery prosecutions and convictions, to say nothing of instances that never
came to trial, is enormously high by Western standards. 25 Even with considerable gaps in
our evidence, we have attested 32 different prosecutions of bribery with an additional 22
cases of varying degrees of certainty; all but a handful of these cases fall during the
period 430-322, the best-attested period of the democracy. 26 At least 36 of these 54 trials
resulted in conviction. 27 Although extrapolating from our evidence is hazardous, we can
plausibly estimate that roughly 6-10% of major public officials would have been brought
to trial on accusations of bribery, and roughly half of these officials would have been
convicted. 28
25
Kulesza (1995: 39-40) rightly remarks that, given the tremendous gaps in our sources, the unusually
high prevalence of bribery attested in our sources is most likely only the tip of the iceberg. Scholarly
estimates run the gamut from positing widespread peculation—MacDowell (1983), Cargill (1985), Strauss
(1985)—to claiming that dōrodokia was “more [frequent] than would be regarded as acceptable in our own
society” (Harvey [1985]) or, in the exceptional view of Perlman (1976: 231), “not very widespread.”
Estimating the prevalence of bribery is notoriously difficult even in non-historical societies and cannot be
our aim here. Still, it is worth considering that, by the standards defined by political scientists—on which
see Chapter One—bribery was probably a regular occurrence in the democracy: cf. Cargill (1985: 79).
26
For the catalog of bribery trials, see Kulesza (1995: 85-90) and, for a slightly modified list in English,
Taylor (2001).
27
For the 34 known dōrodokia trials (32 known plus 2 for which dōrodokia is mentioned in our sources but
not at the trial), 19 resulted in conviction, 4 resulted in acquittal, 6 presumably resulted in acquittal, and the
result for 5 is unknown. Of the remaining 20 trials, 17 resulted in conviction, 1 probably did so, there was
1 acquittal, and 1 with unknown outcome. Of these latter 17 convictions, however, 9 come from the trial of
the Treasurers of Hellas (Hellēnotamiai), who reportedly were convicted unjustly; the tenth was saved from
certain death when proof of their innocence was discovered during his trial (Ant. 5.69-71).
28
The vast majority of our attested bribery trials are prosecutions of generals, public speakers (rhētores),
or ambassadors (the latter two categories after 411). If we assume roughly 100 rhētores during the 90 or so
years after the introduction of an eisangelia for bribe-taking by a rhētor and, on average, a total of roughly
21

Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Introduction
Our sources suggest, moreover, that the Athenians enacted and modified more
legislative and institutional reforms dealing with bribery than for any other offense. They
created no fewer than seven legal processes for prosecuting the gift or receipt of bribes,
whether generally or involving specific officials in specific contexts; some of these were
modified more than once over the course of the democracy. The penalties attached to
these legal processes—a tenfold fine, disfranchisement, or death—were considerable.
There were, in addition, public curses and oaths against taking bribes, as well as
numerous changes to the jury and magistrate allotment procedures, reportedly to reduce
the potential for corruption. And in the fourth century, on at least one occasion the entire
registry of citizens had to be re-ratified under suspicion that some residents had bribed
their way into the citizenry. 29
These legal and institutional reforms certainly suggest that dōrodokia was a
persistent problem at Athens, but is that all they suggest? Were the severe penalties for
dōrodokia indications that the Athenians had trouble deterring it? Timagoras’ embassy
provides two clues to the contrary. First, it is important to note that, in all of our
accounts, the only person who was ‘deterred’ by these laws was the Persian King, not
Timagoras or any other potential dōrodokos. Demosthenes remarks that, once the King
saw how serious the Athenians were about dōrodokia—by killing Timagoras—he
15 unique ambassadors and generals per year over the same time period, this amounts to around 1500
possible bribery cases during this time for the most prestigious public positions, of which we have attested
in one form or another 45 trials. Given the tremendous gaps in our evidence—with the high frequency of
trials in the early fourth century (so Strauss [1985]), the general dearth of evidence for the 370’s is
particularly striking—let us assume that these trials represent only half of the actual number of trials, or
about 90 (6%) out of 1500 possible cases. By contrast, Hansen (1975; cf. 1999: 217) points out that, for
the most important position, the generalship, we know of only 289, or 37%, of the 770 generalships held
between 432 and 355 BCE. A more accurate assessment of the prevalence of bribery trials thus might be
closer to 10% (or even 15%) of the major political positions held. This figure excludes prosecution of
minor officials, for an example of which see Ant. 6.49-50.
29 On these legal procedures, penalties, and institutional reforms, see most recently MacDowell (1983),
Hashiba (2006). All of these developments will be treated in detail below in Chapters Five and Six.
22

Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Introduction
decided never to give anyone dōra again (Dem. 19.137). While we might take
Demosthenes’ words with a grain of salt, it is significant that an Athenian like
Demosthenes viewed the law’s deterrent effect in terms of bribe-givers, not bribe-takers.
At the very least, we should reconsider our assumption that the law was intended
primarily to deter potential bribe-takers. Second, it is also significant that, at least in
Plutarch’s account, Timagoras weighs his decision not in terms of the letter of the law—
i.e. what the law actually says—but in terms of the law in action. He recalls how
Epicrates happily took dōra and went unpunished, and it was this purported legal result,
rather than the law itself, that influenced his own decision.
Accordingly, Chapters Five through Seven show that, in order to understand why
the Athenians created the specific anti-dōrodokia legislation that they did, we need to
move beyond thinking about the law solely in terms of deterrence. Chapter Five
develops a theoretical framework for examining Athenian legislation on dōrodokia. In
particular, it focuses on the ways in which such legislation ‘translated’ the figure of the
dōrodokos into a legal entity. This framework will then be used, in Chapter Six, to trace
a legal history of dōrodokia: both the kinds of legal spaces created for dōrodokia, and
how those spaces were used to articulate ‘democratic’ legal and political institutions.
Finally, Chapter Seven considers the function of those laws and legal processes in action,
specifically how dōrodokia trials might be used not only to educate Athenians in civic
values, but even to legitimate policies, political processes, and even political players.
Given the sheer number of attested dōrodokia trials as well as the extensive
breadth and depth of reforms geared towards dōrodokia, this legal history provides us
with a uniquely detailed look at the changing relationship between law and society at
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Athens throughout the democracy. As the second half of the dissertation shows, in the
same way as the dōrodokos was articulated in opposition to the good democratic citizen,
the Athenians used the dōrodokos in law to think through what ‘democratic’ institutions
and legal processes should look like. We find, then, a complex process of norm
articulation whereby legal and institutional changes both reflected and influenced social
norms governing the dōrodokos. In particular, picking up on the idea of bribery as an
alternate trajectory for the democracy, these chapters suggest that the Athenians actively
sought to create a political space in which the power of bribery as a distinct mode of
politics could be leveraged for the good of the democracy. The Athenians took seriously
the idea that political outcomes were neither good nor bad until they were so legitimated
(or delegitimized) by the people. And one prominent way to legitimate outcomes was
through dōrodokia trials. Hence, the reason why the Athenians killed dōrodokoi like
Timagoras often had more to do with this process of legitimization than with any inherent
desire to deter dōrodokia.
There are numerous areas of Athenian political practice that will always be
frustratingly beyond our reach. How often were dōra given with the explicit intent of
changing an official’s mind? Were dōra given and received only within the context of
pre-existing relations, or were one-off bribes also common? What were the real-life
political and economic effects of undeniable cases of dōrodokia? These are big questions
for any account of bribery. As often, even in modern case-studies, they will regrettably
be left unanswered. For a host of reasons, there is no systematic way to gather evidence
on bribery, ancient or modern, including records of bribes received or testimonies of the
parties involved. The Athenian case, though frustratingly incomplete, might nevertheless
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Introduction
be of just as much use as any contemporary study in shedding light on current models
used to examine bribery.
On the whole, the goal of the following seven chapters is to paint a picture of how
dōrodokia shaped the development of the Athenian democracy: representing an alternate
trajectory that the democracy might take, instances of purported bribery were significant
political and cultural moments at Athens. The Athenians consequently enacted a range of
legal and institutional measures to weigh these moments and leverage them for the
collective good. Each time dōrodokia was thought to have arisen, the Athenians decided
as a collective body whether a particular outcome associated with dōrodokia was
legitimate—and hence consonant with the democracy—or illegitimate—and hence
bribery. And in looking back at the development of the democracy, they repeatedly
looked to the dōrodokos as the conceptual bogeyman of their polity: the anti-citizen who
violated his ‘friendship’ with the community. As we will consider in the Conclusion,
even though dōrodokia appears to have been quite frequent, it need not have been
detrimental to the polity. In fact, this dissertation suggests that we should take seriously
the idea that more frequent bribery, playing the specific role it did in Classical Athens,
actually may have helped, not harmed the emergence and persistence of democracy.
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Chapter One
Bribery, Politics, and the Problem of Definition
Every inquiry into bribery must grapple with the question of definition: what is
bribery? Typically, bribery is assumed to be an illicit payment to an official to obtain
services or to avoid costs; that is, bribery is considered a particular type of abuse of
public power for private gain. 1 So, for instance, paying a policeman not to write a
speeding ticket, paying a legislator to vote a particular way, or paying a bureaucrat for a
public contract or to expedite some public service are all classic examples of bribery in
action, according to this definition. But what about paying a student to get good grades, a
referee or athlete to throw a sporting event, or a bureaucrat who demands additional
compensation for the provision of a public service? Are these not bribery, as well? Are
they somehow qualitatively and meaningfully distinct from the above definition?
One response might be to narrow our scope to include only ‘political’ bribery—so
that pay-for-grades and athletic bribery are not included—and to differentiate between
bribery and extortion, which might eliminate the last example given. In this way, we
might arrive at a satisfactory set of actions, all firmly located within the public sphere
(however that is defined), and all readily described as bribery. This is, in fact, the course
adopted by most scholars, and there is much to recommend it, as it allows us to compare
cross-culturally what does and does not constitute bribery. In the case of ancient Athens,
1 On this definition, see the recent discussion in Johnston (2005: 10-12). Alternatively, bribery is
conceptualized as a means to corrupt a person’s (sc. public official’s) judgment, a definition used by
Harvey (1985: 77) and Taylor (2001: 53) in their examinations of ancient bribery. Such a definition,
however, quickly blends into an “illicit payment”: if it were licit, there would be no corruption of
judgment; and the payment would not be necessary if the official was already going to do what was being
paid for. The definition of bribery given above can thus be taken, simply, as an elaboration of why a
corrupting payment is successful (because it succeeds in creating an abuse of public power for private
gain).
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Chapter One
for example, by obtaining even just a rough approximation of what the Athenians
considered an ‘abuse’, ‘public’, ‘power’, ‘private’ and ‘gain’, we might begin to
understand which actions did and did not constitute bribery at Athens. From there we
could more accurately differentiate between those actions that were really bribery at
Athens and those that only seem (to us) like bribery but were perfectly licit for the
Athenians, and so forth.
Or so the theory goes. There are immediate, salient problems with taking a
definition like “abuse of public power for private gain”—already laden in specific
normative terms, it seems—and trying to translate it from one normative context to
another. Even within a given set of cultural norms, it is unclear on what grounds
‘abuse’ should be defined. Is it a violation of formal (legal) rules regarding the conduct
of public officials, an action that goes contrary to the public interest, or one that goes
against the public’s conception of what is acceptable? 2 Again, we could simply limit
ourselves to one way of defining ‘abuse’ (or ‘power’ or ‘gain’, for that matter). But
doing so obscures the crucial political work done by, say, limiting our scope to formal
regulations of official conduct while disregarding both public opinion about what the law
should say and the extent to which the law is seen to foster the public interest. This is not
just an issue of asking, when a particular law is thought unjust, whether it should be
2 These three options correspond to a modified version of Arnold Heidenheimer’s (1989) threefold
typology of definitions of corruption. Heidenheimer differentiates between defining ‘abuse’ according to
the norms of public office (i.e. legal norms) or the public interest; alternatively, under a market-based
approach, public officials qua rational (utility maximizing) agents always tend to use public office to
maximize private gain or influence. As Philp (1997: 445) has convincingly shown, however, market-based
approaches always already incorporate legalistic definitions insofar as they presume that proper official
conduct is determined by the law. In place of the market-oriented approach, therefore, I have included
Gibbons’ (1989) definition based on public opinion even though this approach has not gained much
traction; see also Peters and Welch (1978). Legalistic approaches can be found in Leys (1965), Nye
(1967), Scott (1972). Public interest approach: Gronbeck (1978). Market-based model: Banfield (1975),
Rose-Ackerman (1978, 1999), Klitgaard (1988), Goudie and Stasavage (1998), della Porta and Vannuci
(1999), Lambsdorff (2002).
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Chapter One
considered bribery if officials follow public opinion and the public interest by regularly
accepting bribes not to heed the law; or, conversely, whether perfectly legal lobbying
efforts or campaign contributions should not, in fact, be considered legalized bribery.
Rather, I am calling into question what is at stake—what is actually being measured—by
terming such instances ‘bribery’.
Certainly it is valuable to try to reduce bribery to an essential core which can then
be compared across normative contexts, but the standard definition seems to
misunderstand the nature of that core. In positing an apolitical, neutral definition of
bribery that need only be adapted to a particular culture’s norms, the standard view
misses the fact that every definition of bribery is a political claim: by marking out what
is considered ‘bad’ government, the actions that constitute bribery negatively define the
contours of good government. 3 To that extent, the standard definition actually posits a
specific normative framework for understanding bribery, while allowing only the
contents of that framework to vary cross-culturally; far from being apolitical or
normatively neutral, the standard definition is, itself, a political, normative definition.
Definitions of ‘abuse’ likewise hinge on the terms by which we define the
workings of good government: whether it functions in accordance with the law, public
interest, or public opinion. While it might be illuminating to measure to what extent
different countries adhere to a given definition of good government, this is ultimately a
bizarre comparison, not least because different polities can be organized under different
guiding principles. Phrased this way, the standard approach to defining and measuring
3 Euben (1989), Philp (1997), Génaux (2004) and, with reference to US campaign contribution debates,
Burke (2006). Harrison (2004) highlights the importance and power entailed in naming something
‘corruption’.
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Chapter One
bribery seems an odd approach to take particularly for historical societies like ancient
Athens.
This chapter presents a different approach to how we should define and measure
bribery, one that treats bribery not as a class of political actions, but as a political claim
about actions. The first section will present an overview of this approach, examining
how bribery, as a social frame, creates distinct normative patterns in every polity. The
following section will apply this approach to the case of democratic Athens by focusing,
in particular, on the language of bribery and the practice of politics. There it will be
shown that the medium of bribery, the bribe, is emblematic of a host of different ways in
which the Athenians leveraged social relationships in the practice of politics. In the
third and last section, we will consider how the normative value of the bribe often shifts
depending on whether one adopts the frame of an insider—someone part of the bribe
relationship—or an outsider. In turn, public discourse on what did and did not constitute
bribery was, itself, composed of numerous, competing accusations of bribery.
Understanding how this public discourse was constructed will enable us, in the chapters
to come, to measure how and why Athenian conceptions of bribery changed over the
course of the democracy, and how bribery played an integral role in how the Athenians
thought through their democracy.
A Relational Approach to Bribery
The relational approach adopted here begins with the simple claim that bribery
entails both social relations and norms. First, bribery is never conducted in a social
vacuum: there are always at least two participants linked by some kind of social tie, even
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Chapter One
if that tie is as bare as an arms-length bureaucrat-citizen relationship. Second, and this is
precisely the phenomenon captured by defining bribery as a kind of “illicit payment” or
“abuse,” bribery implies a violation of some norm. The crucial distinction between the
standard view and my own is how these two components—social relations and norms—
are combined with each other to create the category ‘bribery’.
On the standard view, the norms are taken to define the social relations involved
in bribery. As noted earlier, once we define the categories of ‘abuse’, ‘public’, ‘power’,
etc., we purportedly can determine the class of actions that constitute bribery. The social
relations that pertain in these actions are thus wholly incidental, but they are also,
themselves, determined by how we define the prevailing norms concerning ‘abuse’,
‘public’, etc. For an illicit payment to constitute bribery, in the sense that we want, it
would necessarily entail some counterbalancing of ‘public’ and ‘private’. In other words,
bribery would be possible only among those social relations that involve a ‘public’
individual.
This may seem like an acceptable result, but note how quickly it can both under-
determine and over-determine what scholars are actually trying to measure. Where a
strong informal network holds considerable power in society, for example, even if it does
not control the formal organs of government, within the network there may be no ‘public’
individuals, proper. Hence, the use of bribe-like payments within the network should not
strictly be considered bribery under the standard definition. Conversely, it is not always
an ‘abuse’ of power for a public official to receive some kind of gain in exchange for a
favorable vote: again, vote-swapping, campaign financing, and lobbying by special
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Chapter One
interest groups may be perfectly legal modes of conducting politics, even if to most
observers such payments may look like bribes.
What we find, then, is that by forcing actions into an already culturally
determined framework, scholars have defined a pattern of actions that only imperfectly
approximates the phenomenon they wish to study. It should be noted that the same
problem will recur given any attempt to define bribery in apolitical terms: bribery is a
political phenomenon, so we should expect that there are as many definitions of bribery
as there are of polity. Accordingly, bribery qua a pattern of actions defies rigorous
definition.
I propose, instead, a relational approach to bribery in which the social relations,
not the norms, assume a prior role in definition; in this way, we should think of bribery
not as a distinct pattern of actions generated by specific cultural norms, but as a
normative pattern generated by distinct social relations. 4 My approach follows on recent
work by economic sociologists, who have sought to break down the orthodox divide
between ‘economic’ and ‘social’ modes of behavior, traditionally considered to occupy
separate spheres of action and hence to be predicated on different logics of action. 5
4 By ‘relational’ I intend to move past the concept of ‘embeddedness’, as classicists might recognize from
the influential work of Polanyi (1968)—e.g. Finley (1977), von Reden (1995a), Kurke (1999)—and as
underpins the work of recent economic sociologists like Granovetter (1985), Uzzi and Lancaster (2004).
Embeddedness points towards how social relations shape economic activity. Yet these social relations are
largely taken to be a flat structure within which ‘economic’, as distinct from ‘relational’, activity is carried
out. On a relational view, within this structure the only work that occurs—the only meaning that is defined,
contested, and negotiated—is relational work. In this sense, ‘economics’ does not occur within social
relations—it is not simply “embedded” in them. Rather, economics is about social relations and is, in this
sense, constitutive of them. For a helpful overview of the differences and similarities between a relational
approach and Polanyi’s work on embeddedness, see Steiner (2009).
5 People have persistent fears over mixing money and relationships, as if the former are destructive or
corruptive of the latter. Zelizer calls this fear “Hostile Worlds” and discusses it at length in Zelizer
(2005b). In terms of ‘economic’ activity, this dichotomy had until recently amounted to scholars’
polarization of gifts and commodities—that is, inalienable goods exchanged between interdependent actors
and alienable goods exchanged between independent actors, in Gregory’s (1982) influential formulation—
which are, accordingly, exchanged according to different logics: see also Sahlins (1972: 277-314). As
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Instead of claiming, like neo-classical economists, that economic behavior is not shaped
in any significant way by social context or prevailing social norms, economic sociologists
posit that economic actions are constitutive of social relations and the cultural meanings
attached to them. 6 Production, distribution, and consumption, the traditional spheres of
‘economic’ activity, are always already relational activities, playing a valuable role in the
relational work people perform every day. 7
In particular, Viviana Zelizer has developed a relational framework for analyzing
economic activity, one that will lay the foundation for our investigation of bribery.
Zelizer defines economic transactions by the presence of a transaction medium, called a
‘money’: “a representation of rights to goods and services, usually in the form of
concrete tokens.” 8 Just as important as the transaction medium (the money given or
received) are the transaction context and the social relation of the transactors. While the
relations of the transactors can vary almost infinitely, Zelizer distinguishes among only
three types of transaction contexts—gift, compensation, and entitlement—which
Bourdieu (1977: 171-7) points out, however, transacting even in gifts requires misrecognition; ‘economic’
calculation can and does factor into how or what gifts are exchanged. See further discussion at Appadurai
(1986: 13), Bloch and Parry (1989: 8-12). What economic sociologists like Zelizer have done, therefore,
is to posit that the logic of the exchange is oriented around the social relations of the transaction, not
necessarily the exchanged goods, themselves.
6
To be sure, recent literature in the New Institutional Economics and the contextualist camp of the New
Economic Sociology has modified the neo-classical model tremendously: see the overview in Lambsdorff,
Taube and Schramm (2005), with examples in della Porta and Vannuci (1999) and Warburton (2001) on
networks and corruption. Still, the essential core of these models is assumed to be the traditional homo
economicus rational actor. It is here, in dissolving a rational actor approach, that the alternative camp of
economic sociologists makes its boldest and most stimulating claims.
7
See further Abolafia (1996), Tilly and Tilly (1998), Biggart and Delbridge (2004), Fourcade and Healy
(2007).
8
Quote from Zelizer (2001: 9992). Zelizer (2001) provides a helpful overview of the sociology of money
summarized here; see also Davis (1992), Zelizer (1994; 2005b), Zelizer and Tilly (2006).
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Chapter One
correspond, respectively, to whether or not the transaction medium represents a voluntary
bestowal on another, direct exchange, or rightful claim to a share. 9
Building on Zelizer’s ideas, I argue that bribery should be understood no less as a
way of negotiating social relations. After all, bribes are commonly taken to be just such a
form of money, as it is the bribe itself—whether in cash or in kind, explicit or not—that
establishes someone’s right to a particular good or service. Given that bribery is thought
of as a kind of quid pro quo, we can readily classify it as a transaction of compensation
(direct exchange). More specifically, I propose, something is ‘bribery’ if and only if
there is an exchange, a violation of an obligation inhering in a social relationship, and a
causal link between the two such that the violation is thought to occur because of the
exchange. These three components should be uncontroversial given that they are always
implicit whether we define bribery as a kind of “abuse [violation] of public power for
[causality] private gain [exchange]” or as an “illicit [violation] payment [exchange]
meant [causality] to change one’s mind.” Yet bribery occupies a special role within
Zelizer’s typology because the relevant, violated social relationship is usually not that
between bribe-giver and bribe-taker (i.e. the two transactors); instead, it is usually a
relationship between the bribe-taker and some third party. 10
Note how extending the frame in this way to encompass the perspective of a third-
party creates the potential for a crucial conflict between social frames. In part because of
uncertainty surrounding what constitutes bribery, in part because of the high risks
9 This is a different typology than the schema of general, balanced, and negative reciprocities developed by
Sahlins (1972: 185-230, esp. 191-6) and which classicists typically use: see most recently Herman (2006:
30-8).
10 Of course, this is not always the case. I would argue that, in the case of ‘bribing’ a child to get good
grades, the child is thought to have violated an obligation either to herself or, more likely, to her parents. In
this case, the exchange constitutes the violation: thereafter the child presumably would be striving to get
good grades not because she owed it to her parents, but because she would be compensated for doing so.
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Chapter One
associated with bribery, transacting in bribes—i.e. violating social norms—requires an
enormous amount of trust. Typically, high-risk transactions are conducted through
previously existing social relations, as the social relations themselves act to diffuse the
risk associated with the transaction. 11 Where there are no previous social relations to
guide transactors, local norms can guarantee the security of the transaction: where bribes
are expected, there is little risk that they will be punished. 12 The majority of bribe
transactions is thus conducted between actors who are either already linked through some
social network or who can rely on prevailing institutional norms to know that the
transaction is safe. This confines the giving and taking of bribes predominantly to well-
defined networks of actors; people are either ‘in’ the network, or they are ‘out’ of it. 13
Conflicting social frames arise when ‘insiders’ view the actions in terms of one
frame, ‘outsiders’ another. On the one hand, bribe-giver and bribe-taker (the insiders)
regularly frame the bribe and the service for which it is purportedly exchanged as distinct
media for negotiating, contesting, and constituting a local relationship amongst
themselves. As such, bribe and service can readily be framed as reciprocal gifts, not as
quid pro quo compensation 14 ; often, too, they are understood as part of a longer sequence
11
DiMaggio and Louch (1998), and, on bribery, Humphrey (1991), Ledeneva (1998, 2008), Lambsdorff
(2002), Uslaner (2004), Pardo (2004b).
12
Graeff (2005).
13
Pardo (2004b)’s study of Italian corruption demonstrates this point well in illustrating how low-level
corruption requiring relatively little trust was conducted among individuals outside of any network whereas
high-level corruption, requiring much higher levels of trust, was conducted via networks. Of course, in the
case of prevailing local norms, simply entering into the correct institutional context—e.g. interacting with
the appropriate governmental office, widely known to demand bribes—can be all it takes to become an
‘insider’: see further Humphrey (1991) on outsider distinctions involving bribery. Ledeneva (1998: 39-
42) differentiates bribery from blat (personal influence) by the presence or absence of networks, but she
takes too narrow an understanding of bribery as entailing the use of money (qua cash). Instead, I would
point out that the currency of blat networks can appear to be bribes to outsiders. In this sense, blat and
bribery on Ledeneva’s definition are gradations of a range of collaborative activity that can be termed
‘bribery’ on my definition.
14
Indeed, when there is frequent reciprocal giving within a relationship, the particular ‘bribe’ and service
may be thought by insiders as completely unrelated to each other. Note how the reverse is usually the case
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Chapter One
of reciprocal exchanges that define the dynamics of that local relationship. 15 Within this
frame, the transactors readily view their own actions as unproblematic or, at worst,
normatively ambiguous. Even when it is recognized that some kind of non-local ‘line’
has been crossed, this short-term violation is frequently justified on the grounds that it is
necessary or will bring a benefit in the long-term. 16
On the other hand, outsiders might frame the transaction as a bribe, that is, as
compensation constituting or resulting in a violation of broader societal norms—though
precisely which norms have been violated is often contested. On this view, too, the bribe
performs crucial relational work, but the proper field for that relational work is often
viewed as a bribe-taker’s relationship not to some bribe-giver, but to society as a whole. 17
For precisely this reason, public officials who take bribes are thought to have breached
some kind of public trust or to have transgressed the formal rules for office. 18
in bureaucratic contexts where bribery is expected. There, ‘bribe’ and service can be closely correlated as
direct exchange precisely because the local bureaucrat-citizen relationship being negotiated is an armslength
tie in which market norms (like direct compensation, not gifts) prevail. On the distinction between
market and social frames, see especially Heyman and Ariely (2004); as MacKenzie, Muniesa, and Siu
(2007) point out, however, an arms-length tie is nevertheless a relational distance that must be constantly
negotiated by two social transactors.
15 Ethnographic accounts of bribery are particularly helpful on this point, as they point to how the discourse
of friendship pervades how transactors frame the transaction: e.g. Ledeneva (1998: 59-66), Parry (2000:
33), Pardo (2004b: 40), Rigi (2004: 111), Sedlenieks (2004: 125), Smith (2007: 85-6).
16 American legislators frequently justify lobbyists and campaign contributions from special interest groups
on precisely these grounds as necessary, if ambiguous, means for them to stay in office; after all, they can
represent their constituents well only by remaining in office. Cf. Thompson (1995: 66). In examining US
federal laws on campaign financing, Lowenstein (2004) underscores the role corrupt intent plays both in
the law and in how people negotiate the giving and receiving of campaign contributions. I would reframe
his question of intent (is quid pro quo intended?) as a question of framing (according to the transactors, is it
quid pro quo or gift exchange?).
17 Alternatively, some set of non-universal norms might provide a competing frame. So a local high-school
athletic team might be let down if one of the teammates is bribed to throw the game, but we probably
would not say that a societal or universal norm had been transgressed. Schweitzer’s (2005) analysis of
bribery through the lens of particular vs. universal norms should thus be modified, as there is no
requirement that bribery be framed from the perspective of universal, societal norms. Often times, in fact,
which norms should be considered universal, which particular, is precisely the kind of political question
that is negotiated through practice.
18 This is, of course, where public-office and public-interest definitions of corruption derive their normative
force. For the relationship between corruption and the breach of trust, see especially Uslaner (2002, 2005),
Graeff (2005).
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In the final section we will address some of the crucial implications that emerge
from this conflict in social frames, but for now I would like to point out two advantages
that a relational model of bribery has over the standard view. First, thinking of bribery as
a social frame allows us to underscore the contiguities between bribery both inside and
outside the practice of politics. Bribing a legislator is structurally homologous to bribing
an agent, corrupting an athlete, or simply bribing a child to get good grades; that the one
happens within the ‘political sphere’, while the others do not, is incidental to a large
degree. English readily uses the same verb, “to bribe,” in each context, after all. Because
there is little reason to think that political bribery is somehow unique among social
practices, a proper understanding of bribery would locate political bribery within the
larger context of norm violations purportedly induced by gain. This is precisely what a
relational approach does.
Even so, what does change among these last examples is the normative value of
the bribe. 19 In other words, within each distinct social (hence normative) context this
social frame takes on different normative values. For Zelizer, the ‘social meaning’ of
money—whether we understand it as gift, sale, salary, bonus, bribe, allowance, tip, etc.—
derives from the precise combination of transaction medium, transaction context, and
relationship between the transactors. Though partially independent, these categories must
always be ‘matched’; a mismatch can result in an undesirable, even an immoral,
exchange. 20 For example, pretend you come across a man handing a woman $100 in
19
Underscored by Pardo (2004a: 4-7) and the essays collected in the same volume; see also Sahlins (1972:
196-9).
20
Zelizer (1994; 2001: 9993-4). That the ‘meaning’ of money thus stems from the context in which it is
transferred is likewise highlighted by Appadurai (1986: 3-6) and Bloch and Parry (1989: 19-23), who
emphasize the role played by cultural context in specifying which ways money can be represented, i.e.
which specific ‘meanings’ money can have. See also the essays collected in Parry and Bloch (1989),
DiMaggio (1994) and Levin (2008).
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cash: how do you evaluate that scene normatively? Understanding the pair’s
relationship—husband/wife, father/daughter, citizen/politician, store-owner/customer, to
name but a few examples—is absolutely necessary. So, too, is understanding whether the
cash represents a gift, payment, loan, kickback and so forth. Just as the social meaning of
money hinges on the other two categories, the social meaning of a relationship or even of
the transaction context can hinge on how much money is given, of what kind, to whom or
from what source. 21
In the case of bribery, therefore, for different outcomes (i.e. when different
obligations have been violated), for different social actors or for different relationships
between them, the degree of illicitness varies. 22 This is a second crucial advantage to the
standard view’s focus on what does and does not constitute bribery, an advantage that
allows us to assess why there might be a normative distinction between, say, bribing an
opponent in court to drop a lawsuit and bribing a bureaucrat to obtain a public contract.
On the standard view, identical actions within two different normative contexts (e.g. two
different countries) are very difficult to compare. Often scholars must resort to the
blanket assumption that there are ‘different values’ involved, without clearly pinpointing
what exactly motivates the change in normative value. By contrast, as we will see in the
21 Zelizer (1994: esp. 208-16) focuses on the social meaning of money and analyzes how people ‘earmark’
currencies with specific meaning, making the currencies non-fungible so that the specific content of
discrete social ties can be maintained. Thus, an allowance is different from a gift, which is different still
from payment for chores—all of which transactions can signal different aspects of a parent-child
relationship. Note, though, how the amount of payment for chores, including whether or not such
‘payment’ is distinct from an allowance, can signal a distinctively parent-child relationship and not, say,
that between employer and employee, as in the case of hiring someone to do the same chores.
22 Rigi (2004: 105-8) makes a similar point in isolating the various social variables—like relational
distance, amount of trust, power dynamic between transactors—that influence how and when bribery
occurs.
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sections that follow, with a relational approach we can directly obtain how and why
normative assessments change across social contexts. 23
Two caveats before moving on to how this relational approach can be applied to
Athens. Perhaps the most controversial difference between my own approach and the
standard view of bribery is that I am taking bribery to be a social frame for understanding
actions, not a class of actions per se. In this sense I am defining bribery by its outcome
(normative violation) rather than assuming its outcome by focusing on intent (corrupting
payments). When I claim that a particular transaction was an instance of bribery, I am
saying, merely, that one could construct a narrative of events such that A paid (or
promised to pay) B to do C, and that either C or this payment (or both) constituted a
violation of some norm. This is only a narrative frame. It does not establish any fact of
the matter; I think, and doubtless most scholars would agree, that normally it is
23 Although this will play little role in my analysis here, it should be noted that a third advantage to a
relational approach to bribery is that it allows us to be more precise about the relationship between bribery
and other forms of corrupt activity, specifically extortion and conflicts of interest. I do not focus on either
extortion or conflict of interest largely because the former seems to have been rare at Athens—except under
the Thirty, on which see Chapter Three—and the latter was simply a non-issue, as the Athenians were
concerned not that officials might take gifts, but that they might take gifts from the wrong source: e.g. Plat.
Leg. 955c8, Hyp. 4.24-5, pace Humphreys (1978b). Contemporary scholars frequently confess difficulty
in distinguishing among these three concepts. When something is given to a politician, is it a ‘gift’
(without any specific strings attached) that thereby creates a conflict of interest, or is it a ‘bribe’ (with
specific strings attached)? When a bureaucrat must be given an inducement to do her job, is this bribery
(meaning the bribe was voluntarily initiated on both sides) or extortion (meaning the payment was
expected, not voluntarily given)?
Our relational approach would point out that these distinctions stem from differences in framing:
bribery (compensation), extortion (entitlement), and conflict of interest (gift) fundamentally differ in terms
of perceived transaction context. Moreover, and this is the crucial advantage gleaned from our relational
model, to the extent that differences in transaction context are shaped by the social relationship of the
transactors, these differences stem, in part, from the patterns of social relationships that configure them.
We simply would not expect a gift between relative strangers, just as we would not expect direct exchange
between close friends. This is one reason why there is often a difference between how participants (who
might be close friends) and observers understand a particular transaction. Finally, a relational model allows
for shades of distinctions between these categories: surely there is a difference—different causes, different
effects, and different meanings—between explicit extortion and when a citizen thinks a bureaucrat is
extorting money, while the bureaucrat views the money as a bribe. Rather than having to call such a
situation either bribery or extortion, a relational view helpfully explains how and why there might be
different understandings of the events. With a relational approach, we can thus gain tremendous insight
into when and where we might expect bribery, extortion, and conflicts of interest to arise.
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impossible to establish any fact of the matter. Hence, I am not saying that A actually
paid B to do C—meaning both A and B considered the transaction context a ‘payment’,
as opposed to a ‘gift’ or ‘entitlement’—nor am I saying that C actually constituted some
norm violation. Instead, I am indicating that, according to one perspective, ‘A bribed B
to do C’ is a valid way to construe the events in question, meaning it is a valid way to
understand C and the causal link, if any, between C and the transaction between A and
B. 24
Adopting the social frame of bribery necessarily assumes that A paid B to do C,
and it accordingly assigns these events a particular normative value; but, again, note how
A and B, or anybody else for that matter, might adopt a different frame for understanding
the situation and thus might evaluate it differently. This is an inevitable agnosticism in
assessing any individual’s real motivations, I think, and for this reason intention-based
models of bribery have a critical problem in that they can rarely, if ever, be accurately
measured. As a corrective, therefore, the relational view I am espousing focuses on the
outcome, not the intent, of the ‘bribe’. Shifting our focus in this way from bribery qua a
set of actions to bribery as a political claim—and, specifically, allowing that different
frames might prevail among participants and observers—can have major implications for
how we think about anti-corruption agendas. Although these implications will be
addressed formally at the end of the dissertation, it is hoped that insights on this question
will emerge periodically throughout the chapters that follow.
A second disclaimer that should be mentioned is that following a relational model
of bribery necessarily moves us away from rational actor explanations for bribery as a
24 On this point, I have benefited greatly from extended conversations with Arudra Burra, whose own work
on coercion takes a similar approach.
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form of behavior. It is, after all, a premise of relational models that ‘economic’ actions
really are about negotiating social relationships. Moreover, because we are focusing on
outcome, not intent, our relational model seeks to uncover why individuals might frame
an action as bribery, not necessarily why they might decide to pursue bribery as a course
of action. Indeed, if they do not think of their own actions as ‘bribery’, it is difficult to
understand in what sense they could be said to have ‘decided’ to takes bribes. One
significant shortcoming of rational actor models, I suggest, is that they simply presume
that individuals always frame the transaction as bribery. Undoubtedly this is true some of
the time, but, as was noted above, the prevalence of conflicting social frames suggests
that it is not true a significant amount of the time. In those cases, explaining the person’s
exact ‘intent’ is almost impossible; by contrast, explaining why somebody might be
inclined to frame the situation as bribery is almost always measurable. This is precisely
what we will seek to do in outlining a relational model of bribery in democratic Athens.
Bribery and Relational Work in Athenian Politics
In 480, the Athenian stratēgos Themistocles was in charge of the Athenian fleet
as it fought against the Persians. According to Herodotus, when the Greeks arrived at the
town of Artemisium in Euboea, they feared the size of the Persian fleet and wanted to
leave. The Euboeans tried to convince the Spartan leader Eurybiades to stay, but they
could not persuade him. They turned instead to Themistocles, offering him 30 talents of
silver should the Greeks stay and defend Euboea. With this money, Themistocles gave
five talents to Eurybiades, three to the Corinthian admiral Adimantus—purportedly more
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than the Persian King would have offered—and kept the rest for himself. So the Greeks
remained at Artemisium. 25
The details of this story are bizarre and defy interpretation under the standard
view. If we think of the thirty talents and subsequent payments as bribes given and
received by rational actors, we are left with a few puzzling facts. First, if Eurybiades
could be bribed by Themistocles for only five talents, why were the Euboeans unable to
persuade him? Why did they not simply offer the Spartan general five—or thirty!—
talents from the beginning? Second, if the Persian King would have paid Adimantus less
than three talents to betray the fleet, then we would expect that three talents would have
been the going price for treason in this case. So why would it have taken a full five
talents to persuade Eurybiades? And third, why was Themistocles’ price so high? Why
did he require 22 talents, when the others required only 3 or 5 talents? Why did the
Euboeans not pay him, instead, a more modest bribe of, say, 20 talents, or even 15?
In theory, if Eurybiades, Adimantus, and Themistocles were rational rent-seeking
politicians, we would expect that their bribe-price would have been set at a market-
clearing price just above whatever the Persian King would have paid. Anything below
such a price would have been irrational for themselves because they could have always
received more money from the King; anything above such a price, though, would have
been irrational for the Euboeans, since theoretically they should always desire the lowest
price possible. Neither the bribe prices nor the eventual series of payments seems
‘rational’ under the standard model. Thus, even if these details have little historicity, at
25 Hdt. 8.4.2-8.5.3; cf. Plut. Them. 7.5-6=Phanias fr. 24 Wehrli.
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the very least we are hard-pressed to ascertain why Herodotus, or one of his sources,
would have accepted, let alone passed on, the story at face value. 26
Understanding the significance of the events at Artemisium requires moving past
the standard view. This section presents a case for how a relational approach can help.
Two aspects of a relational approach to bribery lend themselves particularly well to the
Athenian context. Because the Athenians had no word for ‘bribe’, the Athenian
vocabulary of bribery focused on compensation and the violation of social norms. As we
saw in the previous section, these were the two critical components in a relational model
of bribery. Moreover, as has been underscored by much recent literature on gift
exchange and economic activity in ancient Athens, gifts like those given to the Greek
generals at Artemisium were consistently used to negotiate social relationships. 27 We
have good reason to think, therefore, that the Athenians themselves understood bribery
through the relationships that structured it. Both claims will be treated in this section as
we investigate the vocabulary of bribery and the social contexts in which it could have
appeared at Athens. The next section will examine how contested claims about bribery
implicated broader public discussions about politics.
26 The historicity of the scene at Artemisium has been seriously questioned for a number of reasons, not
least of which is the curious problem that, because the fleet was stationed at Artemisium explicitly in order
to back up the Spartan land forces at nearby Thermopylae, it is odd that the Spartan leader Eurybiades
would have wanted to leave. See further Cawkwell (1970: 41), Wallace (1974: 22-5), Podlecki (1975:
17-18), Frost (1980: 107-8 ad 7.6-7), Kurke (2002: 90). Cf. Plut. De Hdt. Mal.872BC. Doubts of
historicity aside, many scholars paint Themistocles as a venal profiteer: see discussion, including ancient
testimony, in Kurke (2002). Recently, Blösel (2001; 2005: 135-44), Baragwanath (2008: 292-4) and, less
so, Fornara (1971: 66-74) have attempted to salvage Themistocles’ reputation as a cunning patriot.
Blösel’s proposed scenario in which Herodotus uses Themistocles as a metaphor for Athens’ imperialism is
possible—similarly, Cresci Marrone (1986), Balot (2001: 99-135 esp. 117-20)—but he goes too far in
trying to model this scene off of, specifically, Pericles’ bribing of Pleistoanax: cf. Steinbock (2006). While
I do not come down on either side of this issue, I would like to underscore that these normative assessments
are all inherently political claims.
27 By ‘negotiate’ here and throughout I intend reference to some kind of relational work. Two social actors
‘negotiate’ a relationship in defining, redefining, adjusting, calibrating, or rejecting the obligations that
inhere in their relationship. That is to say, they negotiate a social relationship in performing the work
necessary to create, maintain or end it.
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The Athenians had no word for a ‘bribe’, no noun that signified that something—
whether a gift, a tip, a wage, perquisite or inducement—was a ‘bribe’. They had only the
word dōron (plural dōra), which should always be translated as ‘gift’. This is not to say
that the Athenians had no concept of bribery; clearly they did, as witnessed by the verbs
dōrodokeō (“receive bribes”), dekazō (“bribe”) and the noun dōrodokia (“bribery”). Nor
is it to suggest that the Athenians euphemistically described all ‘bribes’ as ‘gifts’—they
did not. Rather, when the Athenians wanted to mark something linguistically as bribery,
they did so through context, usually with a verb or attendant prepositional phrases; they
never marked the noun, the ‘bribe’ itself. 28
Classicists regularly complicate this picture by claiming that the Athenians in fact
used the same word dōra to denote both gifts and bribes, but this idea is untenable. 29 On
their view, if an Athenian wanted to talk about any ‘bribes’ given or received, she would
have used the word dōra or, occasionally, lēmmata (“takings”), and context would have
dictated whether the dōra were ‘gifts’ or ‘bribes’. 30 But if context always indicated that
something was a bribe, it is curious to assume that, nevertheless, the word dōra continued
to denote an explicit ‘bribe’ on its own. By analogy, note how, whereas we might
distinguish ‘dog’ from ‘animal’ either by using distinct words (‘dog’, ‘animal’) or by
28 On the vocabulary of Greek bribery, Harvey (1985: 82-9) is indispensable and see further below. Here, it
is telling that when the Athenians did use a noun for “a bribe” (dwrodo/khma), not only was it
exceptionally rare—attested once in Comedy (Pl. Com. fr. 119K)—but its meaning was also not clearly
defined as a “bribe” given or received. It sometimes referred, instead, to an instance of bribery: e.g. Dem.
18.29, 31.
29 It would be entirely unexpected for the same word—whether dōron or lēmma—to connote, on its own,
dramatically opposite meanings within a language, particularly given the social and political significance of
a concept like bribery. After all, having the same word denote both ‘gift’ and ‘bribe’ would create a
tremendous amount of confusion; we would expect, instead, that the two would always be distinguished, if
not with different words—just as our word ‘bribe’ is always a marked term distinct from ‘gift’—then by
some other linguistic means.
30 The comments of Harvey are characteristic in this regard: “It is important to stress that dōron means
both what we call a gift and what we call a bribe…one and the same word is used for both types of
transaction” (1985: 82, emphasis retained). Cf. Herman (1987: 85), Lewis (1989: 229), von Reden
(1995a: 94), Taylor (2001: 53).
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context (“The animal that is furry and barks...”), we would never use both at the same
time (“The dog that is furry and barks…”) merely to convey the idea of ‘dog’. 31 Given
that the Athenians always provided some additional indication that something was a
‘bribe’, we should think not that the Athenians used the same word for both ‘gift’ and
‘bribe’, but that they had no word for ‘bribe’. 32 As in a relational model of bribery, there
was nothing that could inherently be considered a bribe; it was the outcome of the gift,
the way in which it was framed, that determined its normative value.
The language of gift exchange and persuasion was regularly used to describe the
workings of Athenian politics and society. 33 Indeed, scenes of bribery were often
described in much the same language—a curious yet understandable result given that the
Athenians had no word for ‘bribe’. Note how the entire scene at Artemisium is couched
in the neutral language of gift exchange and persuasion and thus provides no indication
that Themistocles’ actions would have constituted bribery (Hdt. 8.4-5). The Euboeans
unsuccessfully tried to “persuade” Eurybiades (e1peiqon), but successfully “persuaded”
Themistocles (pei/qousi), who then “won over” Eurybiades and Adimantus
(a)nepe/peisto; a)napepeisme/noi). In each case, Herodotus says that persuasion was
successful because it was coupled with either the giving of “gifts” (dw=ra dw=sw;
dw/roisi) or “money” (e.g. tw=n xrhma/twn metadidoi=) or, in Themistocles’ case, the
31 Thus, in the sentence, “The dog that is furry and barks is mine,” we do legitimately use both kinds of
linguistic markers, yet they do not perform the same function. While “dog” marks out that the subject is a
dog—not, say, an ‘animal’ generally—the limiting phrase “that is furry and barks” signals which dog is
intended, much like “the animal that is furry and barks” signals which animal is intended (a dog).
32 On comparative grounds, too, this interpretation may be preferable. For instance, the French language
notoriously lacks a word for ‘bribe’; but, like ancient Greek, it successfully conveys the notion of ‘bribery’
through verbs, euphemisms, and context. Outlining the Russian vocabulary for blat (personal influence)
and bribery, Dunn (2000) shows how the popular language of bribery is neither identical to the language of
everyday transactions, nor is it aligned with vocabulary used in criminal circles; it is marked off in some
way from both categories because it fits neither.
33 Harvey (1985: 82-3), Strauss (1985: 72-3), Taylor (2001: 160-2).
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provision of a “payment” (misqw| =). 34 Although we might think of bribery when someone
persuades with gifts or money, as in Themistocles’ case, we should be aware that such a
phrase by itself did not denote bribery, as it need not entail a violation of norms. 35
Again, just as we might expect, the exact same description of an unproblematic
giving or receiving of dōra never denoted, on its own, the highly problematic idea of
bribery. Instead, there was always some additional clue to indicate that a speaker
intended ‘bribery’ (compensation + norm violation): a distinct verb, euphemism,
additional phrase, or contextualizing details. What we are after, therefore, is those
additional clues, a set of lexical tools that an Athenian had at his disposal to communicate
the social frame of bribery. Let us call this the Athenian vocabulary of bribery.
It was noted in the Introduction that, in evaluating a scene, the Athenians stressed
the outcome of any transaction. This outcome was conceptualized in two different ways.
The Athenians measured the result of a gift, meaning they tried to establish whether
something had been given in exchange for something else (i.e. compensation); and they
measured the acceptability of the final result, whether the outcome was to be deemed
good or bad (norm violation). Perhaps unsurprisingly, therefore, we find that the
vocabulary of bribery was broken down into two groups of words, each consonant with a
different way of conceptualizing an ‘outcome’: those that conveyed compensation, and
those that signaled a violation of some norm. In other words, the Athenians’ focus on
outcomes inclined them well towards a relational model of bribery.
34 Even the verb anapeithein (cf. a)nepe/peisto, a)napepeisme/noi, Hdt. 8.5), though often used in
dōrodokia contexts—e.g. Ar. Pax 622, Eq. 473, V. 101—is no clear indication of wrongdoing: LSJ s.v.
a)napei/qw 1-2.
35 Far from it: as Baragwanath (2008: 292) plausibly argues, Themistocles’ reputation may have been
enhanced, not hurt, by the fact that he profited while reconciling Greek and Euboean interests; similarly,
Frost (1980: 10). Persuasion with gifts or money need not entail bribery: e.g. Hom. Il. 9.112-13, Hdt.
8.134.1, Lys. 21.10, Xen. Cyr. 1.5.3. Cf. Theog. 192-3.
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As in English, in Greek the word for ‘bribery’ and its cognates conveyed both
compensation and norm violation: so dōrodokia (“bribery”), dōrodokeō (“be bribed”),
and dekazō (“bribe”), all of which are attested only from the classical period onward. 36
The literal translation of dōrodokia is commonly taken to be “the receipt of dōra,” taken
from dōra (“gifts”) + dekhomai (“receive”). 37 Note how this derivation implies neither
compensation per se nor normative violation. As we will see, however, this literal
translation is misleading because it misses crucial nuance in the verb dekhomai. In fact,
the morphology of ‘bribery’ words in Greek points toward a semantic meaning closer to
“the receipt of dōra in expectation of something bad.” Just as we might expect, therefore,
dōrodokia, dōrodokeō, and dekazō were a marked class of words that conveyed,
specifically, direct exchange (compensation) and a bad outcome (normative violation).
Let us take a closer look.
Both dekazō 38 and cognates of dōrodokia 39 (dōra + dekhomai) stem from an early
Greek verb *dekmai (“receive what is given”). 40 The literal translation of dōrodokia
36 Dekazō first appears sometime between 440 and 420 (sundeka/sai, rightly emended from the
manuscripts’ sundika/sai, [Xen.] Ath. Pol. 3.7), dōrodokeō around the same time (Hdt. 6.72, 6.82).
37 E.g. Harvey (1985: 83), Kulesza (1995: 11-12), Taylor (2001: 53), Hashiba (2006: 62). This
seemingly innocuous translation is highly misleading, however, as dōrodokia never has such an innocent
meaning in the classical period, and there is no evidence that it ‘originally’ meant “the receipt of dōra.”
38 As the factitive form of the thematic verb de/komai, deka/zw literally meant “to cause someone to receive
in exchange for something,” but it always has connotations of bribery in the classical period: cf.
Szemerényi (1964: 126-8), Chantraine s.v. deka/zw. Note how Hesychius defines de/kwn as “the one who
has been bribed” (o( dekazo/menoj). Some scholars have followed an ancient folk etymology in positing a
different derivation of deka/zw from the way that jurors supposedly lined up in groups of ten (deka/j) to
receive their bribes: Frist s.v. de/ka, MacDowell (1983: 63-8), Harvey (1985: 88-9). Certainly this
derivation n is preferable from a formal perspective, but semantically it is not at all clear that deka/zw is the
correct formation from de/ka. After all, it is the jurors, not the bribe-giver, who ‘make a decad’; we would
thus expect deka/zw to describe the jurors. Moreover, the force of the prefix sun- in sundeka/sai is
redundant if we assume that ‘tenning’ entailed bribing the entire jury. sun- is perfectly understandable,
however, if we derive deka/zw from de/komai. This is to say nothing of the dubious value of Eratosthenes
as our source—pace Harvey (1985: 88)—or the implausibility of an etymology which, as Szeremerenyi
(1964: 126) aptly notes, “explains nothing and clearly bears the stamp of desperate invention.” At best,
Eratosthenes’ testimony might be a good indication of how entire juries were bribed—although
MacDowell’s (1983: 63-8) reconstruction seems fanciful—but we should seek the origins of deka/zw in
de/komai, not de/ka. Cf. Lipsius (1905-15: 174), Calhoun (1913: 67-70), Boeghold (1967: 113-14).
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straightforwardly follows this derivation and posits that the word literally meant ‘the
receipt of gifts’. This etymology is dangerously simplistic, however, and overlooks
crucial details about the peculiar morphology of dōrodokia and its cognates. In fact, the
morphology of dōrodokia suggests strong affinity to the verb dokeō. To make matters a
bit more confusing, dokeō, like dekhomai, was also derived from IE*dek̂-, albeit in the
form IE*dek̂-eye (cf. Gr. dokeuō). 41
So was dōrodokia derived from dokeō? Not exactly. Dokeō is actually a
relatively late verb formed in the classical period. Even before the archaic period, the
early Greek verb *dekmai began to split into two verbs: dekomai (dekhomai in the Attic
dialect), from which dōrodokia is usually taken, and a group of iterative forms that would
eventually converge in the verb dokeō. In other words, in the archaic period the forms
39 For the sake of clarity, throughout this discussion I transliterate x as ‘kh’.
40 Throughout this discussion, I use the standard linguistic convention of an asterisk (*) to indicate a form
that is unattested yet hypothesized. Gr. *de/kmai comes from an Indo-European root *dek̂- or *dēk̂-, but the
precise meaning of this original root has been hotly contested. There is still no consensus on how to
sequence the subsequent morphological and semantic change. At issue are how and why the athematic,
acrodynamic Greek verb *de/kmai transformed into the thematic verb de/komai, or de/xomai in the Attic
dialect. Were the latter formed from a root aorist which became generalized and lost its aspect (cf. García
Ramón [2004: 506n.40])? Or do they represent subjunctive forms—de/ketai > *dék̂-e-toi, an IE
subjunctive—which later became a thematic present (cf. Tichy [1976])? Amid semantic shifts in
reduplicated forms, aorists that work like presents and presents that look like aorists, to say nothing of the
semantic swamp of dek̂- verbs ranging in meaning from “wait” or “honor” to “receive” and “watch”—the
linguistic problems behind dōrodokia are thorny indeed. For a guide through the quagmire, see Szemerényi
(1964: 170-6), Chantraine s.v. de/xomai, Frisk s.v. de/xomai, with treatments of various aspects of the
problem by Tichy (1976), Forssman (1978), García Ramón (2004), and Ruijgh (2005). I offer here a
plausible new alternative, although I am not qualified to explain precisely how it may have arisen.
41 LSJ s.v. doke/w I, Chantraine s.v. doka/w II, Frisk s.v. doke/w. With the sole exception of dōrodokia and
its cognates, for every compound formed from the e-grade de/xomai (“receive”), there is a combination of
aspirated and unaspirated forms based on the –dek root: nouns end in –doki/a or –doxi/a, adjectives appear
as –do/koj or –do/xoj, and compound verbs end in –doke/w or –doxe/w. So we find cenodoxi/a,
cenodo/xoj, cenodoxe/w with cenodo/koj and cenodoke/w; qewrodo/xoj with qewrodo/koj and
qewrodoke/w; oi)nodoxei=on and oi)nodo/xoj with oi)nodo/koj. For all forms related to dōrodokia, however,
there is never any aspiration, as every compound retains –dok–: dwrodoki/a, dwrodoke/w, dwrodo/koj,
dwrodo/khma, a)dwrodo/khtoj. Strikingly, these latter compounds have a morphology identical to that of
compounds derived from the classical o-grade verb doke/w (“expect, await”): thus karadoke/w (“eagerly
expect”), karadoki/a, a)karado/khtoj and prosdoke/w (“expect”), a)prosdoki/a, prosdokh/toj, and
especially a)prosdo/khtoj next to a)pro/sdektoj from prosde/xomai (“receive favorably”).
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that would become dokeō were crucially linked to dekomai as iterative forms of that verb:
“receive again and again” (iterative) later turned into “expect, await.” 42 Over time,
therefore, a special meaning of dekomai (“expect, await”) came to be attached to an
entirely new verb (dokeō).
But was there anything left behind? When these iterative forms broke off from
Gk. *dekmai, did any of their semantic meaning (“expect, await”) subsequently remain
attached to the verb dekomai? I propose that, yes, a meaning akin to “expect, await” was
preserved in dekomai and the Attic form dekhomai—and that this meaning was later
preserved in the noun dōrodokia and other similar compounds. 43 Positing this kind of
semantic affinity to the verb dokeō explains why dōrodokia follows the morphology of
42 Note how the rare verb dokeuō (“watch, observe”), off of which dokeō is based, appears in contexts that
suggest that it, too, functioned as an iterative form of Gr.*dekmai.Cf. Tichy (1976: 81-2). Homeric
evidence for de/xomai (“expect, await”) unquestionably proves that the classical meaning of doke/w
(“expect, await”) was formed as an iterative of de/komai and hence is derived from Gr. *de/kmai: e.g. Hom.
Il. 4.107, 5.228, 238, 20.377. This has no bearing on the problematic relationship between Homeric
dei/dex- (“greet, honor,” e.g. dei/dekto, Hom. Il. 9.224) and de/dex- (“await,” e.g. de/deco, Hom. Il. 5.228,
Od. 20.377, 22.340), the former of which has been derived alternately from IE *deik̂- (“show”)—see most
recently Forssman (1978)—or from IE *dēk̂- (“accept”): e.g. Frisk s.v. doke/w, Chantraine s.v. doka/w,
Tichy (1976).
43 My derivation is motivated by the following observation: instead of beginning with de/xomai and asking
why dōrodokia compounds follow the morphology of doke/w, it is fruitful to ask why, if dōrodokia
compounds look like doke/w, the verb doke/w does not also mean “receive” or “receive illicitly.” We need
to account for this. For my argument, it is sufficient to point out only that Homer evinces semantic
convergence of forms of de/xomai and dokeu/w (later doke/w). What I propose here is that in the shift from
Gr.*de/kmai (“receive”) to its iterative meaning in reduplicated forms (“expect, await”), an intermediary
semantic form—“receive” + “expect”—was also retained. This meaning subsequently inhered in the verb
de/xomai; when compounds were formed from this particular meaning, they were marked in a formally
distinct way by following the morphology of the distinct yet closely related verb doke/w. Ruijgh (2004:
58-9) traces a similar development from *de/khti to doke/ei (“it seems good”) through influence by doke/w
(“think”).
This morphological divergence, suggesting as it does that dōrodokia was derived not solely from
de/xomai but was also influenced by doke/w, cannot be explained simply in terms of distinction in dialect or
time. That Attic consistently aspirates –dok- compounds is clear enough from a wide range of compounds,
many of which are attested only once or twice. By contrast, dōrodokia and its cognates, by far the most
prevalent –dok- compounds, are attested hundreds of times in Attic, yet not one of these compounds is
aspirated. Perhaps in recognition of this point, both the Suida (s.v. dwrografh/) and Thucydides (dw/rwn
do/khsin, 5.16.3) derive dwrodoki/a not from dw=ra + de/xomai but from dw/ra + doke/w (“be suspected of
[the legal suit of] dōra”). My own derivation follows the spirit, if not the content, of their etymologizing.
48

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dokeō, not dekhomai. After all, all other –dok- words with similar morphologies connote
“expect, await,” not “receive.”
If this derivation is correct—and no other derivation satisfactorily accounts for
these problems in morphology—then dōrodokia conceals a meaning of dekhomai used to
mark out a category of transactions expecting a specific return (“receive [what is given]
in expectation of something”). 44 As the above reconstruction indicates, this meaning
probably dates back to early Gk.*dekmai, when the iterative forms that would much later
become dokeō began to diverge from those that would become dekhomai. 45 Incidentally,
such a reconstruction compellingly explains why dekomai/dekhomai was often used in
scenes of bribery in archaic poetry. 46
So already in the archaic period dekomai/dekhomai could, on its own, denote
compensation. What about normative violation? Certainly by the classical period, the
verb on its own could unambiguously signal bribery (i.e. “receive what is given in
44
Cf. von Reden (1995a: 93-5). de/xomai (“receive gifts”): Hom. Od. 8.419-20; Hes. WD 86-7; Hdt. 3.39,
3.135; Eur. Alc. 375-6, Med. 958, 973, 1003; Soph. Aj. 662-3. Likewise, de/xomai (“receive gifts in return
for something”): Hom. Il.11.124, 24.420, Od. 11.327, 18.286-7; Hes. fr. 76.10; Sapph. 1.22; Pi. O. 2.62;
Hdt. 9.91. Cf. Frisk s.v. doko/j.
45
Dating this meaning of de/xomai back to Gr. *de/kmai is preferable for the following reason. By the time
of Homer, the expectation of receiving dōra—and in a bribery-like scenario, at that—can be represented
not only by de/xomai/de/komai (“receive what is given”), but also by iterative forms of the earlier Gr.
*de/kmai (“expect”). For the latter, note how in the Odyssey Eurymachus rebukes Halitherses’ speech on the
grounds that he had spoken “looking for a gift for [his] home, whatever [Telemachus] might provide” (sw= |
oi1kw| dw=ron dw=ron potide/gmenoj
potide/gmenoj, potide/gmenoj ai1 ke po/rh|sin, Od. 2.186). Here, Halitherses is thought to provide counsel in
expectation of receiving dōra from Telemachus, and the result is considered explicitly bad counsel (cf. Od.
2.188-93; similarly xruso\n…dedegme/noj, Il.11.124). Likewise, when Priam tries to give gold to Achilles’
guard to be let into the Greek camp, Homer uses the verb de/cai (Il.24.429; cf. de/xesqai, 24.434). Note
here how it is the verb de/xomai, not any of the other verbs of giving and receiving, that differentiates this
scene from regular, unproblematic gift exchange, and it does so, specifically, by indicating that the gift of
Priam’s goblet was to be conducted behind Achilles’ back (pare\c 0Axilh=a, 24.434). Positing a shared
semantic root in Gr. *de/kmai (i.e. “receive what is given in expectation of something”) would help explain
why two different meanings of the same verb—meanings that later split into two different verbs—might be
used to describe similar situations.
46
Hom. Il. 24.429, 434, Od. 11.327; Hom. H.Mer. 549. Without the additional semantic nuance of
“receiving in expectation of something given,” nothing would have distinguished de/xomai from other verbs
of receiving; with this addition, however, the verb became a natural choice for describing bribery.
49

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exchange for something bad”=“receive as a bribe”), just like cognates of dōrodokia. 47
How, then, did dekhomai come to acquire such an association with bad outcomes? One
likely source of influence was the law. Early codification of dekhomai in law could have
subsequently conditioned, though not caused, the word’s semantic shift outside of legal
contexts. 48 Whatever the reason, by the time of the classical period, the verb dekhomai
and its cognates—like dōrodokeō and dekazō—were used, on their own, to denote
“receive in exchange for something bad.” Likewise, dōrodokia should be translated
literally as “the receipt of dōra in exchange for something bad”, i.e. “bribery.” In this
way, the Athenians’ main vocabulary for bribery all indicated quid pro quo compensation
and normative violation.
Dōrodokeō and dekazō represent distinct ways of using a single verb to signal the
frame of bribery; by contrast, if the regular verbs of giving, receiving, or persuading were
used, an Athenian could still signal ‘bribery’ by indicating both that the dōra were a kind
of compensation and that this compensation had caused some bad result. In those cases,
commercial metaphors and prepositional phrases could be used for the former, while the
verb diaphtheirō (“corrupt”) and alimentary metaphors could be used to indicate the
47 Cf. Harvey (1985: 83). There are two notable exceptions to this rule: Harvey (1985: 83n.30) notes how
at Ar. EN 1163b11 dōrodokos refers to someone who receives gifts, not bribes, but see also Ar. Eq. 403, Pl.
Rep. 390d7, Dem. 18.61; similarly, Sosiades lists in his Maxims of the Seven Sages that one should
“usefully receive gifts that demand a return” (Dwrodo/kei xrhsi/mwj, Phil. Sent. 215.27). In all likelihood,
however, this is a late fabrication. A few examples where dw=ra + de/xomai does not appear to indicate
bribery can be found at Xen. Cyrop. 8.5.18 and in Plato’s Laws, where taking gifts from good sources is
contrasted with taking gifts from bad sources or with an eye to bad results: para\ de\ miarou=
dw=ra…de/xesqai, Leg. 716e3; w(j e)p’ a)gaqoi=j me\n dei= de/xesqai dw=ra, e)pi\ de\ flau/roij ou!, Leg.
955c8; cf. Leg. 905d4. This distinction helps affirm the Athenian focus on outcomes.
48 For the (early sixth century) use of de/xomai in Athenian law, see below Chapter Six. In the same vein,
deka/zw might represent a similar crystallization of semantic meaning due to its codification in the law
governing the graphē dekasmou: cf. Dem. 46.26 for the text of a compilation of laws including that for the
graphē dekasmou, with discussion in Chapter Six below. Ultimately, it is impossible to prove these kinds of
correlations. If this reconstruction is correct, it would be a rare instance in which explicitly legal language
at Athens influenced the semantic field of a word used in popular contexts: so Todd (2000a: 26-31) and
see further discussion in Chapter Seven.
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latter. Of course, contextualizing details could also make it clear that one or both of these
components was present. 49
When the language of gift exchange was used—‘giving’, ‘receiving’, ‘gifts’,
etc.—usually the transaction context was closer to gift than to compensation. In order to
signal that, in fact, some kind of quid pro quo had occurred, commercial language was
frequently used. Verbs like priamai (“buy”) or pōlō (“sell”), and nouns like misthos
(“payment, wage”) or kerdos (“profit”) and their cognates all clearly shifted the
transaction context from gift to compensation. 50 Likewise, a dative of instrument or
prepositional phrases like e3neka + gen. (“for the sake of X”), e)pi/ + dat. (“with an eye
towards X” or “for the price of”), or i3na + purpose clause could reframe a voluntary gift
as compensatory exchange. 51 These prepositional phrases played a particularly important
role in legal regulations of dōrodokia: archons swore never to receive gifts “for the sake
of [their] office” (th=j a)rxh=j e3neka, AP 55.5, cf. Pollux 8.86); jurors swore never to take
gifts “for the sake of [their] role on the jurycourt” (th=j h(lia/sewj e#neka, Dem. 24.150);
and the law against dōrodokia specified that no one could give or take “to the harm of the
people” (e)pi\ bla/bh| tou= dh/mou, Dem. 21.113); similarly, the law against judicial bribery
49
One or the other of these components could just as easily be implicit—and not clearly evident in the
language used. Hence, I do not maintain that, in order to employ the frame of bribery, both of those
elements must be included. I would argue, instead, that explicit inclusion of any of these elements can, but
need not, indicate that a scene is being viewed through the frame of bribery. What I would like to avoid,
however, is the common scholarly mistake of reading a scene of gift exchange—with no explicit markers of
compensation or normative violation—and calling it ‘bribery’ simply because it involves a public official.
As a social frame, bribery has tremendous social significance, so any time the frame of bribery is employed
we should expect to find some linguistic trace of this significance.
50
Harvey (1985: 84-6) comprehensively surveys the commercial language of bribery; see also von Reden
(1995a: 89-92) on misthos.
51
I list a few examples of each. Dative of instrument: Hdt. 5.63, Plut. Cim. 14.3, Thuc. 4.65.3. e3neka +
gen.: Hom. Od. 11.521, 15.247, Theog. 46 West. e)pi/ + dat.: Pl. Rep. 590a2, Leg. 955c8; Dem. 21.113,
46.26. i3na + purpose clause: Hom. Il. 23.297, schol. ad Ar. Ach. 6.
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prohibited giving money to anyone on a judicial body “for the sake of dōrodokia” (e)pi\
dwrodoki/a|, Dem. 46.26).
All of these contextual markers focused on the explicit return expected for the
dōra, thereby characterizing the transaction as quid pro quo compensation. In
Herodotus’ story of Themistocles at Artemisium, for example, the thirty talents given to
Themistocles are explicitly called a “payment” (e)pi\ misqw| = trih/konta tala/ntoisi)
given “on the condition that” (e)p’ w{ |) the Greek fleet stay and fight the Persians.
Similarly, the historian later juxtaposes the gifts to the Greek generals with the return (cf.
e)kexa/risto) given to the Euboeans (Hdt. 8.4-5). Such characterizations sometimes also
implied a negative evaluation of the scene. For instance, prepositional phrases denoting
“against X” or “against the interests of X” (e.g. kata/ + gen.) could be used, while
compounds derived from misthos always indicated the speaker’s disapproval. 52
Alternatively, Athenians might denounce a particular exchange by saying that its
outcome constituted some sort of bad (violation of norms). It should be noted that no
explicit condemnation can be found in Herodotus’ story.
Whereas commercial language and prepositional phrases differentiated the
transaction context, alimentary metaphors and the verb diaphtheirō (“to corrupt”) could
signal that some kind of norm violation had occurred. For the Athenians, alimentary
metaphors usually conveyed some negative value about a particular exchange. 53 We hear
of “gift-devouring” kings who judged cases unjustly (dwrafa/goi, Hes. WD 11, 202,
52 The use of kata/ + gen. implied both exchange and a bad outcome: taking gifts “against the dēmos’
interests” was shorthand for taking money in return for a specific outcome that ended up harming the
dēmos. Harvey (1985: 85) on the use of misthos compounds exclusively to connote censure and abuse:
e.g. mistharnia, misthōtos.
53 These metaphors recur throughout the Aristophanic corpus: see Taillardat (1962: 310-11, 414-18) and
generally Davidson (1993).
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238); “stuffing” someone’s mouth with money (xrusi/w|…e)bu/noun to\ sto/ma, Aristoph.
Pax, 645; to\ sto/m’ e)pibu/saj ke/rmasin, Aristoph. Pl. 379); and vomiting up bribe
monies received (Aristoph. Eq. 1149). In fact, in a different version of the scene at
Artemisium, the Athenian leader Architeles reportedly wanted to leave because he did
not have enough money to pay his men. Themistocles hid a talent of silver beneath
Architeles’ dinner and bid him to dine on it and feed his men in the morning (Plut. Them.
7.6-7=Phanias fr. 24 Wehrli). Consuming the food became a metaphor for taking the
talent of silver. 54
Likewise, the verb diaphtheirō (“corrupt”=“bribe”), itself the most negative
Greek word for bribery, indicated a bad outcome; frequently, it also indicated a causal
link between the means of corruption and the outcome itself. The verb phtheirō, at the
root of diaphtheirō, meant “to destroy,” and diaphtheirō consequently had a range of
meanings, including “to destroy,” “to seduce,” and finally “to corrupt.” 55 The semantic
range of diaphtheirō is not easily explained, but by the end of the fifth century we find it
repeatedly denoting a deterioration—one might say a ‘destroying’—of the nature or
54 In the same vein, the Rhodian poet Timocreon censures Themistocles for serving “cold meats” (yuxra_
krei=a) or “leftovers” to others (PMG 727.10). Timocreon seems to suggest that these leftovers were
monetary in nature when he insinuates that Themistocles was “full of silver” at the Isthmus (a)rguri/wn d'
u(po&plewj, following Bergk at 727 PMG 9). This appellation works nicely on two levels: first as a
straightforward indication of how Themistocles had the means to serve cold meats to everyone (he had a lot
of money after receiving so many bribes); and, second, as a euphemistic signal of the food imagery to come
(though himself ‘full on silver’, he served but leftovers to everyone else).
55 Accordingly, the development of this semantic field, specifically its extension to the realm of bribery, has
troubled scholars. Wankel (1976: 315) has suggested that the ‘corruption’ at the root of bribery is a kind
of ‘seduction’, while Harvey (1985: 86-7) has posited that diaphtheirein represents a surrendering of free
will, an idea extended to bribery more generally by Ober (1989: 236-8), von Reden (1995a: 95), Euben
(1997: 103). Yet Harvey’s interpretation gives too much weight to select evidence (e.g. Dem. 19.118, his
only cited example) and I disagree with his interpretation of Lys. 1.33 (tou\j de\ pei/santaj ou#twj au)tw=n
ta\j yuxa\j diafqei/rein). There the point is not that a seduced woman surrenders her free will, but that
she no longer belongs exclusively to her husband—a morally unacceptable outcome. In other words, her
subordinate role in the household is destroyed and changed for the worse. Note how nearly identical syntax
is used at Xen. Symp. 8.21—cf. o( de\ pei/qwn th\n tou= a)napeiqome/nou yuxh\n diafqei/rei—where the
concern is not about the surrendering of free will, but about changing the character of a lover.
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character of something. 56 Given that the emergence of diaphtheirō (“bribe”) was
contemporary with this shift towards the destruction of character, I suggest that this is the
conceptual link between the two meanings of diaphtheirō as “to bribe” and “to
destroy.” 57 What ‘corruption’ (diaphtheirō) does, therefore, is to change the character of
an outcome so that it is bad; when a payment is the source of this corruption, we have
bribery.
So the Athenians used a relational vocabulary for bribery, couching descriptions
of politics in the language of social relations. We can push this point even further,
however, and this brings us to the second reason why a relational approach is particularly
well-suited to the study of Athenian bribery. For the Athenians, describing politics in the
vocabulary of gift exchange and persuasion belied a close conceptual affinity between
56 I find this meaning of diaphtheirein more likely a product of late fifth-century nomos-physis debates.
Just prior to this time, in Sophocles’ Antigone dated to around 440, Creon complains of the potential evil
that money can cause: “by its teaching perverts men’s good minds so that they take to evil actions!” (to/d’
e)kdida/skei kai\ paralla/ssei fre/naj/xrhsta\j pro\j ai)sxra\ pra/gmat’ i3stasqai brotw=n, Soph. An.
298-9). The concern that something might change one’s nature or character emerges later in the play when
erōs, too, smashes men’s wits unto ruin (Soph. An. 791-2). Euripides likewise talks of ‘corrupting’ the
name or physis of something: Hec. 398, Or. 297, fr. 377.3, 411.1, 526.2; cf. Aesch. Ag. 932; Isoc. Paneg.
151, Areo. 47, Panath. 32, 196. In the fourth century, we often find mention of ‘corrupting’ the nature of
something, including archai (Lys. 30.28), the polis (Pl. Rep. 415c5), legal documents (Isoc. Trap. 23, 24,
31, 33), and the laws (Isoc. In Call. 11, Pl. Crito 50b5, 53b7, Leg. 788b6, 864d2, 891b5, 913c6).
Harvey (1985: 87n.44) rightly points out that ideas of ‘impurity’ may have something to do with
the extension of the semantic field of diaptheirein to bribery: see Thuc. 7.84.5, Lys. 30.28; Aristotle’s
explicit comparison of political corruption and the muddying of water at Pol.1286a31-5; and instances
where the character of someone or something is so corrupted, e.g. Isoc. Antid. 30, Xen. Mem. 1.2.8, Pl. Ap.
25d5, Men. 89b6, Rep. 421d1, Leg. 894a7. I would note, in addition, that in other vocabulary for bribery we
find this same idea of ‘changing’ the status or outcome of something. The verb anapeithein, for instance,
literally means to persuade someone to do ‘the reverse’ of what might be expected or intended: LSJ s.v.
a)na/ F2 with Harvey (1985: 83n.32).
57 Harvey (1985: 86-7), followed by Hashiba (2006: 70n.31), has claimed that the use of diaptheirein at
Hdt. 5.51 implies that the meaning “corrupt by bribes” was current in the mid-fifth century, but I find this
unlikely. The passage could simply intend that Aristagoras would “corrupt” or “change” Cleomenes’ mind
or character; that money was the reason for this change was implicit and need not have been explicit in the
verb diaphtheirein (as we would need for it to signify “corrupt by bribes”). The meaning “corrupt [by
bribery]” is not again attested until the fourth century, and then frequently at that: Lys. 2.29, 28.9; Xen.
Hell. 7.3.8; Isoc. 8.50, 17.12; Pl. Leg. 768b; Theopompus FGrH 115 F81; and twenty times in
Demosthenes and Aeschines. Cf. Lys. 20.38. The absence from Old Comedy is striking, and Harvey
unsatisfactorily suggests that the verb was originally slang of a sort, at first used only in spoken discourse;
yet such an explanation would make its absence from comedy all the more unexpected.
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political and social relations. As we will now see, Athenian politics, including actions
framed as bribery, was rooted in the cornerstone of ancient Greek society: reciprocity.
For this reason, a relational model of bribery is a natural choice for Athens.
Reciprocity fundamentally guided how relationships—social, political,
commercial—were forged and negotiated in Athens. 58 The common expression, “Help
friends, harm enemies,” concisely expressed the ethos of reciprocity that underpinned the
exchange of gifts (dōra) between friends (philoi). 59 Gifts could be given for a variety of
reasons between a variety of relations, including friends, family members, and political
allies; in this sense, they were the fundamental currency of social relationships. When
someone gave a gift, it created an obligation, for it was a symbol of the relationship itself:
one had to return gift with counter-gift or else risk marring the dynamics of the
relationship. 60 Dōra were thus calibrated to the dynamics of the relationship or the
circumstances of the exchange. Giving more or more valuable dōra might signify greater
social standing or a greater request (reward, thanks, honor) being made. 61 As in our
58 The scholarship on gift giving and reciprocity in Archaic and Classical Greece is vast. I list here the
works that have had the greatest impact on my thinking: Finley (1977), Humphreys (1978a: 107-74),
Donlan (1981-2; 1989), Herman (1987), Seaford (1994), von Reden (1995a), Millett (1997), Mitchell
(1997), Gill, Postlethwaite, and Seaford (1998), Knippschild (2002), Domingo Gygax (2007, forthcoming).
It should be noted, with Will (1954), that the reciprocal justice forged by gifts was also created by other
monies, including currency.
59 See further Sinclair (1988a: 187), Seaford (1994: 7-10), Domingo Gygax (2007: 113-19). This ethos
readily shaped how political networks were constructed: Lys. 9.13, 14, 21; Pl. Rep 362b, Men. 41e; Xen.
Mem. 2.4.6, 2.6.25, 3.7.9. Connor (1971: 35-47), Dover (1974: 180-1, 304-6), Sinclair (1988a: 187).
60 Hence the frequent injunctions in Greek literature to match gift with gift, to give when one has given to
you: Hom. Od. 24.283-6, Hes. WD 353-5, Epicharmus fr. 273K, Hdt. 1.69-70, Xen. Cyr. 5.3.31, Aristot.
EN 1167a14-16. Cf. Mauss (1990: 47-8), von Reden (1995a: 18-24), Domingo Gygax (2007: 113-19;
forthcoming: 23-5).
61 Cf. Arist. Rhet.1.5.9, Mastrocinque (1996: 9). The exchange of armor between Glaucus and Diomede at
Iliad 6.234-6 has been taken as the locus classicus for discussions of how dōra are calibrated to a
relationship. See further Donlan (1989), Brown (1998), and generally Mauss (1990: 43-6), von Reden
(1995a: 18-31). von Reden (1997) rightly extends this point to say that all money takes its meaning and
value from the (social) context in which it is used.
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relational approach to bribery, the logic of the gift accorded with the logic of the
relationship in which it was given.
Take the case of Themistocles and the thirty talents. Recall how, under the
standard view, the payments in Herodotus’ depiction of the Greek fleet’s deliberations at
Artemisium seemed baffling; on a relational view, by contrast, these dōra are perfectly
‘rational’. As Herodotus writes, Themistocles successfully persuades Eurybiades, but
only by giving money as if “in fact” it were coming from himself (w(j par) e(wutou=
dh=qen dh=qen didou/j, Hdt. 8.5). In other words, Themistocles lies about the source of the money
in order to leverage his own friendship with Eurybiades. After all, we can imagine how
Eurybiades might readily accept money from Themistocles—who personally yielded his
command to the Spartan (Plut. Them. 7.3)—but might balk at the idea of taking money
from (or simply being persuaded by the entreaties of) the Euboeans, whose shores
Eurybiades in particular wanted to abandon (Plut. Them. 7.4). 62
Similarly, Themistocles and Adimantus were not on the best of terms—note their
bickering before the Battle of Salamis (Hdt. 8.59-62)—and the dōra given and received
reflect this enmity. Themistocles couches his offer of dōra within a thinly veiled threat:
he flat-out commands Adimantus that the Corinthians not abandon the Greek fleet; and
he ominously refers to bribery by the Persian King, in effect suggesting that, unless
Adimantus were to comply, he would be accused of taking bribes from Xerxes. In an
alternate version, in fact, Themistocles makes precisely this threat to one of his own men
(cf. Plut. Them. 7.4.6). The dōra were calibrated to the dynamics of a specific
relationship in each case.
62 Even if we assume that Eurybiades simply wanted to move the Greek fleet elsewhere to give the Spartans
at Thermoplyae a better chance—so Frost (1980: 106 ad 7.6)—it is crucial that he could not have been
paid by just anyone to do so. Themistocles still had to leverage his own relationship with the Spartan.
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Chapter One
Because dōra were used to negotiate the relationship itself, the obligation they
incurred need not be repaid immediately. Often, in fact, outside of the ritualized
exchange of dōra on-the-spot, a gift entailed only a general return, that is, a return
unspecified in terms of both quality (what kind of gift, how valuable it was) and time
(when it would be given). 63 In this sense, assuming they were gifts not quid pro quo
compensation, we should not causally link the gifts given to Eurybiades and Adimantus
with their decision to stay and defend Artemisium. Rather, both the talents of silver and
the generals’ subsequent decision to stay could be viewed as independent ‘gifts’—we
might say ‘favors’—that separately negotiated a friendship. Much like we saw with
‘insider’ framing in the previous section, within the framing of the relationship it would
have been difficult to construe the gifts as bribes, for they likely would not have obligated
a specific return.
This reciprocity—gifts obligating non-specific returns—created a continuously
off-set equilibrium by which dōra could symbolize and strengthen relationships. The
Athenians had a preference to give rather than to receive, meaning it was better to
obligate others than to be so obligated. 64 As a result, when someone gave a gift, often the
counter-gift would not simply repay an obligation, but would seek to off-set the
equilibrium of the relationship by further obligating another, as well. 65 The exchange of
gifts was not a series of immediate, equal exchanges, but was a continuous string of
gift/counter-gift/gift (counter-gift)/counter-gift… Although an Athenian often claimed to
give dōra spontaneously and unprompted as a way to initiate a new sequence of
63 Mauss (1990) is seminal on this point. Finley (1957), Seaford (1994: 7-23), von Reden (1995a: 18-
24), Domingo Gygax (2007: 119-20; forthcoming: 29-30) helpfully lay out these concepts out for an
ancient Greek setting.
64 E.g. Aristot. EN 1124b.
65 Millett (1992: 32-3), Domingo Gygax (2007: esp. 120-2).
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reciprocal exchanges, more often than not his ‘gift’ was actually both a ‘counter-gift’
repaying a previous obligation and a ‘gift’ incurring a new obligation. In practice,
therefore, the distinction between gift/counter-gift was usually blurred. 66
So gifts and the reciprocity that governed them symbolized a long-term
relationship between two social actors. In this sense, dōra could be used not only to
reinforce existing social ties, but even to forge new ones: by accepting dōra, one was
obligated to repay them, thereby setting off a potentially long-term sequence of gifts and
counter-gifts. To an observer looking in, the acceptance of a single gift might signal a
long-term relationship of reciprocal exchanges. For the Athenians, where there were
dōra, there were friends; and where there were friends, there were dōra. In this respect,
dōra acted as a kind of social glue, a way to bind people together into long-term,
reciprocal relationships.
Certainly these kinds of long-term relationships were the fabric of Athenian
society, but the story of Themistocles highlights how such ‘friendships’ (philia) also
played an important role in the practice of Athenian politics, whether we call these
‘friendships’, ‘political friendships’, or ‘associations’. 67 Indeed, a range of evidence
supports the claim that much of Athenian politics was conducted through the leveraging
of personal relationships. 68 This makes sense at first glance, as the majority of Athenian
66 Duly noted by Domingo Gygax (forthcoming: 86-90) in a discussion of the epinikion as both gift and
reward. Cf. Mastrocinque (1996: 12-13) on the difficulty in distinguishing between ‘gift’ and ‘tribute’ in
archaic Greece. We can see this idea in practice in the way that public honors were represented sometimes
as payment for past deeds, sometimes as encouraging (obligating) future benefactions, on which see most
recently Liddel (2007: 160-82).
67 The semantic field of philia and its cognates, especially philos/philoi, was broad. Philoi could range
from family members to friends to fellow citizens, while philia was more restrictively applied only to kin
or lovers: Konstan (1996); cf. Goldhill (1986: 88-106), Blundell (1991: 26-59).
68 Connor (1971), Dow (1976), Whitehead (1986: 301-5), Strauss (1987), Sinclair (1988a), Littman (1990),
Mitchell and Rhodes (1996), Mitchell (1997), Ober (2008). Cf. Calhoun (1913), Hunter (1994), Rubinstein
(2000) for the leveraging of social relations in the courts.
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officials were not professionals per se, but were amateurs serving one-year terms; that
they would leverage their own social relations could only help them be more effective. 69
Here I would like to point out three different areas in which specific social configurations
pertained in politics so that we can get a better idea of the kinds of transactions that could
have been used to negotiate those relationships.
Of the relatively few elected officials in Athens, frequently those dealing with
foreign policy—like military generals (stratēgoi) or ambassadors—were selected in part
because their personal relations might provide a strategic advantage for Athens. This
strategic advantage might entail securing resources, funds, or simply more favorable
negotiations. The stratēgos Alcibiades thus used Thracian men in his army—troops
whom he later called his philoi or ‘friends’—in order to besiege Byzantium in 409; and in
413 Nicias hoped to overthrow Syracuse specifically through insiders who knew him. 70
Demosthenes, Aeschines, and Philocrates were elected and re-elected as ambassadors to
the Macedonian King Philip in part because of the relationship they had and continued to
develop with him. 71 Examples can be multiplied. 72 To be sure, the Athenians realized
69 This principle is manifest in the selection of paredroi, two of which assisted each of the eponymous
archon, the archon basileus, and the polemarch: Dow (1976), Whitehead (1986: 301-5), Kapparis (1998).
AP 56.1 records that the three archons selected their paredroi on their own accord, meaning that their philoi
were likely the primary beneficiaries: Whitehead (1986: 304-5) collects the sources on this practice; cf.
Kapparis (1998: 388-9). Even if such an arrangement were simply a holdover from the archaic period—
so Rhodes (1981: 622 ad AP 56.1) and recently Kapparis (1998: 385-6)—it nevertheless made sense in the
democracy if the Athenians actually wanted the archons’ work to proceed smoothly and efficiently (a
necessity given the wide range of their tasks): cf. [Dem.] 59.81. So, for example, several sources attest
that an inexperienced archon should be balanced out by an experienced paredros: schol. ad Dem. 21.178,
schol. ad Aeschin. 1.158; Anecd. Bek. 288.16.
70 Philoi: Diod. 13.105.3, cf. Plut. Alc. 36.6-37.3. Nicias: Thuc. 7.48.2, 7.73.3, cf. Diod. 13.27.3.
71 Cf. Dem. 18.51-2, 18.284, 19.167. Conversely, foreign ambassadors were frequently invited to
institutionalize some kind of tie to the city through xenia: Dem. 19.234-5. On the preference for a
connection between an ambassador and the polis to which he would be sent, see especially Mosley (1973:
43-9, 55-62).
72 E.g. Dem. 19.166-7; cf. Dem. 18.50-2, 18.109, 18.284, 19.138-40 and generally Herman (1987) and
Mitchell (1997), who collect the sources. Note how Pericles confirms his xenia with the Spartan general
Archidamus, but explicitly mentions that this relationship had never brought any ill upon the polis (Thuc.
2.13.1).
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the potential danger of these relationships—a point which will prove pivotal in the next
section—but the dēmos was happy to elect magistrates who would use their personal
connections for the public’s interest. 73
A second area in which social relations were regularly leveraged in politics was in
the provision of essentially public services through private initiative. Taxes were farmed
out to enterprising individuals who would collect them on behalf of the polis. 74 Grain,
too, was collected by citizens who bid on public contracts for the responsibility to ensure
that a certain amount of grain made it to the Piraeus port. 75 Elite citizens (and sometimes
resident aliens) spent enormous amounts of money on public liturgies, like hosting and
training a dramatic chorus (chorēgia), fitting out and commanding a naval ship
(triērarchia), or a property tax (eisphora) that was collected, from 378/7 onwards, by
means of share-groups (symmories) of about 15 members who shared the burden of the
tax. 76
73
Badian (1987: 14), Herman (1987: 156-61), Mitchell (1997: 65-71). No Athenian seemed to mind,
for instance, when Pericles gave dōra to the Spartan king Pleistoanax not to invade Attica. On the contrary,
in his description of Pericles’ actions, Plutarch writes that some people, including Theophrastus the
philosopher, thought that this was one among a number of payments that Pericles made to the Spartan
leaders over a ten-year time period (Plut. Per. 23.1). Plutarch’s additional testimony is instructive, for he
says that in this way Pericles ‘paid court to’ the Spartans (qerapeu/wn, Plut. Per. 23.1), meaning the
stratēgos was giving money within the context of an ongoing exchange relationship. When Pericles’
accounts for the year came up for scrutiny at his euthynē, he reportedly said that he ‘lost the ten talents out
of necessity’, and the people did not press the issue further: ei)j to\ de/on a)pw/lesa, as Aristophanes quotes
at Clouds 859 (cf. schol. ad loc.). On Pericles’ dealings with Pleistoanax, see Thuc. 2.21.1, 5.16.3; Eph. 70
FGrH F193; Diod. 13.106.10; Plut. Per. 22-3, Nic. 28; Arist. Nu. 859 with scholia. For further discussion,
see also Rhodes (1981: 313 ad AP 25.i), Dover (1968: 204 ad Nu. 859).
74
Tax farming: de Ste. Croix (1953), Brun (1983), Hansen (1991: 113-14), Liddel (2007: 279-80).
75
Grain provision: See Stroud (1998), Osborne (2000), Moreno (2007), and most recently Ober (2008:
260-3).
76
On the liturgical system: Davies (1981), Sinclair (1988a: 64-5). Chorēgia: Wilson (2000), Liddel
(2007: 264-70). Triērarchia: Sinclair (1998: 61-2), Liddel (2007: 270-4). Eisphora: Sinclair (1988a:
62-3), Liddel (2007: 274-5). In the 340’s the symmory system for the eisphora system was expanded to
create 60 groups of roughly 20 members; at the same time, these groups could also be held collectively
responsible for paying for a trierarchy. On the symmory system, see Ruschenbusch (1978), Rhodes (1984),
Gabrielsen (1985: 36), MacDowell (1986).
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For each one of these services, there was a single output—an amount of tax or
grain, a naval ship, or a trained chorus—that was the product of enormous collaboration
among an entire network of people. The richest three members from each eisphora
symmory were responsible for providing the tax owed by the symmory as a whole; how
they collected reimbursement from the other members, however, is something of a
mystery. It is clear that there were considerable disagreements over the most equitable
distribution of contributions: in order to make the actual payment owed by the symmory,
therefore, there was doubtless interpersonal negotiation within the symmory—friends
helping each other out, signaling their own status within the group by the payment they
could contribute, etc. 77
Likewise, tax collectors, grain distributors, and liturgy performers could not have
performed their obligations single-handedly: they would have had to rely on friends to
ensure that all the necessary provisions were in order, that a certain amount of the tax
would be guaranteed to be collected, and so forth. 78 For all public contracts, as well as
for the trierarchy, there would have been the opportunity to recoup some losses and even
profit; in that case, we can readily imagine that the proceeds were redistributed among
friends who had been a part of the collaboration. 79
Each one of these areas of politics thus leveraged a different configuration of
social relationships, ranging from one or two immediate, close friends to more extensive
77 Of course, those in charge of a symmory might consequently force the other, less wealthy members of
the symmory to pay more—e.g. Dem. 18.104, Hyp. fr. 160—and this could cause tremendous problems at
wartime in trying to secure a fleet quickly. Cf. Dem. 4.36. On in-group distribution and remuneration, see
also Dem. 37.37, 50.9.
78 Wankel (1982: 46-7), Domingo Gygax (forthcoming: 102-6). That groups of people, not individuals,
might bid on amounts of grain is clear from Agyrrhios’ grain-tax law of 374/3: see SEG XXVI 72.31-3
with Stroud (1998: 65-6 ad 31-6), Osborne (2000: 173). Millett (1992: 69-71) notes that elites would
often borrow money from friends in order to pay a liturgy up-front.
79 For the redistribution of booty as prizes (aristeiae) or misthos, see Pritchett (1972: 1.85-92).
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networks of informal ties and formal associations, as in the case of the symmories.
Accordingly, we can posit that each area, too, would have admitted the giving and
receiving of dōra within its own specific configuration of relations. These dōra could
represent anything from well-defined shares of profit—that is, specific monetary sums—
to general charis (“thanks”) recognizing a contribution to a collaborative effort; or, in the
case where collaboration was itself a favor repaying a previous relational debt,
subsequent dōra may not even have been ‘earmarked’ as thanks for any specific gift.
Even without getting into any specifics, therefore, we can see how wide-ranging the
intent, use, and meaning of these dōra could be.
All of these dōra were essentially informal payments (or gifts) that both initiated
and sustained the collaboration entailed in the above political domains. Yet there were
also formal payments made, and these constitute our third area of politics in which
important social configurations might emerge. In contrast to the above situations in
which a pre-existing social relationship was leveraged in the interests of accomplishing
some political task, where there were regular, formal payments, we need not assume that
the transactors already knew each other. The social relationship negotiated in these cases
usually would have been merely an arms-length tie. Thus, even if a particular general,
say, did not know any of the leaders in a foreign city, he might still receive a payment
from them as compensation for defending the city. 80
This is precisely what seems to have happened with Themistocles and the Greek
fleet at Artemisium. Although Themistocles leveraged his own relationship with
80 Wallace (1974: 25n.8) on these payments; cf. Hdt. 7.158.4. Even if a payment from the Euboeans would
have been irregular, Themistocles’ contemporaries probably would have viewed his payments in light of
money from Athens to finance the expedition: Hdt. 8.5.3, Ephorus FGrH 70 F193. Certainly by the end of
the fifth century, when the Persian King was financing a number of Spartan expeditions, this practice had
become more regular: Lewis (1989).
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Eurybiades and Adimantus by providing them with dōra, the Athenian himself seems to
have been given veritable compensation, a “payment” (cf. misqw| =, e)kexa/risto, Hdt. 8.4-
5) in order to stay at Artemisium. No close relationship need be presumed here, and the
use of misthos might signal both the particular frame of compensation and especially a
formal payment by the Euboeans. On this point Phanias’ alternate version—in which
Themistocles offers a talent of silver to the trierarch Architeles—is explicit, for
Themistocles’ offer could readily be interpreted in light of the regular payment of misthos
made by a general like Themistocles to a trierarch like Architeles (Plut. Them. 7.6). 81 On
one reading of the scene, in fact, the ‘bribes’ given were no more than payments often
given to generals to ensure that their men would be fed. 82
Examples can be multiplied. Trierarchs who did not wish to command their ship
could hire out someone to take their place. 83 Although Athenian ambassadors were given
a per diem for the duration of an embassy, they were often still provided accommodation
by proxenoi living in the city they were visiting. 84 From the mid-fourth century onwards,
magistrates were publicly honored on an increasingly regular basis simply for performing
the duties of their office. 85 In addition to various rates of pay for public officials including
81 On the regular payment of a misthos for military service, see Pritchett (1971: 3-27); for the distribution of
this misthos by the stratēgos, Pritchett (1971: 85-92). Although there are chronological problems with
positing that a stratēgos might provide a monetary wage in the 480’s—so, Pritchett (1971: 11), Frost (1980:
107 ad 7.6-7), Blösel (2001: 182)—it is enough for our purposes that later Athenians hearing of
Themistocles at Artemisium would have understood his payment to Architeles in light of regular payments
in political practice.
82 Cawkwell (1970), Wallace (1974), though cf. Blösel (2001: 135-6). The explicit purpose for which
funds were accepted was often hard to determine, as monies collected for the tribute, say, were nevertheless
used to provide provisions or misthos for soldiers: Pritchett (1974: 40-1).
83 Lys. 21.10, Dem. 21.80, 51.7. Given the purported reputation of the helmsman hired in Lysias 21.10, we
need not presume that the speaker had known him before hiring him.
84 Mitchell (1997: 29).
85 See the examples provided by Whitehead (1983: 73n.32). Note how, by the time of Aristotle’s
Constitution of Athens (late 330’s to early 320’s), the Council regularly received a dōrea of a gold crown
after successfully submitting its accounts: AP 46.1; Aeschin. 1.111-12, Dem. 22.36, 22.38-9; cf. Dem.
22.8-20.
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councilors, judges were provided small court fees by litigants at the preliminary hearing
of suits (Poll. 8.38, Dem. 47.64), while jurors were paid at the end of each day for which
they served on a jury (Ar. Eq. 225, AP 62.2).
These last payments were made by the polis and certainly, to that extent, signaled
a formal political relationship between citizen and polis. It is important to remember,
however, that the polis seems to have had a monopoly over the legitimate provision of
these kinds of pay; these particular transactions were strongly associated with the
specific, fixed transactors of citizen (or official) and polis. If somebody else tried to
provide the same kind of compensation, it was often considered bribery, where the bribe
monies were viewed as a substitute for the pay normally provided public officials. 86 As
suggested by a relational approach to bribery, simply changing one of the transactors—
allowing a regular citizen, say, to give a payment to a public official in return for a
particular service—could shift the normative value of the transaction considerably.
By the same token, it should be noted just how often informal gifts to an official
within the context of a social relationship would have flowed side-by-side with formal
payments from the polis. 87 How the scene was evaluated thus often hinged on whether
one adopted the perspective of an ‘insider’ or ‘outsider’. Again, consider how
Themistocles leveraged reciprocal relationships with both Eurybiades and Adimantus in
86 Public officials were paid certainly in the fifth century and perhaps in the fourth century as well. The
issue of fourth-century pay for public office is a vexed one among Greek historians: for an introduction to
the debate, see Gabrielsen (1981) for and Hansen (1979, 1980) against the idea that fourth-century officials
were regularly paid. I tend to side with Hansen: see Chapter Four below. Note how in the Heliastic oath,
the jurors swore never to take gifts on behalf of their office from anyone in any way whatsoever (Dem.
24.150). Although the pay was modest—intended mainly to pay for meals and as an honorarium, on which
see Markle (1985) and Chapter Two below—we never hear of officials taking bribes expressly because
they were paid too little.
87 We can reframe this idea in terms of the rewards or perquisites of office, treated in detail by Hansen
(1980) and Sinclair (1988a: 179-86) and see also Lys. 19.57, 25.9, 25.19, 30.25; Dem. 3.29, 19.215,
[Dem.] 58.35; Aeschin. 3.173; Din. 1.41, 1.77. Cf. Lys. 28.9, 29.6; Ar. V. 669-77, Pl.377-9, 567-70. The
central issue of perquisites is whether they are legitimate or illegitimate (i.e. bribery, as oft). In this sense,
legitimate rewards might come from either a formal or informal source.
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order to get the leaders to stay and defend Euboea. We can imagine that the dōra he gave
were viewed among ‘insiders’—himself and anyone else part of the same relational
context—as just one installment in a long series of gift/counter-gift reciprocal exchanges.
Similarly, each general contributed his own ‘counter-gift’ to Themistocles: a pledge to
stay and defend Artemisium.
But note how, in that case, the counter-gift itself was a political service that
represented its own set of obligations in a different social context: the ‘outside’
relationship between public official and community, for example. The services provided
by the generals to Themistocles (and, for that matter, those provided by Themistocles in
return for the Euboeans’ payment) performed relational work within the twin contexts of
an inside and outside relationship. In other words, both sets of relationships were
negotiated at the same time; the generals’ ‘counter-gift’ to Themistocles was also a
gift/counter-gift to some third party. By using a political service, normally used to
negotiate the outside relationship, as a token to perform relational work in the inside
relationship, all the generals at Artemisium thus lay themselves open to the claim of
bribery.
The issue faced by Themistocles and his associates was one of dual framing, a
conflict between insider and outsider perspectives discussed in the previous section. The
monies that did relational work in one relational context simultaneously entailed
obligations within another context. Realistically, people encounter these kinds of
scenarios all the time and unproblematically negotiate both relationships simultaneously
through compromise. A problem arises, however, when one relationship is not given its
proper due, that is, when the relative balance between the two relationships too much
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favors one or the other. 88 In that case, it can appear that some inherent obligation has
been broken and, crucially, that this normative violation has resulted from how someone
has tried to negotiate the other relationship. Because such relational work is often
performed through monies—gifts, counter-gifts, cash, favors, entitlements, etc.—the
normative violation is often blamed on the transaction, the very site and means of
relational negotiation. 89
Examining Athens from a relational perspective allows us to push our relational
model yet further. As the case of Themistocles suggests, dōra in political collaboration
can negotiate two relationships simultaneously; when one of those relationships is
thought to outweigh the other unjustly, outsiders readily frame the actions as bribery. 90
We can generalize this claim as follows: wherever there was political collaboration, there
was the possibility that someone might look at the scene and call it bribery. After all,
Athenian politics did not merely leverage these configurations of social relations, but was
in fact constituted by them. Hence, politics at Athens, like politics anywhere, should be
viewed as a specific subset of all the social relations that attain in society. Each political
88 Hence ‘private gain’ at ‘public loss’ shows an undesirable favoring of private over public regard. The
imbalance between a bribe-taker’s profit while the rest of the polis suffered was central to the topos of
“profiting at your [sc. the people’s expense,” treated in Chapters Three and Four below.
89 This is precisely what occurs in Zelizer’s (1994; 2005b) ‘Hostile Worlds’ scenarios, on which see above.
90 Cf. von Reden (1995a: 94). It should be noted that such dual framing always arises in political
situations, but can be found in other social contexts, as well. To return to Timocreon’s abuse of
Themistocles, the Athenian is called a “liar, con, traitor...won over by roguish silver” (yeu&stan a1dikon
prodo&tan…a)rguri/oisi kobalikoi=si peisqei\j, 727 PMG 4-5) for having taken money from Timocreon’s
enemies to keep Timocreon in exile, rather than to restore him as he had pledged to do. Timocreon was
Themistocles’ guest-friend (cf. cei=non, 727 PMG 4), and the entire poem details how, in repeatedly
committing bribery, Themistocles harmed not only Timocreon, but a number of other friends, as well.
There, not restoring Timocreon from exile is a service that negotiates two distinct sets of
relationships—Themistocles and Timocreon, Themistocles and Timocreon’s enemies. Although
Timocreon blames this service on “roguish silver” and thereby assumes Themistocles had been bribed, in
theory Themistocles may have been given this silver as a ‘gift’ with no strings attached and may simply
have been showing more favor to one set of friends (Timocreon’s enemies) than to another (Timocreon).
The poem has been much discussed: see especially AE 415, Fornara (1966: 260), Stehle (1994: 510-11)
on historical issues and Podlecki (1975), Scodel (1983), and Stehle (1994) on the thorny issue of the
poem’s genre.
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system is constituted by a different constellation of social relations, and each has its own
constellation of social obligations that inhere in those relations. As a result, wherever
there is politics, there is the possibility of dually-framed dōra and, consequently, the
possibility of bribery.
In those cases, trying to disentangle which dōra or services negotiated which
relationship is misguided, even impossible, because they can be construed as performing
relational work in both relationships. Themistocles’ actions at Artemisium helpfully
show the problems in trying to fix only one kind of social framing; instead, there as
elsewhere we should ask what is at stake in adopting one social frame, hence one
normative evaluation, over another when both really seem to apply simultaneously. In
terms of politics, certain practices are considered legitimate, others not, but ultimately
this evaluation hinges on how we frame the social relationships involved and on how we
define the social obligations entailed by those relations. So, I underscore, the normative
value of vote-swapping in the legislature, paying a public official to win a public
contract, or accepting money from an ally and redistributing it among friends is not
absolute, but is subject to contestation among competing social frames. This contestation
of frames is a crucial part of politics. In the next section, the last part of the relational
model of Athenian bribery we have been developing, we will examine how these
competing frames tied into broader political narratives within the democracy.
From Definition to Discourse: dōrodokia and the Commerce of Bad Friends
Any relational approach to bribery must begin with identifying configurations of
social relations within a society. From there, by examining the vocabulary of bribery, the
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mechanics for assigning and contesting value, we can begin to uncover the patterns of
normative values generated by those social relations. But what happens when these
values are contested? What happens when the meaning of a relationship is negotiated, or
when competing social frames are brought to bear on the same actions? At that point,
people turn to broader cultural norms to guide how they should assess such competing
political claims—in short, people determine the narrative of a specific sequence of events
by looking to broader cultural narratives about how similar events are typically framed.
In this way, the frame of bribery interlocks with larger narratives about how politics is
conducted, at Athens as in any other polity. Exactly how this interlocking of social
frames and political narratives plays out will be the focus of this section, one that will lay
the groundwork for our relational approach. 91
In this last section, therefore, we must shift our focus from social relations to
political norms, with an eye towards understanding how political norms can change over
time. As we just saw, there were a number of different ways in which social relations
could be leveraged in Athenian politics, but one of the critical problems the Athenian
democracy faced was the inherent danger in allowing certain kinds of social relations to
pertain in politics. A well-connected general or ambassador was certainly in a good
position to obtain a favorable result for the community, but he was just as able to obtain a
less than favorable result, as well. There was, accordingly, a pressing need for the
91 Although bribery functions as a narrative about politics in practice in other cultures, too—see, e.g. Gupta
(1995), Ledeneva (1998), Sedlenieks (2004), cf. Thuc. 2.97.4 about the Odrysians in Thrace—it is
nevertheless remarkable that the Athenians adopted it. After all, the presumption of bribery can be a major
distortion of the causality of events. Even if there had been a long sequence of gift and counter-gift in the
transactors’ eyes, in which case no particular ‘bribe’ could be associated with the specific counter-gift of
the political service provided, within the frame of bribery this long sequence was narrowed down to a
single quid pro quo transaction, the exchange of bribe for service. Likewise, to presume that politics was
conducted through bribes entails a considerable amount of civic distrust: see especially Chapter Four
below.
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Athenians to define when leveraging a social relation was okay, when it was not. As the
Athenian democracy developed, there was also a need to be able to redefine these broad
political norms over time. As we will examine here, bribery qua a social frame was the
political narrative par excellence for conceptualizing what had gone wrong in a particular
case and why this was ‘wrong’ in the first place. To frame something as bribery was a
way to contest its legitimacy; in this way, competing claims over which social frame
should become social fact were competing claims over how best to understand the
democracy.
Bribery was a popular explanation for political injustice at Athens. When a public
official’s obligation to the community was breached, bribery was usually assumed to be
the cause. These assumptions pervade Athenian political history as public officials’
failure to do what was expected of them—their violation of the obligations inherent in
their relationship with the community—were blamed on bribery. 92 Yet in order to
assume that a specific outcome was caused by bribery, an Athenian had to have had the
idea that most bad outcomes were caused by bribery. How a particular outcome was
framed was therefore shaped by prevailing norms and expectations about politics. In
short, each time an Athenian assumed that bribery had occurred, the very choice of social
frames hinged on broader political narratives.
There are two parts to this idea that the social frame of bribery at the individual
level was interlocked with common narratives of polity. First, bribes were associated
with ‘bad friends’; to claim that someone had taken bribes was to identify him with a
specific social type, what I will call the dōrodokos or corrupt man. In this way, the
92 Strauss (1985: 71-2), Todd (1993: 306), Kulesza (1995: 42-4), Taylor (2001: 161). Pritchett (1974:
2.24) on generals’ responsibility for everything, as well as prosecution of generals for major defeats (1974:
2.20); cf. Roberts (1982), Elster (1999).
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framing of a specific outcome as bribery hinged on whether or not that outcome fit with
generally recognized trends in politics: discrete events were framed as bribery (or not)
depending on how well they resembled broader, common conceptions of what bribery
looked like. Once idealized in this way, the stereotype of the dōrodokos could play an
important role in public discourse.
This will be the second argument sketched here. It was through social types like
the dōrodokos that Athenians thought through the democracy itself. Hence, adopting the
narrative frame of bribery implicitly (or explicitly) told a larger narrative about politics
and society, for it assigned a particular role to the dōrodokos within the broader
democracy. By telling a story about one sequence of events, an Athenian was staking a
claim in broader public discussions about how democratic politics should be conducted.
Discourse on dōrodokia was the discourse of democracy; and it was here, through
competing narratives on dōrodokia and democracy, that deliberative politics was
fashioned.
First, the dōrodokos and ‘bad friends’. Dually-framed dōra can simultaneously
make and break friendships, with the normative value of the dōra hinging on how they
are framed. If framed through the lens of a ‘broken’ relationship in which a social
obligation has been violated, bribery emerges. Recall from the Introduction how a
dōrodokos like Timagoras was called a ‘bad friend’. Precisely the kind of person who
had harmed, not helped, his friends—a person who had failed to understand the principle
of reciprocity—was the type who might violate the obligations in one friendship in order
to negotiate those in another. This is precisely the kind of person Timagoras was called
when he was impugned both for taking bribes and for treating his fellow ambassador
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poorly. 93 In subsequent chapters we will encounter a number of other dōrodokoi who
were similarly ‘bad friends’.
What kind of ‘bad friends’ were born of bribery? Although the frame of bribery
could be used if an obligation within any friendship was thought violated, there is good
reason to think that, for the Athenians, there was one relationship in particular—that
between citizen and community—through which bribery was continually framed. 94
Throughout the democracy, there was a strong ethos of civic obligation: citizens qua
members of a political community had an obligation to take a hand in bettering that
community. 95 This obligation was sometimes informally expressed through social norms
on entering political office, serving on a jury, respecting other citizens, or taking part in a
festival. Alternatively, there were formal requirements like property taxes and liturgies
for the elite, laws on military service or on speaking against the people’s interests. Either
way, a citizen’s membership in the polity was defined by the duties he had towards the
community and the rewards he received as a member of the franchise. It was a
relationship founded on reciprocity. 96
93 Similarly, Timocreon lambastes Themistocles for taking bribes and thereby betraying his friend (727
PMG). Demosthenes accuses Aeschines of being a bad friend (Dem. 19.191) and bad guest (Dem. 19.196-
8), both of which signal that Aeschines failed to understand the value of reciprocity.
94 So Leslie Kurke (2002: 94) writes, “gift-giving…becomes negatively inflected as ‘bribery’ (dōrodokia)
when it is felt to interfere with a citizen’s obligations to his civic community.” While Kurke is certainly
right to point to the discursive power at the heart of insinuations of bribery, I would argue that what was
called bribery need not, but often was, framed in relation to a citizen’s obligations to the community. Of
course, a citizen’s violated obligations to his friends—as in Timocreon’s invective against Themistocles
(727 PMG)—could also result in the inflection of gift-giving as bribery.
95 E.g. Thuc. 2.35ff. On the range of these civic obligations, Liddel (2007) is essential. For Aristotle’s
thoughts on civic obligation, see Rosler (2005). So Demosthenes notes that the freedoms of democracy
were guarded by rivalrous competition to participate politically and to win rewards from the dēmos (Dem.
20.107-8). For an idea of the breadth and depth of Athenian civic participation, Sinclair (1988a: esp. 51-
4).
96 Liddel (2007: 139-43). Aristotle commonly writes that the goal of political life was to win honor (timē)
from the community: EN 1159a15-25, 1095b14-31, Pol. 1302a31-b18, 1283a16-22, Rh. 1361a28-b2.
Recent scholars have explored how this timē was frequently expressed as charis or reciprocal “thanks” for
the provision of some good deed to the community: see especially Davies (1981: 92-8), Ober (1989),
Domingo Gygax (forthcoming: passim).
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There were specific reciprocal obligations that defined a public official’s
relationship to the community. Under Solon a century before the democracy, public
office was conceived of as a tax, a contribution to the polity proportional to one’s
income: the more affluent the citizen, the greater his expected contribution and the more
important his role in the polity. 97 In this sense, public office was conceptualized as a
public service, a good work or benefaction, much like liturgies familiar from later in the
democracy. 98 Indeed, all would-be public officials had to undergo a public scrutiny, or
dokimasia, in which their legal qualifications were assessed and, crucially, their past
good works to the city were vetted. 99 The dokimasia ascertained that the reciprocal
relations between citizen and community had been well-established and would
presumably continue during that citizen’s tenure in public office. 100 Although the
Athenians did not conceptualize these reciprocal relations as a ‘friendship’ per se, it is
clear that the relationship between citizen and community was a reciprocal one constantly
negotiated by civic obligations. 101
97 Following Ostwald (1995: 374-6), who understands Solon’s ‘property’ (telē) classes as tax classes.
Finley (1977: 96-7) on the similar reciprocity between kings and communities in Homeric society; this was
part of a broader reliance on elite contributions to the polis in the archaic period, on which see most
recently Domingo Gygax (forthcoming: 91-107).
98 Xenophanes (fr. 2 DK) explicitly compares elite political wisdom to the benefaction of an athletic
victory: cf. Pl. Ap. 36d, Rep. 465d and see Doming Gygax (forthcoming: 110-15) for discussion. Not
coincidentally, in the second half of the fourth century, serving in public office was regularly awarded
public honors just as liturgies were: Whitehead (1983: 65) lists the sources. In the fifth century, too,
certain extraordinary successes in public office were rewarded exceptional honors: Themistocles was
awarded a statute in the Temple of Artemis Aristoboulē (Plut. Them. 22.2); commemorative herms were
erected in the agora for Cimon and the other generals at Eion (Aeschin. 3.183, Plut. Cim. 7.4); and Cleon
received proedria and sitēsis after Pylos (Ar. Eq. 573-80). It is more striking, however, how the
achievements of prominent leaders of the fifth century are characterized as elite benefactions: Sinclair
(1988a: 34-6), Schmitt-Pantel (1992: 179-208) are fundamental on this point.
99 MacDowell (1978: 168), Ostwald (1995: 325-6). Specifically, a candidate was asked whether he treated
his parents well, paid his taxes, and had fulfilled his military obligations (AP 55.3). Broader considerations
of goodwill towards the community could be brought up by accusers: see esp. Lysias 16, 25, 26, 31, all
presented at dokimasiai.
100 Adeleye (1983: esp. 30), Hansen (1991: 218-20); cf. Todd (1993: 285-9).
101 Plato’s Crito is fundamental on this point. Aristotle EN viii-ix, esp. viii.10-11 posits that the reciprocal
exchange relationship at the heart of political friendship—though not strictly philia—nevertheless exhibits
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The dōrodokos, then, was a ‘bad friend’ to the community: not a specific bad
friend, but an example of a generic category of individuals in the democracy. Whether
we encounter him in comedy or forensic oratory, he is a kind of idealized figure—in a
word, a stereotype. 102 Again, a relational view helps illuminate why this could have been
the case. Whenever we negotiate any social relationship—a friendship, say—we have in
mind certain social benchmarks by which we define and redefine its terms. “Friends are
supposed to do X or Y,” we think, and this generic expectation consequently structures
our interactions with specific friends by helping shape the norms of the relationship.
Behavior and expectations are shaped according to some ideal about what a relationship
is or is not, what it should and should not be.
Because of his dual framing as insider and outsider, the dōrodokos was potentially
identified with two relational roles, two ideal types, at once. Within the relationship
negotiated by the bribe, the dōrodokos was aligned with one relational role, whether
friend, neighbor, father, associate, etc., and his behavior was measured according to the
yardstick of the ideal friend, neighbor, etc. From the community’s perspective and within
the context of his relationship with the community, however, he was aligned with the role
of ‘bad friend’. By failing to provide an expected, obligatory return in his ‘friendship’
with the community, the dōrodokos had intentionally or unintentionally identified himself
with the community’s other ‘bad friends’.
the same reciprocity inherent in philia: Hutter (1978), Schofield (1998). While I would venture that every
society establishes a similar kind of reciprocal relationship between citizen and community, it should be
noted that both the nature and the content of this obligation can vary tremendously. In Athens this
obligation was defined primarily by informal, not formal norms: relatively few legal regulations restricted
official conduct, while the social standard of reciprocity—help the community, don’t harm it—prevailed.
102 Wankel (1982: 33), Kulesza (1995: 45-83, esp. 81-2).
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Remarkably, what is distinct about the dōrodokos as a social type is that there
were never any generic features that uniquely identified him. 103 Theophrastus’
Characters provides short character sketches of 30 different social types that could be
found in Athens just after the democracy: the flatterer, the garrulous man, the oligarch,
the miser, the greedy man, the coward, the busy-body—all of these types had defining
features by which each character could be picked out in a crowd. The dōrodokos is
nowhere to be found. 104 Aside from perhaps being a ‘bad friend’, the dōrodokos was
essentially an empty set, an open sign that could be filled in as needed. Sometimes he
was assumed to be poor, other times rich. 105 Sometimes he was assumed to have a bad
character through and through; other times his transgression was considered an isolated
affair. 106 He could be working alone or part of a vast network of dōrodokoi. 107 When I
speak of the dōrodokos, then, I intend it as a heuristic that signals the ideal type with
which a bribe-giver or bribe-taker was identified. When someone was suspected of
dōrodokia, he was identified with a social type—a kind of person in the democracy—but
the exact contents of this type shifted over time.
103
Ober (1989: 237) notes in passing the reverse of this claim, that the Athenians never had a topos of the
adōrodokētos or unbribable man. Wankel (1982) and Kulesza (1995: 48-83) examine the generic
construction of bribery accusations, but are unable to identify any unique characteristics beyond lack of
loyalty to the polis. Again, we might call the dōrodokos, simply, a ‘bad friend’. Cf. Kulesza (1995: 81).
Accordingly, the dōrodokos, though idealized, never claimed the status of a range of other ‘bad citizen’
anti-types in the democracy, like the military shirker or avoider of liturgies—on which see Christ (2006,
2008)—or the whore, the flatterer, and the sykophant, helpfully discussed by Fisher (2008). For the
affinities between bribery and prostitution, again in terms of character types, see von Reden (1995a: 117-
20).
104
Bribery appears but once in the Oligarch’s complaint about how the courts are corrupt: Theoph. Char.
26.5.
105
Poor: Xen. Hell. 2.3.48, Aeschin. 1.88, Dem. 18.131, Arist. Pol. 1270b6-13, Din. 3.18. Rich: Aeschin.
3.94, Hyp. 3.35, Din. 1.40, Dem. 21.112, 23.201.
106
Character: Ar. Pl. 569-70, Lys. 28.10-11, Dem. 23.146 and see Chapter Three. Isolated incident:
Aristides, nicknamed ‘the just’ for his apparent refusal to seek personal gain in his public service, was
reportedly convicted of dōrodokia for once taking money from the Ionians when assessing their tribute
(Plut. Arist. 26.2-5=Craterus FGrH 324 F12).
107
Working alone: Timagoras (Plut. Pelop. 30.6-7) and Arthmius (e.g. Din. 2.24) were isolated incidents
of bribery. Network: Euxenippus (Hyp. 4.39), those involved in the Harpalus Affair (Ath. 8.341f-342),
Ant. 6.49-50, and see generally Chapter Four below.
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As the next three chapters will detail, during each of three different periods in the
democracy a different conception of the dōrodokos prevailed: the disobedient citizen, the
thief, and the traitor. Each one of these latter types, and the dōrodokos by extension, had
its own distinct characteristics, but we will find that the choice of which type or which
characteristics to assign to the dōrodokos was determined in large part by how dōrodokia
was conceptualized. At the end of the dissertation, we will return to the question of why
the Athenians treated the dōrodokos uniquely as an ideal type yet one which never had
any distinct features of its own. For now it is enough to note that the dōrodokos played
this role in the democracy and that the next chapters examine in greater detail how this
process actually worked.
So calling someone a dōrodokos identified him with a social type within the
democracy, although this type shifted over time along with changing conceptions of
dōrodokia. This brings us to the second point I would like to highlight about the
normative construction of narratives of bribery in the Athenian democracy. In public
discourse, the stereotype of the dōrodokos was used to tell a larger story about politics
and society at Athens. This idea will play a prominent role in the second half of the
dissertation, where we will see how distinct narratives of dōrodokia became legitimated
in public discourse through legal institutions. It is worth outlining the contours of this
claim here, however, so that in the chapters to follow the reader can glean hints of the
broader role played by narratives of dōrodokia.
We have been focusing on competing social frames, on the difference between an
insider’s and outsider’s potential framing of a sequence of events. To an outsider, the
monies used to negotiate a relationship of political collaboration could quickly blend into
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bribes; an insider, however, could contest this framing of events in two distinct ways.
First, a different relational frame with a different transaction context could be adopted.
By claiming that the monies were not compensation, but were gifts that required no
specific return, an insider could contest the twin ideas that there had been an exchange
and that this exchange had caused some normative violation. Moreover, and this way is
most important for our purposes, the frame of bribery could be contested by claiming that
there had been no violation of obligations in the first place. This last view posited that
the norms of the outside relationship should be defined along different lines from those
adopted by the outsider: new practices, like the insiders’ quid pro quo exchange, should
be allowed, or old practices should take on new meaning.
Again, this makes sense from a relational perspective. When we try to negotiate
the terms of a relationship—as we switch the ideal types that define it, changing from
friend to lover, say—we restructure the norms governing that relationship. By changing
how we understand the ideal form of the relationship, we let new practices become
accepted, or old practices become imbued with new meaning. After a certain point, it no
longer makes sense to think of the relationship through the previous ideal (friends), and a
new ideal (lovers) must be adopted; the relationship is then likened to a new, idealized
social type. Crucially, this new type is structured according to a new set of norms. 108
108 In the same vein, Rose (2003: 232) suggests that moral discourses are ultimately statements of imagined
unities: the kinds of things ‘we’ do or do not do. Changing the contents of these discourses thus signals a
new conception of who ‘we’ are—a redefinition of the boundaries of community. I view such a process,
whereby accretions of meaning slowly change a core concept until it must be reinvented or redefined, as
analogous to the accretion of meanings and practices attached to rituals: cf. Beard (1987) and Feeney
(1998: 129-31) for a relevant discussion of how literary texts represent the multiplicity of meanings in
ritual processes. In this light, it is perhaps unsurprising to find contemporary sociologists like Miller (1998:
73-110) and Wuthnow (1996: 183-97) speaking of rituals within and concerning practices of consumption.
For these scholars, it is precisely through ritual that consumers align purchases (consumption) with broader
cultural values and thereby negotiate social relationships. I would argue that the same could be said about
engaging in bribery, as well.
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Now we can begin to see what was considered so bad about dōrodokia and why
adopting the frame of bribery (or not) was an inherently political act. By taking what his
opponent called ‘bribes’, the dōrodokos effectively represented a change to the logic of
an existing relationship. At best he was re-negotiating, at worst rejecting, the norms
governing the relationship between public official and the people, citizen and community.
Potentially each side viewed the other as trying to establish a new ideal, a new standard
by which political friendships with the community were to be negotiated. For this reason,
dōrodokoi are often portrayed as weighing the currency of one relationship against
another, esteeming the bribes as more valuable than any rewards inherent in benefiting
the community. 109 This process of weighing was both literal and symbolic: the
dōrodokos had to determine not only which social frame would be given greater weight
in his simultaneous negotiation of two relationships, but especially which normative
context, which set of ideal types, was more important to him.
Such weighing of currencies often resulted in the alignment of bribe monies with
cash, that is, the currency of the marketplace. No doubt some of the time the form of the
bribe was in actual Athenian drachmas; to this extent, calling the bribe monies ‘cash’
could form a purely descriptive role. But often, too, referring to the bribe monies as
‘money’ played a crucial discursive role: it was a way to signal that the relations,
practices, or outcomes associated with the bribe were illegitimate. In this light, bribe
monies functioned as an ‘anti-currency’ to the legitimate monies of democracy; the
former derived their full social meaning as conceptual opposites to the latter. In both
cases, then, the monies used to negotiate political relationships, whether legitimate or
109 E.g. Lysias 21 (philotimia weighed against bribery), Dem. 19.142 with Dem. 19.223, Din. 1.21.
Subsequent chapters will illustrate this point in more depth.
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illegitimate, acted as a conceptual frame for thinking about politics. Encoded within each
was a lens for understanding how politics should or should not be conducted.
Herein lay the importance of bribery as a political narrative. In claiming that an
insider had committed bribery, or in defending oneself against an outsider’s accusation of
bribery, an Athenian implicitly (or explicitly) tried to legitimate one set of political
norms—one way of understanding the dōrodokos or the ideal public official—while
delegitimizing another. As was suggested in the first section of this chapter, he was
aligning himself with a particular narrative about how politics should be conducted. This
narrative both framed what the norms governing the moral community of the people
should be and cast an opponent—whether the dōrodokos himself or his accuser—outside
that moral community. Within the practice of politics, accusations of dōrodokia could
thus be used to (de-)legitimate new ways of conducting politics. As new social
relationships were leveraged in new ways in the democracy, whether they had been
leveraged in a good or a bad way was framed through the idea of bribery. As will be
crucial in the story we will trace, acceptable outcomes were defined as ‘democracy’,
unacceptable as ‘bribery’. Crucially, these attempts at legitimization or delegitimization
focused on the currency of political relationships: the monies of one were counterpoised
against the monies of the other. Tracing these monies will tell us much not only about
dōrodokia, but especially about dēmokratia.
Looking Ahead:
The above framework for understanding bribery will form the basis of the next
three chapters, which will take a diachronic look at the figure of the dōrodokos in the
Athenian democracy. As we will see, the dōrodokos was the bogeyman of the
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democracy, a figure aligned with a number of distinct social types at specific periods
within Athens’ history. Through most of the fifth century, the dōrodokos was like a
disobedient citizen (Chapter Two). A different type emerged in the last quarter of the
fifth century and especially in the decades after the rule of the Thirty Tyrants, as the
dōrodokos became a thief of sorts, someone who was plundering the polity for his own
gain (Chapter Three). And finally, in the middle half of the fourth century, amid the
constant threat of civil conflict throughout the Greek world, the dōrodokos was a traitor
(Chapter Four).
On a relational view of bribery, there are a number of factors that contributed to
the dōrodokos’ transformation from a disobedient citizen to a thief and traitor, and our
focus in these chapters will be on understanding precisely why this diachronic
development occurred. Changing social configurations, both inside and outside politics,
created different patterns in which the frame of bribery might arise. This, in turn, created
changing patterns of how social relations were leveraged within politics—for what kinds
of duties, how often or how thoroughly they were leveraged—and, consequently, shifted
the frames through which Athenians conceptualized the civic obligations of public
official and citizen, alike.
Of course, these factors shifted the ways in which the regular, legitimate monies
used to negotiate social relationships in politics were conceptualized, as well. One of the
most striking stories we will trace, then, is how the monies of dōrodokia were constantly
counterpoised with the monies of democracy. There are two components to this
argument, each of which will be fleshed out in the chapters to come. First, the dōrodokos
was consistently thought to weigh illegitimate bribe monies against legitimate political
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payments (honors, gifts, tribute, etc.). What is more, each set of monies, whether
legitimate or not, was used as a conceptual metaphor for the relationship between official
(and often citizen) and community. The monies of dōrodokia and democracy, alike, were
thus used as conceptual proxies for the relationships they signified. By tracing the
changing ways in which dōrodokia was configured, we will thus throw into relief how
the Athenians used political monies—and above all their dark twin, dōra—to think
through relationships within their polity.
For each period of the democracy we will ask who the dōrodokos was and what
role he was thought to play amid these shifting social, political, and economic
circumstances. By no means was ‘the’ Athenian perspective on the dōrodokos
monolithic; again, for each distinct notion of polity, there was a distinct view of bribery,
as well. However, within each period the views of a range of Athenians tended to
converge on who the dōrodokos was; in turn, these narratives were used to think through
broader political commitments about what the democracy should be. Accordingly, in
Chapters Five, Six, and Seven we will examine how such narratives factored into public
policy, helped shape public discourse, and thereby constituted a vital part of politics in
practice.
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Chapter Two
Dōrodokia, Elites, and the People’s Authority
508/7-404 BCE
In 463/2 the Athenian stratēgos Cimon returned to Athens after a successful
campaign fighting the Persians in the Chersonese and subduing a revolt by the Thasians.
Apparently not everything had gone according to plan. Upon his return, the people
elected special prosecutors to bring a charge of dōrodokia against the general. As
Plutarch records, Cimon apparently had had it “within his grasp” (parasxo/n) to “easily”
(r(a|di/wj) mount an attack against Macedon (Plut. Cim. 14.3). He withdrew, instead, and
the Athenians assumed that he must have received dōra from the Macedonian king (Plut.
Cim. 14.2-3). Though convicted by the Assembly, he was subsequently acquitted by the
Areopagus Court and soon elected to a new command as general. 1
Despite its oddities, the trial itself is remembered perhaps more for its aftermath
than as a significant historical moment in its own right. As Aristotle’s Constitution of
Athens explains, when Cimon was acquitted, there was considerable public outcry at
Athens (AP 25, 27.1). In particular, one Ephialtes led the charge, first publicly accusing
members of the Areopagus court of corruption because they had acquitted Cimon and
then moving to pass legislation that stripped the Areopagus of certain powers, including
the oversight of officials. Read this way, with the benefit of hindsight Cimon’s trial
becomes a critical catalyst in the development of the democracy: not so much an
important or unusual event in itself, but a legal means to a political end. As the story has
1 Plut. Cim. 14.1-4; Plut. Per. 10.6; cf. AP 27.1. For scholarly accounts of Cimon’s trial, see Roberts
(1982: 55-6), Ostwald (1986: 41-2), Carawan (1987: 202-5), Raaflaub (2007: 113, 137-8). I follow
Carawan’s reconstruction of the procedure of the trial; see further Chapter Seven below.
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gone since at least Aristotle, that political end was the assertion of the dēmos’ authority
within the courts. In other words, Cimon’s trial is best remembered for ushering in the
democratic hallmark of public accountability. 2
The issue of the people’s authority was an important theme in the democracy
from its inception under the leadership of Cleisthenes in 508/7. In Herodotus’
Constitutional Debate, mass rule (plh=qoj a1rxon) is distinguished by public
accountability, use of the lot in selecting public officials, and policymaking by the people
themselves (Hdt. 3.80.6). Within 50 years of Cleisthenes’ reforms, all three marks of the
people’s authority were present in the Athenian democracy. As suggested by Cimon’s
trial and the public accountability it fostered, the story of dōrodokia in the fifth century is
closely tied to the growing institutionalization of rule of the people at Athens.
Accordingly, this chapter has twin aims: both to read dōrodokia in light of the
development of the dēmos’ political authority and to re-read the democracy in light of
issues raised by examining dōrodokia. As we will see, inasmuch as the story of
dōrodokia and bribe monies shadows important trends in the democracy, examining what
kinds of monies were used to negotiate legitimate political relationships can help us see
how the nature of political power changed over time. Cimon’s trial will act as a
touchstone throughout our investigation: first, for establishing two thematic trends in the
fifth-century democracy that underpinned how the dōrodokos was conceptualized;
second, as a counterpoint to how these interrelated trends subsequently shaped the
development of the democracy. The image of the dōrodokos that emerges from Cimon’s
trial is one that is reflected and refracted throughout the fifth century, as we will
2 Ostwald, Raaflaub, Bauman (1990: 28-31), and Carena, Manfredini, and Piccirilli (1990: 250 ad Plut.
Cim. 14,12) underscore the political utility of Cimon’s trial, but see further Chapter Seven.
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investigate in Sophocles’ Antigone and Aristophanic comedy. Tracing these changes
through a character as ubiquitous, if marginal, as the dōrodokos will provide, it is hoped,
greater historical insight into why the democracy developed as it did.
Cimon and the Politics of Power:
Despite its idiosyncrasies, Cimon’s trial is representative of the handful of fifth-
century dōrodokia trials that survive in the historical record. The great majority of these
trials were of Athenian stratēgoi like Cimon: military generals elected ten per year to
command the polis’ navy and hoplite soldiers. 3 In part this preponderance reflects the
bias of our sources, which tend to focus on the most important political actors and
therefore are less inclined to report dōrodokia among minor public officials. Yet such
bias is nevertheless indicative of the crucial role played by stratēgoi in the fifth-century
democracy. Indeed, throughout the century Athens’ military leaders were also her policy
leaders, the very men who would persuade the Assembly of the best course of action. 4
Men like Cimon were the lynchpins of the democracy, and some of the more monumental
political changes in the fifth century thus focused on the delicate relationship they
maintained with the dēmos.
3 In addition to Cimon’s trial we hear of dōrodokia prosecutions of the stratēgoi Laches (Ar. V. 240-2, 894-
7, 960-1); Sophocles, Pythodorus, and Eurymedon (Thuc. 4.65.3-4, Philochorus FGrH 328 F 127); Pericles
(Per. 32.2); and Cleon (Ar. Ach. 5-8 with schol.). Dōrodokia trials are also attested, less securely, for the
stratēgoi Miltiades (Nep. Milt. 7.5); Phormio (Ar. Pax 347-8, Androtion FGrH 324 F 8); Themistocles (DS
11.27.3); Aristides (Plut. Arist. 26.2-5, Craterus FGrH 342 F 12); and Alcibiades (Nep. Alcib. 7). Nonstratēgoi
prosecuted for dōrodokia include the Hellēnotamiai (Ant. 5. 69-71), the unnamed magistrate of
Lysias 21, various minor officials in Ant. 6.49-50, and the ambassador Callias (Dem. 19.273) if the Peace
of Callias is not spurious.
4 It was only in the fourth century that we begin to see any significant separation of policy formation by
public speakers (rhētores) from policy execution by military generals (stratēgoi): Davies (1981: 124-31),
Hansen (1983). Still, as the career of the fourth-century politician Phocion witnesses, this trend was not a
hard-and-fast rule.
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Cimon’s trial was no exception. Though we have but few sources on the trial, it
seems clear that it was in some sense ‘about’ his relationship to the community. After all,
the dēmos had initiated the suit by appointing ten public prosecutors—a rarity in
Athens—and at least part of the trial was held before the Assembly (Plut. Per. 10.5-6,
Cim. 14.5). More telling is Cimon’s defense, a brief portion of which Plutarch records, in
which the stratēgos defended his relationship to the community. The excerpt is worth
quoting in full here, for it raises a couple of points to which we will return frequently:
[Cimon] said that he was the representative (procenei=n) not of wealthy Ionians
and Thessalians, unlike others who were their representative in order to be
fawned over and to receive [dōra] (i3na qerapeu/wntai kai\ lamba/nwsin), but
of Spartans, whose thrift and moderation (eu)te/leian kai\ swfrosu/nhn) he loved
and imitated. These were more valuable to him than any amount of wealth (h{j
ou)de/na protima=n plou=ton). Instead, he delighted in enriching the polis from
her enemies (plouti/zwn a)po\ tw=n polemi/wn th\n po/lin). Plutarch, Life of
Cimon 14.4
Cimon does not directly address the charge of dōrodokia here, and it is impossible to
assess how, if at all, he did so elsewhere in his defense speech. Nevertheless, we are
fortunate to possess this one record of the trial, for it juxtaposes Cimon’s actions against
those of other purported dōrodokoi, namely proxenoi of Ionia and Thessaly. In that light,
it helps orient us around what Cimon, at least, thought was problematic about dōrodokia
and, by contrast, how he thought an upstanding citizen should act. 5
Cimon frames the dōrodokos both positively and negatively. On the one hand, he
suggests that proxenoi of Ionia and Thessaly were themselves dōrodokoi precisely
5 Given Plutarch’s use of Ion elsewhere in the Life of Cimon (e.g. Plut. Cim. 5.3, 9.1, 16.10), Cimon’s
speech probably comes from Ion, who admired Cimon and disliked Pericles (cf. Plut. Per. 5.3, 28.7) and
was likely in Athens at the time of the trial: Blamire (1989: 15). Theopompus may also have been a
source for the trial, but it is unlikely that he would have reported the details of Cimon’s defense: cf. Sandys
(1912: 113 ad AP 27.1).
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because they had assumed their political role as proxenoi in order to receive dōra. 6 The
i3na clause of purpose contrasts with the general’s own stated reason for engaging in
politics: he derives his glory from enriching the polis. 7 On the other hand, therefore, the
dōrodokos is negatively depicted as enriching himself instead of the polis. Note how, in
Cimon’s eyes, the difference between himself and the dōrodokos hinges not on whether
or not money was received, but on where that ploutos, once received, was then directed.
In effect, he evaluates the dōrodokos according to the path that the ploutos took; it is
ultimately the dora’s meaning within the domestic sphere of the polis that fixes the
assignation of dōrodokos or praiseworthy politician.
In tracing the path of the dōra, rather than their mere presence or absence in
politics, Cimon subtly points to two different political spaces they come to occupy. First,
the currency of proxeny relations, be that with Ionia, Thessaly, or Sparta, helps negotiate
Athens’ relation to other poleis. This is the realm of foreign politics, one marked in the
first half of the century by Athens’ rise as an imperial power under the auspices of the
Delian League. The second space is the realm of domestic politics, specifically the
relationship between individual officials like Cimon and the rest of the community.
Here, the particular ways in which Cimon acts as the polis’ patron by enriching it help
shape the meaning of the ploutos he acquires.
In other words, Cimon suggests, if we peel away the Athenians’ contemporary
concerns with the people’s political authority, we find that such authority was actually
6 Cimon’s choice of Ionia and Thessaly appears to be random, but it should be noted that Thessaly was
known for its wealth and merchants, and Ionia already had a reputation for bribery, if Craterus’ record of
the bribing of Aristides is to be believed (Plut. Arist. 26.1-2). Both regions, therefore, could have been
thought prone to bribery, as Cimon suggests. Of course, the authority of Plutarch and his source should be
taken with a grain of salt: within ten years, Cimon himself became a proxenos of Thessaly (and named his
third son Thettalos!). Plut. Cim. 16.1, Aristid. 3.515. Dindorff with Connor (1967).
7 Cimon was commonly linked to Athens’ wealth in this way: cf. Plut. Cim. 9, Them. 2.3.
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intertwined with two other developments in the fifth-century democracy: Athenian
imperialism and the politics of patronage. As Cimon suggests, the relation between the
two intimately shaped the figure of the dōrodokos. Let us take a brief step back, then,
and trace the narrative arcs of these two developments before returning to how they were
combined in the figure of the dōrodokos.
Cimon’s fateful campaign was conducted under the auspices of the Delian
League, an offensive and defensive alliance formed among Athens and a large number of
Greek poleis in the years after the Persian Wars. 8 While Thucydides records that the
pretext for the League’s formation was to gain revenge on Persia by ravaging the Great
King’s territory (Thuc. 1.96), in fact almost from the League’s formation Athens appears
to have used the League to pursue its own agenda of controlling Aegean trade routes to
the Hellespont. 9 Indeed, the League had a peculiarly Athenian flavor to it. Allies
contributed either money or military forces—men and ships—to the League’s campaigns,
but the size of a polis’ contribution was assessed and then collected by Athenians. 10 As
the demands of the League heaped up, more and more of the allies chose to pay money
8
AP 23.5 calls it an offensive/defensive alliance. Background to and formation of the Delian League:
Thuc. 1.94-97.1.
9
Certainly, the Spartan-run Hellenic League that preceded the Delian League appears to have focused on
driving the Persians out of the Aegean and the coast of Asia Minor: note in particular the expeditions
against Cyprus and Byzantium (Thuc. 1.94.2), continued under Cimon (Plut. Cim. 12.1, DS 11.60-2). Yet
under the Delian League, even attacks against a Persian outpost like Eion (476/5?) seemed less about
ravaging the King’s land and more about gaining financial footholds in the region. Within a decade, Athens
had founded a colony at Amphipolis a bit further up the Strymon river from Eion, and even the siege at
Skyros may have been over disgruntled trade relations (cf. Plut. Cim. 8.4). While doubtless a number of
anti-Persian campaigns were launched by the League—as in the Chersonese (Plut. Cim. 14.1)—it is crucial
how the non-Persian campaigns changed the character of Athens’ relations to her allies, and from the first
years of the League, at that. On the meaning of ‘pretext’ (pro/sxhma, Thuc. 1.96) here, I follow Rawlings
(1977) in positing that Thucydides offers the (false) reason for the formation of the Delian League; my
argument is not affected if we follow Kallet-Marx’ (1993: 44-5) interpretation of the passage as
understanding the reason for collecting tribute.
10
The Athenian leader Aristides first assessed the tribute, or phoros (AP 23.5, Plut. Arist. 24). The
Hellēnotamiai who ministered the phoros were elected by and from the Athenians: Thuc.1.96.2.
Additionally, Athenian leaders were the commanders of League expeditions.
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instead of send men and ships on the League’s expeditions (Thuc. 1.99.3; Plut. Cim.
11.1), with the result that Athens assumed an increasingly disproportionate role in
providing the men and ships needed for the League’s expeditions.
While she assumed a greater role in the League’s military operations, Athens also
assumed a more authoritative position within the League itself. Already in the 470’s
Athens was sending settlers to conquered territories in the Aegean, and by the 460’s she
was using force to maintain control over League members. 11 The ‘enslavement’
(e)doulw/qh) of Naxos is taken by Thucydides as a precedent for Athens’ subsequent
hegemonic actions with other League members, but treating League members in this way
actually seems to have been an extension of Athens’ earlier, real enslavement of non-
league members like Skyros and Karystos (cf. h)ndrapo/disan, Thuc. 1.98.2-3). In
454/3, the League’s treasury where tribute monies were deposited was moved from Delos
to Athens. By this point, Athens had already begun to take a hand in the judicial affairs
of certain allies; by the end of the 450’s, she began to assume a pivotal role in setting up
democracies throughout the League, as well. 12
According to Thucydides, Cimon’s siege of Thasos in 465/4-463/2—the very
expedition after which he would be charged for dōrodokia—marked the precise moment
when the League transformed from an alliance into an Athenian-controlled “hegemony”
(Thuc. 1.101). While it is perhaps fruitless to seek just such a turning point, the
11 Notably, colonies were set up at Eion (Plut. Cim. 8.2), Skyros (Thuc. 1.98.2, Plut. Cim. 8.3), and
Amphipolis (Plut. Cim. 8.2). Additionally, it appeasr that Athenians were trying to set up a colony at
Ennea Hodoi just upriver from Eion when they were defeated: cf. schol. ad Aeschin. 2.31.
12 Thuc. 1.77.1-4, Antiph. 5.47, and, on the financial revenue from holding the trials of allies at Athens,
[Xen.] Ath. Pol 1.16-18; AE 205-19 provides a good discussion. Redefining the juridical relations between
Phaselis and Athens, the Phaselis decree (IG i 3 10=ML 3; perhaps late 460’s or early 450’s) grants the
Phaselites the privilege of trial before the polemarch whenever a cause for a suit arose at Athens, a
privilege that had already been granted to the Chians. See also the Calchis decree (IG i 3 40=ML 52; either
440’s or 420’s); IG i 3 21 on judicial affairs in Miletus, dated probably to 450/49 BCE. Democracies were
set up in Erithryae (IG i 3 14=ML 40; 460’s or 450’s) and Samos (Thuc. 1.115.3; 440 BCE).
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historian’s focus on Thasos does underscore a crucial aspect of Athenian foreign policy
throughout this period, one that Cimon brings out in proudly reporting that he enriched
Athens from her enemies (plouti/zwn a)po\ tw=n polemi/wn th\n po/lin, Plut. Cim. 14.4).
Athens’ archē, her power over her allies, was thus intimately bound up with the
economic rewards of exerting that power. Yet so long as other allies were contributing
men and ships to the cause, they, too, might expect economic rewards from the League. 13
Once those allies began providing monetary payments, though, the nature of the
payments effectively changed into a contract for protection by Athenian forces. 14
Precisely because Athens continued to provide an increasingly greater share of the
League’s navy, she deserved a greater share of the rewards from the League’s
expeditions. This explains in part why Athenians assessed, collected, and administered
the tribute; Athenian citizens colonized conquered territories; and Athens so frequently
assumed control over local resources in subjecting a particular ally. 15 As Thucydides’
account of the 50 years after the Persian Wars suggests, money equaled power and
Athens’ power directly translated into more money.
Lisa Kallet has persuasively illuminated the striking extent to which this equation
of money and power infused Athenian political debates and policies throughout the fifth
century; with more power, Athenian stratēgoi like Cimon could directly and indirectly
13 At the League’s inception, the allies, too, would have anticipated tangible rewards from ravaging Persian
territory. It was only after they stopped providing men and ships that the nature of the alliance shifted.
Sealey (1966: 233-55). Cf. Kallet-Marx (1993: 53-4).
14 Cf. Thuc. 1.99. Kallet-Marx (1993: 65-7) is essential on this point, but it should be noted that cause and
effect here are still somewhat murky. Doubtless some of the allies, disillusioned by the League’s
expeditions—which, in benefiting Athens predominantly, already reflected her near hegemonic position—
shifted to monetary payments as a pragmatic matter. In a sense, therefore, the switch to monetary
payments could have both anticipated and responded to Athens’ changing relationship to the League.
15 Like Thasos, Aegina was also forced to surrender her warships and mainland possessions in 458 (Thuc.
1.108.4).
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bring more money into the polis. 16 She rightly points to 483/2 as the pivotal year in this
discursive archaeology at Athens, for it was in that year that, with a sudden boon from the
local silver mines at Laureion, the Athenians chose to invest that silver in their navy
rather than to receive distributions for themselves. 17 This decision marked the navy as
explicitly publicly-owned (dēmosia) inasmuch as it served as a substitute for the handouts
that would have otherwise fallen to the Athenians. 18 As Aristotle notes in his Consitution
of Athens, the decision to build a fleet and thereby to pursue hegemony over the other
Greeks increased the livelihood of all Athenians (AP 24.1), and arguably the Athenians in
Themistocles’ day debated the issue on these very terms. Underpinning the formula
money=power, therefore, was a conceptual link between possessions and archē. Within
the context of the League, ‘power to’ slowly came to mean ‘power over’, as the allies
themselves became ‘property’ or ‘subjects’ of Athens. 19
16 See Kallet-Marx (1993, 1994), Kallet (2001); cf. Kurke (1999, 2002).
17 Financing the navy: Hdt. 7.144; Thuc. 1.14; AP 22.7; Plut. Them. 4.1-3, Arist. 46 with Gabrielsen
(1985), Kallet-Marx (1994: 244-5), Kurke (2002: 95-6).
18 Kallet-Marx (1994: 244) points to similar distributions after a surplus in Siphnos (Hdt. 3.57.2) and
perhaps Thasos (Hdt. 6.46). Even if such distributions were not the norm, it is nevertheless emblematic of
their public nature that the dēmos as a whole would vote on how to manage them. As we will see, this
scene of employing political authority to control the flow of financial resources encapsulates fifth-century
attitudes towards the monies that were used to negotiate politics.
In a similar story—probably apocryphal, as Hamel (1998: 47n.20) rightly argues—after the
campaigns at Sestos and Byzantion, Cimon rounded up the Persian prisoners and asked the allies whether
they wanted to take the men or their belongings; the allies chose the belongings, so Cimon took the men as
slaves and sold them, profiting enough to supply his ships for four months and give some leftover gold to
the city (Plut. Cim. 9.3-6). Again, note how the mode of conquest—an Athenian divvies up the rewards of
conquest and ultimately takes that which is most profitable—tellingly signifies the absolute authority of
Athens’ position qua manager of resources and master of slaves.
19 Cf. Thuc. 1.99.1, which attributes Athens’ growing despotism to a need to police allied contributions to
the League. Allies as ‘property’: Thuc. 2.63.2, 3.37.2; IG i 3 156.2, 15. Allies as ‘subjects’: e.g. Thuc.
1.121.5, 1.22.2, 4.87.3; cf. Thuc. 1.8.3, 2.6.3. By mid-century, inscriptions could refer to the allies as
“cities which Athens [controls]”: IG i 3 19.8-9, 27.14-15. The equation of ‘power to’ (authority to distribute)
and ‘power over’ (oppressive control over) is clearest in the Athenian siege of Thasos, one reason why
Thucydides might have picked that siege as the decisive turning point in the League’s history (cf. DS
11.70.3-4). As Thucydides relates, the rebellion was caused by a dispute with the Athenians about the
Thasian mines and a trading post on the shore opposite Thasos (Thuc. 1.100.2); transparently, when the
Thasians lost, they were required to give up both the mainland and their mine (Thuc. 1.101.3, Plut. Cim.
14.2).
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The equation of money and empire should by now be clear—indeed, for Athens’
imperial heyday in the second half of the century, it has long been obvious—but one oft
neglected component of this pairing is the money of empire, or, to be more precise, the
monies of empire. Whenever our sources juxtapose Athenian hegemony with its
consequences, especially its baldly economic returns, we find the monies of empire.
Tribute, 20 cleruchies, 21 naval pay, 22 cows and panoplies 23 —all functioned as monies of
empire, media that were transacted and used to negotiate Athens’ relationship with her
allies. Crucially, all of them symbolized Athenian hegemony: it is in that sense that I call
them monies of empire, even though some of them were transacted from the earliest
years of the Delian League. 24 Ultimately the monies used to negotiate foreign political
relations signified the imperial power of Athens, the power her people had over the
resources of empire.
20 phoros: Plut. Cim. 11.3. Kallet-Marx (1993: 44-9) underscores the novelty of a long-standing phoros
and rightly connects it to the Persian system of taxation and compulsory gifts. As Brasidas remarks in
Thrace, the allied tribute was a mark of friendship and slavery (cf. doulei/aj, Thuc. 4.87.3).
21 Cleruchies: Plut. Per. 11.5-6; cf. DS 11.88.3, Paus. 1.27.5 all connect the establishment of cleruchies
with the need to control disloyal allies. IG i 3 37=ML 47 (Colophon, 440’s or 420’s), IG i 3 46.43-6=ML 49
(Brea, 440’s-420’s). Cleruchies, in particular, connoted imperialism; when the Second Athenian League
was formed in the fourth century, the charter contained a clause explicitly banning the establishment of
cleruchies and Athenian private ownership of land in allied cities: IG ii 2 43.35-41; cf. Cargill (1981: 60,
148-50). Although land owned by individual Athenians is not well attested for the empire, Oionias’
considerable property holdings abroad—over 81 talents’ worth according to IG i 3 422.311-14—suggest that
it was extensive. Cf. IG i 3 426.45-6.
22 Naval pay: AP 24.2-3. This came directly from tribute monies and was one of the ways in which empire
was thought to have supported the democracy: AP 24.3.
23 From perhaps the 440’s, Athens required allies to send “a cow and a panoply” to Athens, to be escorted
in the procession of the Greater Panathenaea festival as if they were colonists: IG i 3 34.41-3=ML 46
(447/6?) appears to be the earliest inscription; see also IG i 3 71.56-8=ML 69, IG i 3 46.15-17=ML 49.11-13.
For discussion, Meritt and Wade-Gery (1962: 69-71), AE 292-4; Smarczyk (1990: 549-69) is particularly
helpful on the Panathenaea as a symbol of Athenian military power. Along the same lines, the requirement
that subject cities send the aparchai or ‘first fruits’ of corn and barley to Eleusis—cf. IG i 3 78=ML 73—
also reified an image of Athens as patron over her empire: Isoc. 4.28-31 with Smarczyk (1990: 224-52).
24 This claim should be uncontroversial for Athens’ imperial heyday in the second half of the century.
What I would like to argue here is that such social meaning was invested in political monies even in the
earliest years of the Delian League.
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If I am right about the social meaning of the monies used to negotiate foreign
politics at this time, then we are halfway towards understanding Cimon’s presentation of
the dōrodokos at his trial. Recall that Cimon contrasts himself with the dōrodokos
according to the path that the dōra took: while his own wealth is directed towards
enriching the city, the dōrodokos’ is not. Yet because for both Cimon and the dōrodokos
the source of that wealth derives from Athens’ foreign relations, we should expect that
the proper use of that wealth would reify its social meaning as a money signaling Athens’
power. This is precisely what Cimon’s enriching of the city ‘from her enemies’ (a)po\
tw=n polemi/wn) signifies, as it assigns to Athens possession over and ultimately benefit
from those monies. By contrast, rather than channeling his monies into services that
benefit the city, the dōrodokos keeps them for himself and thereby manifestly assigns
them a different meaning. For the dōrodokos, the monies used to negotiate politic
relationships end up asserting the authority of himself—or, worse, his foreign friends—to
distribute the rewards of empire.
What I would like to suggest, in short, is that by differentiating the path of the
dōra, Cimon also differentiates their meaning. The stratēgos points to one critical way
the Athenians signaled their control over the rewards of empire: public works at Athens,
or ‘enriching the polis’, as Cimon calls it. Indeed, we find a series of public buildings
with clear links to Athens’ hegemony and the wealth it brought in: the Temple of
Artemis Aristoboule, the Stoa Poikile, the Piraeus and Long Walls, and the Theseion all
date to the first few decades of the League. In the same vein, we might add the later
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Periclean building programme on the Acropolis. 25 Contemporary sources consistently
link these public works to Athens’ military success; again, Athens’ control over the
monies of empire was reified by financial outlays on public works that signaled her
powerful position. 26 Even if the actual monies used to construct these buildings came
from separate financial accounts—more on this in a moment—the Athenians nevertheless
posited an economy in which the monies of empire, i.e. monies symbolizing empire, were
converted into public buildings redolent of Athenian archē. 27
As Cimon’s reference to the proxenoi of Thessaly and Ionia suggests, the
dōrodokos short-circuited this economy. By pocketing the monies of empire, the
dōrodokos removed them from circulation and hence prevented Athens from asserting
control over their distribution. In this way, the dōrodokos posed a significant threat not
just to Athens’ acquisition of imperial monies, but especially to the processes by which
those monies were re-invested with meaning as tokens of Athenian power. 28
25 On the Periclean building programme, see Plut. Per. 12-13, IG i 3 436-51 (Parthenon), 453-60 (gold and
ivory statue of Athena), 462-6 (Propylaea), completed in 434/3 BCE according to the decree of Callias (IG
i 3 52=ML 58). Stadter (1989: 157-63 ad Per. 12.6), Kallet (1998: 49-52).
26 See generally Plut. Cim. 13.6-7. Temple of Artemis Aristoboule: Plut. Them. 22.1-2. Piraeus: explicitly
connected with Athens’ naval empire at Plut. Them. 19.2. Plutarch also records how part of the wall of the
Acropolis was constructed from war booty (Cim. 13.6), and the Marathon Base and statues of Athena,
Apollo, and Miltiades set up at Delphi were paid for from a tithe of spoils from Marathon (Paus. 10.10.1).
27 On this point, see generally Kallet (1998).
28 Plutarch records an anecdote about Cimon that affirms the lines of this argument (Plut. Cim. 10.9). A
Persian defector named Rhoisakes came to Cimon’s home, seeking exile. He placed two bowls of gold and
silver at Cimon’s door, to which Cimon asked whether Rhoisakes wanted Cimon as a friend or as a
hireling (misqwto\n h2 fi/lon). When Rhoisakes said a friend, Cimon gave him back the money, telling him
that, as his friend, he would be able to use it whenever he needed it. Apart from Plutarch’s dubious framing
of the story—in contrast to the named sources he provides elsewhere in the same paragraph, the biographer
writes simply that ‘it is said’ (le/getai)—Rhoisakes is otherwise unattested, and we know of only one other
Persian defector from this time period: cf. Hdt. 3.160.2; Ctes. Pers. 43. It is, then, at least possible that the
story is apocryphal.
Reading the tale along those lines, it is striking how Cimon’s dealings with a Persian defector (i.e.
a Greek polis that had been under Persian control during the Persian Wars) are framed as a choice between
being a philos and being a bribe-taker, as misthōtos regularly connotes: see Chapter One above. These are
precisely the two possibilities Cimon presents in his trial when he contrasts his own civic services with
those who took bribes from Thessalians and Ionians (both Persian defectors, incidentally). In the story of
Rhoisakes, Cimon’s choice is split not between taking the money or rejecting it—in both cases he makes
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Yet if the dōrodokos played such a pivotal role in this economy of imperial
monies, so too did an elite figure like Cimon. The stratēgos is unabashed about his
central position within this economy of money and power: he himself “derives honor” by
enriching the city (a)ga/llesqai, Plut. Cim. 14.4). Indeed, he confesses, the pursuit of
such honor is more important to him than the riches themselves. Cimon’s claim points to
a second space occupied by the dōra—the realm of domestic politics—and hence to a
second relationship negotiated by those monies: that between elite citizen and
community.
Strikingly, the dōra in this second space took on the same valence of political
authority as the monies of empire. So, for example, Plutarch draws an analogy between
Athens’ relation to the rest of Greece and Cimon’s famed generosity toward the
Athenians (Plut. Cim. 10.6). 29 Such generosity was considerable, as he spent vast
unprecedented resources on public works and feeding his fellow citizens. In addition to
constructing the Theseion and helping finance the Long Walls, he planted trees in the
Agora and gardens in the Academy (Plut. Cim. 13.8); opened his fields to all (Plut. Cim.
10.1); gave money to the poor (Plut. Cim. 10.3); and provided dinner every night, it is
reported, for either his demesmen (AP 27.3) or any Athenian (Plut. Cim. 10.1-2). 30
use of it—but in being able to control when and how that money is used. Like Athens’ use of the monies
of empire, Cimon accepts Rhoisakes’ friendship so that he can control how the gold and silver is
distributed.
29 Plutarch compares the golden age under Cimon with the civilizing effect other Athenians—and, by
extension, Athens herself—had on the rest of the Greeks. Such Athenian mythologizing—emphasizing the
autochthony of the Athenians, the civilizing conquests of her first king Theseus, or her patron-like role over
the rest of Hellas—was a potent political metaphor for empire: see variously Herter (1939), Barron (1964),
Loraux (1981b), Walker (1995), Miller (1997: esp. 1-86). Important here is the way that elite citizens
inserted themselves into the iconography of empire: Miltiades was given a statue alongside Apollo and
Athena at Delphi (Paus. 10.10.1); under his son Cimon’s influence, he was featured in a painting of the
Stoa Poikile next to Theseus’ defeat of the Amazons (Paus. 1.15.1-4); likewise, a statue of Themistocles
stood in the Temple of Artemis Aristoboule (Plut. Them. 22.1-2).
30 On Cimon’s civic works, see further Schmitt-Pantel (1992: 180-6), Domingo Gygax (forthcoming: 197-
202).
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This was patronage politics, and Cimon was commonly held to be its most
illustrious practitioner (e.g. Plut. Cim. 10.4-6). While such bald patronage was a holdover
from the archaic polis—in particular, the tyrant Pisistratus was said to have earned the
support of the masses through private benefactions 31 —it nevertheless was the primary
mode of politics throughout Cimon’s lifetime. Other notable political figures likewise
used their own money to fund public works and feed fellow citizens. 32 In effect,
patronage in local communities, as when Cimon fed his demesmen, established
concentrated networks of political supporters or ‘friends’ (philoi); together with family
connections, these networks were leveraged to win political honors and authority at the
city-level. 33 As Gorgias writes of Cimon, he made money to spend it and spent it to win
political honor (Plut. Cim. 10.5).
It is significant that Cimon’s patronage was always framed in light of his
considerable military successes, for in this way the monies of patronage were linked to
the monies of empire, just as his depiction of the dōrodokos suggests. 34 Consider, for
instance, Cimon’s campaign in Skyros and his retrieval of the bones of Theseus. 35 On
the one hand, Skyros was a strategic acquisition for Athens, for it lay on the route to the
31
So AP 16.2, 16.9. For discussion, Millett (1989: 2 2-3), Kurke (2002), Kallet (2003: 124-6), Domingo
Gygax (forthcoming: 201).
32
Schmitt-Pantel (1992: 179-208) is essential here. See further Millett (1989: 21-5), Domingo Gygax
(forthcoming: 197-206). Themistocles rebuilt a temple for his genos (Plut. Them. 2.1) and was known for
entertaining others and paying for sacrifices (Plut. Them. 5.1, cf. 22.1); his iconic works were commonly
thought of as patronage of a sort—providing cakes and fish for the people, as Aristophanes suggests (Eq.
813-19): see especially Kurke (2002: 105-8) on this point. Such patronage was exemplified by (later)
associations of various Athenian elites with the age of Cronus, known for its agricultural plenty: Pisistratus
(AP 16.7), Hippias (Pl. Hipparch. 229b), Aristides (Plut. Arist. 24.3), Cimon (Plut. Cim. 10.7),
Themistocles (Teleclides Prytaneis fr. 5).
33
Connor (1973: 53-64), Finley (1983: 24-49), Mitchell (1997: 42-6). Elite families: cf. Davies (1971),
Littman (1990). On the clubs, or hetaireiai, see especially Calhoun (1913), Hutter (1978: 26-9).
34
Clearly stated by Plutarch: “Since he already had great wealth (eu)porw=n), Cimon spent monies from his
generalship which, it seemed, he had acquired in fine manner (kalw=j) as booty from the enemy, in an even
finer manner (ka/llion) on the citizens” (Plut. Cim. 10.1).
35
AP fr. 4. Kenyon; Plut. Cim. 8.6-7, Them. 36.1-3; Paus. 1.17.6. For discussion, see Podlecki (1971),
Blamire (1989: 119-22 ad Cim. 8.6-7).
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Hellespont; clearing the area of pirates and establishing an Athenian colony there
manifestly fell in line with Athens’ desire to reap and control the rewards of empire. 36
On the other hand, the expedition is also presented as a ‘personal’ one undertaken by
Cimon to recover the bones of Theseus (esp. Plut. Cim. 8.5-6). When he returned to
Athens, he housed the bones in a Theseion which he (re-)built and which had on its walls
paintings depicting Theseus’ exploits: battles against the Amazons and Centaurs, and a
visit to his father Poseidon under the sea, no doubt a potent metaphor for Athens’
thalassocracy (Paus. 1.17.2-3). 37 Such a gift to the city, funded by Cimon’s conquest,
both signaled Athens’ naval archē generally and glorified Cimon’s excellence in
particular. 38 It thus simultaneously negotiated Athens’ relations to her allies and Cimon’s
relationship to the polis.
The monies of patronage and empire were functionally identical: both circulated
within a kind of economic distribution—whether tribute or handouts, food or military
protection—saturated with the valence of vertical political relations: enslavement to
Athenian hegemony in the case of the tribute, political authority over the dēmos in the
case of elite services to the city. But if these monies functioned as metaphors for a
distinct set of vertical relations, bribe monies short-circuited those relations. Elsewhere
in Plutarch’s Life of Cimon, in fact, Cimon is again praised for being “incorruptible and
untouched by dōrodokia in politics” (a)de/kaston kai\ a1qikton e)n th| = politei/a|
dwrodoki/aj) while nearly all of the other public officials of his day took their fill of
36 Podlecki (1971: 142). Pirates: Plut. Cim. 8.3-5. Colony: Thuc. 1.98.2, DS 11.60.2.
37 On the wall paintings and their political symbolism, see Walker (1995: esp. 58), Mills (1997: 36-8).
38 Pace Walker (1995: 56-61), Podlecki (1971) makes a compelling case for how Cimon’s private
expenditure brought him consider public honor in this case; cf. Domingo Gygax (forthcoming: 202). For
other public monuments that glorified individual citizens and were funded through military campaigns, see
also Themistocles’ erection of the Temple of Artemis Aristoboule (Plut. Them. 22.1-2) and Cimon’s
probable role in the construction of the Stoa Poikile, which featured, among other paintings, depictions of
both himself and his father Miltiades (Paus. 1.15.1-3).
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Chapter Two
public monies (lhmma/twn de\ dhmosi/wn…a)napimplame/nouj, Plut. Cim. 10.8). 39
Whereas Cimon continually gave to the city and thereby affirmed Athens’ archē over her
allies (and his own archē and informal leadership within Athens), others thus failed to
redistribute the monies of empire. Accordingly, those ‘public’ (dēmosion) monies
stopped signifying the Athenian dēmos’ hegemonic power over the League. It was in this
sense that the dōrodokos became problematic, for he subverted the value assigned to the
monies of empire.
The Disobedient dōrodokos: Pericles, Creon and the Breakdown of Political Patronage
So far we have sketched a picture of the dōrodokos as a figure who, in subverting
the political value attached to the monies of empire, implicitly contested the dēmos’
authority to control them. Rather than position himself as a patron adorning the city with
those monies, he pocketed them for himself, in effect removing them from an economy in
which they signaled Athens’ hegemonic relationship to her allies. By contrast, Cimon
and other political leaders of the first half of the fifth century were presented as
authoritative stewards of those monies: elite citizens whose own archē and informal
political standing were reified by the act of distributing to the polis monies linked to
empire. Of course, after Cimon we have little evidence that there were any similar
‘patrons’ in Athens. 40 How and why, then, did the breakdown of patronage occur? As
39 The phrase lhmma/twn de\ dhmosi/wn could indicate embezzlement or peculation, but bribes qua
lh/mmata are probably intended, as well. Plutarch explicitly singles out Aristides and Ephialtes as the only
other two politicians of Cimon’s day to be incorruptible (Plut. Cim. 10.8)—itself a surprisingly rare epithet
in the democracy: cf. Ober (1989: 237). And both are elsewhere praised for being, specifically, not bribed:
cf. xrhma/twn…a)misqi/ of Aristides (Plut. Arist. 3.3), a)dwrodo/khtoj of Ephialtes (AP 25.1).
40 Millett (1989) is essential here; see also Connor (1971).
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the next two sections will show, the figure of the dōrodokos can indirectly point us to an
answer.
Fundamentally, the story of the breakdown of patronage is about how politics
changed as the result of shifting meaning in the monies used to negotiate political
relations. As we have already seen, Cimon’s picture of two different economies—one
imperial, one patronal—negotiated by distinct monies that nevertheless assumed the same
valence could quickly break down. Indeed, the lines between the monies of empire and
patronage were often blurred. 41 Over the course of the fifth century, the Athenians
certainly created distinct financial accounts for these monies, like the Treasuries of
Athena and other gods, imperial monies, and public (dēmosion) property managed by the
kolakrētai, but in that case it is worth probing what was at stake in keeping such accounts
separate. 42 On what grounds were they distinguished, and why bother keeping the
accounts distinct in the first place? As Zelizer astutely points out, people tend to police
the boundaries between distinct accounts at precisely those moments when allowing the
accounts to blur would disrupt the meaning of the social relations they signify. 43 As
Athens’ relationship to her allies became increasingly hegemonic, then, Cimonian-style
patronage grew out of place in the democracy. This discursive shift was reflected most
vividly in the figure of the dōrodokos.
Nearly two decades after Cimon’s trial, in 446 BCE his accuser Pericles had to
explain at his own public audit what had happened to a considerable sum of public
41 For instance, Samons (2000: 54-70) notes how booty was often spent on public purposes, like soldier pay
(Thuc. 6.31.3) or public works, as when the booty from Eurymedon was used to finance the rebuilding of
the south wall of the Acropolis (Plut. Cim. 13.6), yet these same monies were also linked to Cimon’s
private beneficence, like clearing the Academy and planting gardens (Plut. Cim. 13.7).
42 The Athenians’ practice of maintaining distinct accounts has been vigorously championed by Samons
(2000: esp. 55) and Kallet (1998); we will return to this idea in the next section.
43 Zelizer (1994, 1996) and see above Chapter One.
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money. 44 He replied that he had used it “for what was necessary.” 45 As Plutarch relates,
when Pericles had been faced with a hostile Spartan army at the borders of Attica, “what
was necessary” in fact entailed bribing the Spartan King Plistoanax to retreat from Attic
soil. Upon his return to Sparta, Plistoanax was subsequently fined so heavily that he had
to go into exile (Plut. Per. 22.3). In a related anecdote, Pericles alternately resisted the
Samian oligarchs’ attempts to bribe him—so Plutarch in the Life of Pericles (25.2)—or
actually exacted an indemnity of 80 talents from them (cf. praca/menoj, DS 12.27.2).
These stories are mirror opposites of each other, but both point to the blurred boundaries
between ‘public’ and ‘private’ funds: in one Pericles personally directs the flow of public
funds; in the other, he collects for himself (or not) what normally would have been public
monies. 46
For our purposes it matters little whether or not ‘bribes’ really were given in
either case; what does matter is how the frame of bribery was employed to signal
potentially problematic social relations. So, if we understand that the Samians’
indemnity was ‘really’ a standard fine imposed by Athens, albeit collected by Pericles,
the frame of dōrodokia highlights the potential danger in having an individual control the
process of exaction. 47 Likewise, even though the Plistoanax incident did not seem to
cause any alarm at Athens, there were nevertheless troubling implications for Pericles’
44 Ephorus FGrH 70 F 93, Plut. Per. 22.2-23.1, DS 13.106.10; cf. Thuc. 2.21.2, 5.16.3. The sum has been
variously represented as 10 talents (Plut. Per. 23.1), 20 talents (schol. ad Ar. Nu. 859=Ephorus 70 FGrH
F193), and 50 talents (Suida s.v. de/on).
45 ei)j to\ de/on, Plut. Per. 23.1; cf. Ar. Nu. 859, Suida s.v. de/on. Ephorus 70 FGrH F193 writes to\ e)ndee/j.
46 The middle praca/menoj clearly has this meaning: LSJ s.v. pra/ssw VI; cf. Hdt. 2.126, Thuc. 4.65, Ar.
Ra. 561. At this time Athens, as a polis, was known to take hostages in order to guarantee compliance: e.g.
IG i 3 40.47-50=ML 52 (Chalcis and Eretria; 446/5) and Hesychius s.v. )Eretriko\j kata/logoj. But such
actions clearly operated within the economy of empire; for an individual to exact these monies thus
reflected a blurring of economies. It is most likely in reaction to such blurring, and in defense of Pericles,
that stories of his not being bribed cropped up.
47 In fact, given the widespread rumor that Aspasia had convinced Pericles to take action against Samos
(Plut. Per. 24.2, 25.1), Pericles’ motivations and role in the Samian War were already suspect.
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use of dōrodokia. 48 In the first place, his bribe of Plistoanax does not seem to have been
the only time he sent money to the Spartan leaders. Theophrastus records that every year
Pericles “flattered” (qerapeu/wn) Spartan officials with ten talents in order to buy himself
time (paraskeuasa/menoj, Plut. Per. 23.2), an image that directly recalls Cimon’s
description of bribe-taking proxenoi “flattered” by the Ionians and Thessalians
(qerapeu/wntai, Plut. Cim.14.4). If these payments were, in fact, regular payments
among an inter-city network of elites, then the use of public funds to underwrite this
network would have come into direct conflict with their significance as monies of empire.
Telling in this respect is the precise way in which Thucydides praises Pericles’
incorruptibility. In two different passages, the historian describes Pericles as “stronger
than money” (xrhma/twn krei/sswn, Thuc. 2.60.5) and “manifestly taking absolutely no
gifts of money” (xrhma/twn te diafanw=j a)dwro/tatoj, Thuc. 2.65.8). Both phrases
come from defenses of Pericles’ leadership over the dēmos, as opposed to the dēmos’ rule
over Pericles. As such, both serve as implicit justifications for why Pericles’ own
particular actions were legitimate even though they effectively transformed the
democracy into a mere name covering up the reality of “rule by the first man” (u(po\ tou=
prw/tou a)ndro\j a)rxh/, Thuc. 2.65.9). 49 While claims of dōrodokia problematized the
relationship between individual citizens and public monies, Thucydides’ praise of
Pericles’ incorruptibility serves as a defense of that very relationship. All of these
48 Plut. Per. 23.1. Indeed, a character in Aristophanes later jokes about the scene (Ar. Nu. 858-9), but such
a joke may only have highlighted just how much Pericles had gotten away with.
49 He was followed in this respect by Plutarch’s verbatim praise of Pericles’ incorruptibility: cf.
a)dwrota/tou perifanw=j genome/nou kai\ xrhma/twn krei/ttonoj, Plut. Per. 15.3. Note how this differs
markedly from Plutarch’s passing mention (catalogue?) of Aristides’ and Ephialtes’ incorruptibility: Plut.
Cim. 10.8; similarly, Plut. Arist. 3.3 is not a justification for Aristides’ political role.
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anecdotes thus expose a dōrodokos actively—and problematically—controlling public
monies. 50
We can trace the roots of this problem back to the dēmos’ early efforts to control
the distribution of political rewards. From at least the beginning of the democracy, the
dēmos managed the assignment of public honors in return for services to the community:
witness the misthos provided the generals of Eion in 476 BCE, or the dēmos’ refusal to
honor Miltiades when he asked to be honored for military victory. 51 The rewards of
membership in the polity—specifically, public office and citizen benefits—were also
symbolically controlled by the dēmos. While this idea is manifest in the dēmos’ direct
election of stratēgoi, the use of the lot to select the vast majority of magistrates, itself
heralded as a democratic institution, established the dēmos as apportioner of the honor of
public office. 52 This idea can be extended, too, to the dēmos’ opening up of the
50 Indeed, in Chapter Six we will examine how, when the Athenians developed procedures for holding
officials accountable in the second half of the fifth century, they did so with an eye towards punishing,
specifically, the dōrodokos who had mismanaged public monies.
51 Eion epigrams: Aeschin. 3.183-5, Plut. Cim. 7.4-6. The Herms are collectively called a misthos in the
text cited at Aeschin. 3.183, Plut. Cim. 7.5. For discussion, see Blamire (1989: 112-14 ad Cim. 7.4-6).
Plutarch Cim. 8.1 recounts how Miltiades was refused a crown when he asked for one; in Aeschines,
Miltiades is said to have been refused the honor of having his name inscribed on the painting of the Battle
of Marathon in the Stoa Poikile (Aeschin. 3.186).
52 Lot as a democratic institution: [Xen.] Ath. Pol. 1.3; Hdt. 3.80.6; Pl. Rep. 557a, 561a-b; Xen. Mem.
1.2.9; Isoc. 7.22-3, 12.153-4; Aristot. Pol. 1294b7, 1317b20, 1320b11. Hignett (1952: 321-6). In 487/6
selection by archons switched from election to selection by lot from a short-list (AP 22.5), on which see
Badian (1971), Ober (1989: 76-7), Hansen (1990c), the latter of which provides extensive bibliography. At
this time, selection by lot was also probably introduced for other magistrates and Councillors: Ober (1989:
76) and Hansen (1990) provide discussion. Ober (1989: 76-7) and recently Taylor (2007) have examined
the sociological effects of the lot, but two aspects of its usage have gone hitherto unnoticed.
First, as a randomized distribution mechanism, the lot was used to distribute egalitarian shares.
Scholars commonly pick up on the ‘egalitarian’ piece of the puzzle—i.e. the lot prevented elites from
monopolizing public office—but the ‘shares’ piece is just as crucial. In effect, honorary shares of the
political pie—timai, on which see Ostwald (1995)—were distributed equally to those who were eligible,
just as shares of sacrificial meat were often apportioned by lot: Detienne (1989:13) and, for the contiguities
between civic equality and the apportionment of meat, Loraux (1981a: 620). Note, too, how the Gods
were said to have divided up the cosmos and the regions of earth into various timai via a lottery: Hom. Il.
15.187-93, Pi. O. 7.54-68. This egalitarian distribution of political power very well may have underpinned
the early democracy’s championing of isonomia: cf. Hdt. 3.80.6 with Vlastos (1953: 356-66) and Schmitt
Pantell (1992: 45-52).
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archonship to the third census class of citizens, the zeugitai, in 457 BCE. 53 Again, with
Pericles’ citizenship law in 451/0 BCE, which restricted citizenship to those Athenians
who had both an Athenian mother and father, the dēmos asserted its manifest authority to
distribute shares of the franchise. 54
By mid-century, then, the dēmos had firmly asserted its political authority to
distribute and control domestic monies, including rewards, political office, and the
privileges of citizenship. Note how none of these monies overlapped with the monies of
patronage, and in fact the dēmos’ authority to distribute these monies was never
contested. Yet in Pericles’ time—in competition with Pericles, as it turns out—the dēmos
did begin to contest the blurred boundaries between the monies of patronage and those of
empire, particularly elite expenditure on public buildings. Beginning with Pericles, in an
effort to ensure that the lines between those two economies would be kept distinct, the
dēmos actively differentiated between tribute monies and private outlays. The so-called
Springhouse Decree, for example, records how Pericles and his sons offered to help
finance expenses concerning the water supply, but were refused by the dēmos; tribute
The second, and crucial, overlooked aspect of the lot was that it established the dēmos as the
authoritative leader distributing shares to citizens, much as a general might distribute booty to his soldiers:
Hamel (1998: 44-8). The very act of awarding timē to another was a source and sign of political authority:
see Hom. Il. 1.123-9, 2.226-8, 9.318-19 with Raaflaub and Wallace (2007: esp. 27-9) on the “people’s
power” in Homeric Greece. While it is manifestly true that, at least after the institution of scrutiny
(dokimasia) at the deme level, the dēmos in a sense ‘controlled’ the selection of magistrates, I wish to
underscore that the allotment process, too, reified the dēmos’ authority to distribute the rewards (timai) of
polity.
53 AP 26.2 with Raaflaub (2007: 115).
54 AP 26.4, Plut. Per. 37.3, Aelian VH 6.10. Patterson (1981: 104-7), Hansen (1991: 188) and Raaflaub
(2007: 115) on the connection between Pericles’ citizenship law and the dēmos’ desire to control the
qualifications for citizenship—and, by extension, the rewards accrued therefrom. For an overview, see
Rhodes (1981: 333-4 ad AP 26.4), Patterson (1981: 97-104), Stadter (1989: 334-5 ad Per. 37.3).
Certainly by the 420’s it was taken for granted that citizens, in particular, had the right to benefit materially
from Athens’ imperial power: Ar. V. 655-64, AP 24.3; Samons (2000: 65).
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monies were used instead. 55 As Plutarch records, rather than allow Pericles to put his
name on the building (in return for funding it), the Athenians competed with him for the
honor and spared no expense in the “liturgy” (xorhgei=n) they collectively performed. 56
Individual expenditure on public works all but vanishes from our record after this time.
In keeping distinct the monies of patronage and empire, the dēmos thereby
underscored how problematic their overlap—represented, above, by the dōrodokos—
could be. What, though, was so problematic about their overlap? We can perhaps find
an answer in reversing the direction of an analogy Plutarch makes between liturgies and
the dēmos’ outlay of imperial monies. If the dēmos’ outlay of imperial monies (public
works symbolic of Athenian archē) was analogous to an elite patron’s benefactions to the
city, then were not a patron’s benefactions steeped in the same symbolism as the monies
of empire? So long as the boundaries between the two economies remained porous, so
long as the same monies could be used to negotiate both economies simultaneously,
Athens’ recent shift to empire could be refracted through the monies used to negotiate the
relationship between an elite citizen and the community. 57 Patrons of the community
could fast become imperial masters of the dēmos.
In fact, this exact discursive shift seems to have occurred, and we can track it,
again, by looking at the dōrodokos. I suggest that, as Athens’ imperial archē became
55 3
IG i 49.13-14 (430’s BCE); cf. Plut. Per. 14.1-2. For background and discussion, see Stadter (1989:
181-2 ad Per. 14.1), Kallet (1998: 48), Domingo Gygax (forthcoming: 206-7).
56
Plut. Per. 14.1-2. Plutarch’s use of the language of liturgies—cf. pro\j th\n do/can a)ntifilotimou/menoi
tw=n e1rgwn…xorh/gein—is telling.
57
Chapter Six traces another reason for why the blurring of these two economies could be so problematic:
precisely because the dēmos was increasingly concerned to exact a certain amount of tribute each year,
there were greater fears that individuals involved in tribute collection might somehow tamper with the
funds. See, for example, IG i³ 34=ML 46.35-7, IG i 3 71.36-7. By more clearly separating public monies
from the economy of patronage, the dēmos could more readily regulate them. As a result, in the second
half of the fifth century we first begin to find a greater separation between ‘public’ and ‘private’:
Humphreys (1978b ).
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increasingly marked with the valence of political subordination, the Athenians sought to
control not merely the resources but especially the relations of empire; as a result, the
figure of the dōrodokos crystallized as a disobedient official. Our guide for this emergent
conception of the dōrodokos will be Sophocles’ Antigone, performed some two decades
after Cimon’s trial. In that play, the Theban king Creon paints a detailed picture of the
dōrodokos, one that illuminates our understanding of Periclean politics in important
ways. For Creon, the bribes taken by the dōrodokos were illegitimate precisely because
they signaled a refusal to obey the king’s political authority. Rather than exchange good
works for public honor, the dōrodokos disobeyed the king and pursued a wage of silver, a
bribe, instead. Crucially, therefore, Sophocles’ Antigone reveals how the monies
counterpoised with bribes signaled political obedience; indeed, the monies of dōrodokos
and obedient citizen alike were used to think through the nature of political authority.
Sophocles’ Antigone opens with an edict from Creon, the king of Thebes, who
condemns one nephew, Polynices, while honoring the other, Eteocles, for their respective
roles in the recent siege of Thebes (cf. Soph. An. 191-210). Fundamentally, this
proclamation is underpinned by what amounts to a contested definition of the kinds of
social relations that should be the source of legitimate authority within the polis. Whereas
Creon conceives of philoi in civic terms as those who benefit the city, his niece Antigone,
sister of both Polynices and Eteocles, privileges a definition of philia along familial lines.
The entire play thus hinges on this disagreement, as Antigone ultimately chooses to
privilege unwritten laws over Creon’s edict. 58
58 The conflict between Antigone and Creon has been central to interpretations of the Antigone since Hegel.
The terms of this conflict—individual liberty vs. the state, religious vs. secular order, private vs. public,
human vs. divine, man vs. woman—are by now well-worn in the scholarship and perhaps distort the ways
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Chapter Two
For Creon, those like Eteocles who are his—and the city’s—philoi receive honor
(timē) accordingly; by implication, people like Antigone are not well-disposed to the
polis and should never be honored by the polis or its ruler. Timē is awarded to philoi, not
the kakoi who bring harm to the city (Soph. An. 207-10). Crucially, if philoi receive timē,
kakoi are aligned with bribe monies: for Creon, the two sets of monies are thus
counterpoised and used to mark distinct sets of political relations. What we will
investigate here, then, is the valence of those political relations; in essence, we seek to
uncover what is distinctive about the relations negotiated and ultimately signified by timē
and bribe monies.
In his first speech Creon submits his policy for how to make the city great: by
holding no friend dearer than his polis and maintaining a friendship with no enemy of the
city, Creon hopes to ensure smooth sailing for the ship of state (Soph. An. 182-7).
Essentially, the king establishes himself as a philos of the polis, and his philoi are
precisely those people who are the philoi of the polis, as well. 59 It is in this context of
relations among one’s philoi that Creon denounces those responsible for breaking the law
in attempting to bury Polynices’ body:
= =
h2 tou\j kakou\j timw=ntaj ei)sora| =j qeou/j;
ou1k e1stin. a)lla\ tau=ta kai\ pa/lai po/lewj
a1ndrej mo/lij fe/rontej e)rro/qoun e)moi,
krufh| ka/ra sei/ontej, ou)d’ u(po\ zugw|
lo/fon dikai/wj ei]xon, w(j ste/rgein e)me/.
e)k tw=nde tou/touj e)cepi/stamai kalw=j
parhgme/nouj misqoi=sin ei)rga/sqai ta/de.
290
in which an Athenian would have understood the play: Ostwald (1986: 148-61), Sourvinou-Inwood
(1989).
59 Though this definition of philoi is contested by Antigone, who champions a kin-based understanding of
philoi, Creon’s definition seems to have been standard within Athens. Nearly one century later, his words
were still being performed and heralded as a model for good citizenship: cf. Dem. 19.247. That said,
Segal (1964: 52) rightly underscores that Creon’s worldview is wholly civic in nature, as everything is
refracted through a political lens for the king. On philoi and philia in the Antigone, see Goldhill (1986: 88-
106), Blundell (1991: 106-48), Konstan (1996: 82-5, 89-91).
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ou)de\n ga\r a)nqrw/poisin oi[on a1rguroj 295
kako\n no/mism’ e1blaste. tou=to kai\ po/leij
porqei=, to/d’ a1ndraj e)cani/sthsin do/mwn:
to/d’ e)kdida/skei kai\ paralla/ssei fre/naj
xrhsta\j pro\j ai)sxra\ pra/gmat’ i1stasqai brotw=n:
panourgi/aj d’ e1deicen a)nqrw/poij e1xein 300
kai\ panto\j e1rgou dusse/beian ei)de/nai.
o3soi de\ misqarnou=ntej h1nusan ta/de,
xro/nw| pot’ e)ce/pracan w(j dou=nai di/khn.
a)ll’ ei1per i1sxei Zeu\j e1t’ e)c e)mou= se/baj… 304
…ma/qhq’ o3ti 311
ou)k e)c a3pantoj dei= to\ kerdai/nein filei=n.
Do you see the gods honoring evil men?
No. But long since men in the city who find it hard to bear 290
me have been murmuring against me, unwilling to keep
their necks beneath the yoke, as justice demands, so as to
put up with me. I know well that these people have been
bribed by those men to do this thing. There is no institution 295
so ruinous for men as money; money sacks cities,
money drives men from their homes! Money by its teaching
perverts men’s good minds so that they take to evil
actions! Money has shown men how to practice villainy, 300
and taught them impiousness in every action! But those
who to earn their fee have contrived to do this thing have
ensured that in time they will pay the penalty. 304
...learn that 311
you must not grow used to making money
out of everything. (Soph. An. 288-304, 311-12. trans. Lloyd-Jones)
Recalling his earlier pronouncement that philoi, not kakoi, would be honored by the polis,
Creon here asks how the gods could bestow honor upon kakoi like Polynices, who have
done nothing but destroy their temples and break the laws of the land (Soph. An. 284-8).
In this respect, Creon prefaces his rant on dōrodokia by emphasizing how timē marks the
presence of a reciprocal relationship between philoi. If the gods were to have honored
Polynices, the king remarks, they would have been doing so just as if he were a euergetēs
(Soph. An. 284), that is, as someone explicitly rewarded—like Cimon and his ilk—for the
good services (erga) he provided the polis.
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Creon delegitimizes the dōrodokos by problematizing the monies used to
negotiate his relations with others. While timē marks a relationship between philoi, silver
or money marks relations among kakoi like the dōrodokos, at least from Creon’s
perspective. 60 After all, silver money is that “bad institution” (kakon nomisma) that has
arisen among men (Soph. An. 295-6). Creon is certain that a misthos or ‘wage’ of silver
caused someone to bury Polynices (Soph. An. 293-4), but his language is telling, for he
envisions a misthos of silver as the reward for a heinous ergon like Polynices’ burial (cf.
ei)rga/sqai, Soph. An. 294), just as timē had been the reward for the good deeds of a
euergetēs only a few lines prior. In effect, money replaces the timē doled out by king and
polis alike, as Creon sets up two different reciprocal relationships, one negotiated by
good works and civic honor (timē), the other by a misthos and dōrodokia. 61
For Creon, silver money is more than a medium transacted by the dōrodokos; it is
a conceptual frame for understanding their relations. There are, then, major problems
with this substitution of money for timē in exchange relationships. First, as the ‘wrong’
medium, silver itself symbolizes the corruption of proper relations between citizen and
king. The king warns, “money by its teaching perverts men’s good minds so that they
take to evil actions” (Soph. An. 298-9). It is important here that Creon does not presume
that the crime was perpetrated by people who were already kakoi; instead, he infers that
kakoi led astray perfectly good citizens to join their ranks (e)k tw=nde
tou/touj…/parhgme/nouj, Soph. An. 293-4). It is in this sense that the money is thought
60 For a fuller treatment of Creon’s views on money, see Seaford (1998: 131-8). It should be noted,
however, that whereas I assume that Creon’s silver functions as a money, Seaford must argue that it
specifically constitutes general all-purpose money, in the modern use of the term. The difference stems
from my adoption of a relational view of economics, on which see Chapter One above.
61 Creon’s use of misthos here only underscores this point. Insofar as a misthos is a payment—in cash or
kind—from a superior to an inferior, it is directly analogous to the hierarchy posited when king or polis
bestows honors upon a citizen. Recall that the Eion epigrams, in honor of soldiers who died in battle, were
also called a misthos (Plut. Cim. 7.4).
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to have corrupted the relationship. When the newly minted dōrodokos citizen substitutes
silver for timē, then, he privileges an altogether different economy of value—one
symbolized by silver, not timē—and hence a different way of valuing relations in the
polis.
This image of the dōrodokos recalls Cimon’s warnings about short-circuiting the
polis’ economy of empire, and the same picture emerges again about two-thirds of the
way into the tragedy, when Creon accuses the prophet Tiresias of being bribed to side
with Antigone. 62 Again we find the substitution of bribe monies for an economy of
public honor: Tiresias’ own divine wisdom made him a benefactor and leader within the
city, yet his association with bribery quickly turns this economy of honor into one of base
profit. 63 As a result, whereas Tiresias’ good counsel, that “most powerful of possessions”
(kra/tiston kthma/twn, Soph. An. 1050), previously reified the king’s own power, the
seer’s purported bribe-taking inverts the power dynamic of their relationship. Rather
than have control over the possessions symbolic of his archē, the king himself becomes a
possession bought and sold by his enemies (cf. Soph. An. 1036).
In this way, the monies used to negotiate relations among philoi and kakoi are
themselves metaphors for those relations—witness the misthos for Polynices’ burial and
Tiresias’ commercial cargo—yet each moves past symbolizing mere archē. Indeed, in
both cases, the monies signal domination and physical control, as well. 64 Creon’s second
62 See especially Soph. An. 1035-43, 1055, 1061, 1063; cf. 1077.
63 The prophet’s wisdom is said to have made him a hēgemōn within the city (Soph. An. 993-4, 1058), one
who provided a great “benefit” to the community (o)nh/sima, Soph. An. 995). Once Creon thinks that
Tiresias has taken bribes, however, he employs commercial imagery to characterize his relationship with
the seer. He claims to have been “bought and sold for a long time” by prophets like Tiresias (e)chmpo/lhmai
ka)mpefo/rtismai pa/lai, Soph. An. 1036). Cf. the king’s use of kerdos (“gain”): Soph. An. 1047, 1061
and the similar accusation at Soph. OT 124-6.
64 Hence, Creon grounds his debate with Tiresias in terms of which laws, those of the gods or of the polis,
can compel obedience. When he finally does obey (cf. pei/somai, Soph. An. 1099), he submits himself to
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major problem with the dōrodokos’ substitution of misthos for euergetism, then, is that
the dōrodokos works only for his paymaster and no longer provides good work—
obedience—to the city. The king is explicit on this point, describing the bribe-givers as
those “unwilling to keep their necks beneath the yoke, as justice demands” (ou)d’ u(po\
zugw| = lo/fon dikai\wj ei]xon, Soph. An. 291-2). Even if we temper Creon’s vision of the
proper relationship between rulers and citizens, the king’s model of politics as a
reciprocal give-and-take—receiving honor in return for the good works of obedience—
accords well with the idea of civic obligations at Athens developed in the previous
chapter. 65 Those who accept bribes in contravention of the king’s laws cease to submit
themselves to the yoke of the king’s authority. In effect, they fail to provide the
obedience and goodwill required of all citizens.
This is a significant accusation. Throughout the Antigone, Creon focuses on the
reverence owed to his political authority and, consequently, the control he should have
over others. In his opening speech, he turns to the chorus, those stalwart citizens, and
notes their continued reverence, or sebas, for the seat of his political power (tou=to me\n
ta\ Lai+/ou/se/bontaj se/bontaj ei)dw\j eu] qro/nwn a)ei\ kra/th, Soph. An. 166). The moment that
the attempted burial of Polynices is reported, however, Creon expresses alarm at the ill-
reverence, or dusse/beia, now in the polis as a result of the kakon nomisma that is money
the authority not of his own nomoi but to the established laws of the gods (cf. tou\j kaqestw=taj no/mouj,
Soph. An. 1113). As a result, Tiresias’ claim that he will ‘teach’ the king and that the king will ‘obey’
(e)gw\ dida/cw, kai\ su\ tw| = ma/ntei piqou=, Soph. An. 992) should be read as all the more politically
charged: cf. Seaford (1998: 133-4).
65
See Chapter One above.
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(Soph. An. 300-1). From that point on, Creon’s authority risks not being duly respected,
and he accordingly asserts it at every turn. 66
Throughout the tragedy sebas and its cognates are contested terms—should
citizens reverence the authority of the king, or that of the gods?—but it is important for
our purposes that Creon views this sebas through the lens of power and, explicitly,
control. 67 When Creon claims that the money at the heart of a bribe ‘reteaches’ men, the
verb ekdidaskein thus locates bribery at the heart of the tragedy’s fundamental concern
with ‘teaching’ citizen and king alike how to obey. 68 Bribe monies signal not just
disrespect for the king’s archē but especially disobedience. For the corruptive power of
bribe monies to ‘reteach’ citizens is identical to that of anarchia, or lawlessness. Bribe
monies are thought to sack cities and to drive men from their homes (tou=to tou=to tou=to kai\ po/leij
porqei=, to/d to/d’ to/d a1ndraj e)cani/sthsin do/mwn, Soph. An. 296-7), just as anarchia destroys
cities and overturns homes (au3th au3th au3th po/leij o1llusin, h3d h3d’ h3d
a)nasta/touj oi1kouj ti/qhsin,
Soph. An. 673-4). The dōrodokos was a citizen whose disobedience threatened the social
order.
For Creon, the monies taken by the dōrodokos replace euergesia with
disobedience. And so in Sophocles’ play our picture of the dōrodokos takes on new
meaning: concern over controlling the rewards of empire gives way to anxieties over
absolute political power, i.e. the ability to compel action. This shift in the dōrodokos
66 Cf. Soph. An. 165-9, 199-201, 280-314, 508-25, 661-78, 730, 744, 780. Segal (1994: 49-51) is
particularly helpful in illuminating the relationship between sebas and political control in these passages.
67 Note how frequently he frames his struggle with Antigone in gendered terms as his being mastered by a
woman: Soph. An. 484, 525, 678, 746, 756. Segal (1964: 52-4) especially illuminates how Creon’s entire
worldview is shot through with intonations of weaker vs. stronger, domination vs. obedience.
68 So the chorus sums up at the end of the play, “The great words of boasters make atonement with great
blows, and in their old age teach them wisdom,” (Soph. An. 1350-3). The final word of the tragedy is
“teach” (e)di/dacan, Soph. An. 1353), a word that recalls the Ode on Man’s heralding of mankind’s ability to
teach himself (e)dida/cato, Soph. An. 356) how to be master over nature.
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tracks an identical movement towards conceptualizing authority as the legitimate power
to compel action (kratos). This focus on kratos was reflected in Athens’ transition to
empire, examined above, and with Ephialtes’ reforms in 462/1 BCE infused domestic
politics as well. Though much of the substance of these reforms remains murky, it
seems clear that they transferred to the Assembly and Council the ability to hold public
officials accountable at a euthyna and perhaps at an eisangelia, as well. 69 They thereby
reinforced the idea that officials should be obedient to the dēmos—one reason why these
reforms have been convincingly tied to the contemporary emergence of dēmokratia as a
buzzword in political discourse. 70 Tellingly, such focus on the dēmos’ kratos paralleled a
discursive shift in the word nomos, which at this time increasingly connoted a
prescriptive rule or law that compels action. 71 With Ephialtes’ reforms, then, the dēmos
asserted its political authority within the courts, in effect extending its control over more
than just the domestic management of imperial resources. With these reforms, the dēmos
had full control over the very agents who managed imperial monies. 72
And control those political agents it did. In at least two instances during the
Peloponnesian War in the last few decades of the fifth century, stratēgoi were formally
charged, or feared being charged, for dōrodokia, and the dēmos was acutely concerned to
69
Humphreys (1983: 242-7), Ostwald (1986: 70-3), Ober (1989: 77-8), Hansen (1991: 36-7), Raaflaub
(2007). Ephialtes’ reforms are discussed at length in Chapter Seven below.
70
Raaflaub (2007) collects the sources on dēmokratia and argues persuasively for their connection to
Ephialtes’ reforms.
71
For the development of nomos in the fifth century, see Ostwald (1986: 89-136). Ephialtes’ association
with bringing nomos to the people is attested in Anaximenes, who records that the leader moved Solon’s
laws from the Acropolis into the public spaces of the Agora and Boule (72 FGrH F 13). This highly
political act presented the laws themselves as a possession belonging to the people at the precise moment
when the dēmos was using law to claim possession over imperial monies and public officials, alike.
72
The subsequent development of the euthyna process, examined in Chapter Six, strongly suggests that the
Athenians were most concerned about holding accountable, specifically, those magistrates who handled
imperial monies.
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control the disobedient dōrodokoi. 73 First, in 424 BCE the stratēgoi Pythodorus and
Sophocles were sentenced to exile, while their colleague Eurymedon was fined, because
they had all purportedly been bribed to withdraw from Sicily according to the terms of a
pact with the Sicilian king Hermocrates (Thuc. 4.65.2-3; Philochorus FGrH 328 F127).
In his account of these events, Thucydides ascribes the trial to the arrogance of the
dēmos, which he claims expected to succeed militarily even in the most adverse
circumstances (Thuc. 4.65.4). And again, on the disastrous Sicilian expedition in 413
BCE the stratēgos Nicias counseled against withdrawing from Sicily, in part out of the
fear that upon his return to Athens the soldiers would accuse him of withdrawing because
he had taken dōra (Thuc. 7.48.4; cf. Thuc. 3.98.5). As Thucydides suggests, the dēmos
controlled its generals; for them to have acted without explicit approval from the dēmos
would have been an unjust arrogation of authority, a sure sign of disobedience. 74
To recap the argument so far, just as Athens assumed first economic control over
allied possessions and then political and economic control over the allies themselves, the
Athenian dēmos asserted its control over monies within the polis and then over people
within the polis. As a result, political monies that had operated simultaneously within the
economies of empire and patronage gradually took on the valence of political control and
subordination. This new meaning was particularly problematic within the space of
domestic politics because it signaled a subordination of the dēmos to an individual
73 Stratēgoi were responsible for everything, good and bad, that happened on their expedition: Din. 1.74;
Pritchett (1974: 74). Even an autokratōr general like Nicias, one who had been given complete authority
to do as he pleased, could suffer tremendous penalties if he did not do certain things: cf. IG i² 98/99=ML
78.
74 Explicit when the dēmos blames its stratēgoi for the terms reached at the surrender of Potidaea (Thuc.
2.70.4); cf. [Xen.] Ath. Pol. 2.17. Reading dōrodokia through the lens of obedience in Thucydides follows
straightforwardly from the historians’ trope of the inversion of leaders and led, a motif closely connected
to the insubordination of troops in the field: Rood (1998: 28-31, 142-5). Crucially, for Thucydides the
analogy between a stratēgos’ command of his troops and the dēmos’ control of stratēgoi was clear.
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citizen. While elite citizens might still acquire political authority through their
contributions to the polis, the means by which they acquired this authority needed to be
kept distinct from monies of empire so imbued with the valence of kratos. New modes of
politics arose, as the next section will trace, but the legitimacy of these modes was
constantly contested. In what should be by now a familiar move, the terms of this debate
focused on the dōrodokos, as the Athenians used him to think through what legitimate
politics really looked like.
The New Politicians as dōrodokoi:
In the previous section we saw how, around the time of Pericles, the dēmos began
to compete with elites for the authority to be the patron of the dēmos. This idea was
considered briefly in conjunction with public buildings and the Springhouse Decree, but
it seems to underlie two other shifts that occurred in the second half of the fifth century.
First, there was a proliferation of political monies: cleruchies, colonies, and pay for
various groups of people, including soldiers, jurors, artisans and laborers, public officials
and many, many others. These monies have rightly been understood as ways for the
dēmos to enjoy a share of the empire, and doubtless, too, they at least fostered greater
participation in the democracy, as scholars frequently emphasize. 75 But these monies
also played a crucial role, as we will see, in legitimating the dēmos’ position as patron of
the community. These monies helped forge a ‘new politics’: like patronage, only
redistributing the dēmos’ own money back to itself. 76 As this section will trace, these two
75
Rhodes (1981: 339-40 ad AP27.4), Markle (1985), Ostwald (1986: 182), Ober (1989: 143), Stadter
(1989: 117 ad Per. 9.3).
76
Connor (1971) is essential on this shift. See also Ostwald (1986: 175-91), Whitehead (1986: 305-10),
Schmitt Pantel (1992: 179-208).
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political innovations were interrelated, and the figure of the dōrodokos intimately shaped
their development.
Army pay, naval pay, pay for public magistrates and jurors—all of these misthoi
were ways that Athens’ empire fed her citizens, according to Aristotle (AP 24.1). Indeed,
the provision of both naval and military pay—attested by the start of the Peloponnesian
War—came directly from tribute funds, and providing food (trophē) for the soldiers was
the explicit purpose for those funds. 77 We can also add to this list cleruchies and
colonies, which were likewise possessions of the dēmos, as well as direct and indirect
sources of food. 78 Similarly, to the extent that the Periclean building program on top of
the Acropolis was funded, at least in part, by the Hellēnotamiai, pay for the workers on
those building projects seems to have come directly from the empire. 79
What caused this proliferation of monies? Common to all of them was that they
came from the dēmos’ purse—whether directly from the public treasury or indirectly
through the dēmos’ ‘ownership’ of imperial resources—and that they explicitly ‘fed’ the
dēmos, just as Cimon and others had previously done. 80 In other words, this proliferation
of monies represented the dēmos’ attempt to lay claim to the economy of patronage. As
77 Both existed by the start of Peloponnesian War: AP 27.2, [Xen.] Ath. Pol. 1.13 with Pritchett (1971: 7-
14). Plutarch attributes pay for both the fleet (Plut. Per. 11.4) and the army (Plut. Per. 12.5) to Pericles, but
see AP 24.1. On the use of tribute funds to provide trophē for Athenian troops, see Pritchett (1971: 40-1).
78 See AP 24.3 with AE 255-72. Cleruchies and colonies were commonly populated by poor Athenian
citizens and, in this respect, provided a livelihood for those citizens (cf. Plut. Per. 11.6). Yet cleruchies like
those in the Thracian Chersonese (Plut. Per. 11.5, DS 11.88.3) were often strategic acquisitions that would
then be leveraged to feed the citizens back at Athens: Brunt (1966).
79 Plut. Per. 12.4-5 and IG i 3 439, but see Kallet (1994: 49-50) for doubt on taking our sources at face
value. My argument would actually be stronger if the Periclean building programme was not funded
mainly by imperial monies: that would mean that, for both public works and public pay, the dēmos actively,
though fictively, conceptualized them as if they were monies of patronage.
80 AP calls them, explicitly, trophē (AP 24.1, 24.3), which is precisely what Cimon provided his demesmen
(cf. diatrofh/n, Plut. Cim. 10.1). At AP 24.1-3 the shift to providing trophē for Athens’ citizens is directly
tied to Athens’ ascendancy as hegemon over the League, and it is tempting to follow Aristotle on this
conceptual correlation. As the proliferation of political monies in the 450’s and 440’s suggests, as Athens
grew more imperial, the dēmos also grew more patronal towards itself.
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with the Springhouse Decree, I suggest, we can imagine that the dēmos actively
competed with elites for the authority to control these monies.
We can see this story play out in the development of misthophoria, or pay for
public officials and jurors. Typically, these monies are understood as necessary steps to
enable mass participation in the ‘radical’ democracy following Ephialtes’ reforms: by
paying citizens for serving in public office or on a jury, the dēmos ensured that even the
poorest citizens could participate in politics and, hence, the democracy could truly
achieve ‘rule of the people’. 81 Doubtless this was one potential result of misthophoria—
though it is impossible for us to assess either way whether or not the poorest citizens
actually participated more often as a result—but we should be wary about positing this as
the motivation behind the reforms. After all, it is striking that no source mentions such a
motivation; in fact, all of our sources suggest that misthophoria was established as a way
for the masses to profit from empire. 82 Yet it is surprising to find even this motivation
posited by ancient testimonia, since pay for both public office and jury duty was funded
not by the hellēnotamiai, who were in charge of the tribute, but by the kōlakretai, who
administered Athens’ public treasury (to dēmosion). 83 When the Athenians set up the
funds for misthophoria, in other words, they consciously did not treat those funds as
similar to the monies used to pay the army and the fleet. Why, then, was jury pay ever
associated with empire?
81 See Rhodes (1981: 339-40 ad AP27.4), Markle (1985), Ostwald (1986: 182), Ober (1989: 143), Stadter
(1989: 117 ad Per. 9.3), Hansen (1991: 188). Cf. Sinclair (1988: 71).
82 AP 24.1, [Xen.] Ath. Pol. 1.16. Cf. Ar. V. 655-64. Samons (2000: 65).
83 Samons (2000: 57-9) on the kōlakretai. On the meaningful distinction between imperial and domestic
funds, see Kallet-Marx (1994: 246-7), Kallet (1998: 47), and Samons (2000: esp. 55). Note how, after the
public treasury was combined with the Treasury of Athena in 411, jurors were paid by the Treasurers of
Athena: IG ii 2 1629.213-17.
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I propose that the reason jury pay and pay for public officials were consistently
associated with ‘feeding’ the dēmos from imperial monies was that they represented self-
conscious ways in which the dēmos was replicating—or, to be more precise, competing
against—Cimon-style patronage. Certainly thinking of these monies as providing,
explicitly, food for the dēmos would have resonated strongly with the way Cimon had
invited his demesmen to dinner. So, too, would the source of the funds: the kōlakretai, or
“collectors of limbs” or “hams” (kw=la),” who probably date back to Solon (AP 7.3) and
whose name suggests a connection to the collection of honorary shares of meat at a
sacrifice. 84 Later dispensing public monies for a range of purposes, the kōlakretai
frequently provided monies associated with public honors, just like the kw=la they
presumably once collected. 85 Moreover, that the payment was called a misthos need not
have connoted a commercial “wage,” but readily could have evoked the honorary misthos
awarded the victorious generals at Eion (cf. Aeschin. 3.183): that is, it may have signaled,
especially, a money from a superior (the dēmos) to a citizen, just like Cimon’s handouts
to his demesemen. 86 If we liken misthophoria to the monies of patronage, which
themselves were derived from the monies of empire, it makes sense that even
misthophoria, though paid for from domestic funds, was nevertheless linked to the
monies of empire.
84 As Samons (2000: 55) notes, jury pay and pay for magistrates are absent from the epigraphic record
dealing with reserves from the sacred treasury. By contrast, sources explicitly attest that the kōlakretai
doled out the payments: Ar. V. 695, 724, schol. Ar. Av. 1541, Hesychius s.v. kwlakre/tai. Cf. Kallet
(1998: 47) and Samons (2000: 57). On the connection between the kōlakretai and the collection of
sacrificial meat, see Samons (2000: 57), Harding (2001: 93-4).
85 On the associations of civic honors and kw=la qua honorary portions of meat, see especially Tsoukala
(2009). In the inscriptional record, we find the kōlakretai dispensing funds for the erection of stelai (IG i 3
11.13-14, 71.25-26, 165.10), paying various religious officials (priestess of Athena Nike, IG i 3 36.10; those
making a theōria to Delphi, Androtion FGrH 324 F 36), and providing meals in the prytaneion (Androtion
FGrH 324 F 36).
86 On this definition of misthos, see especially von Reden (1995a: 89-92).
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Instead of asking why the Athenians instituted public pay, therefore, if we ask
why public pay took the specific form that it took, it seems clear that the Athenians were
conceptualizing misthophoria through the lens of patronage politics: the collective
dēmos, not an individual citizen, served as patron to the masses. We find indirect
corroboration for this idea in a second set of descriptions of public pay, which frame it as
a money used to negotiate patronage politics, albeit between an elitie citizen and the
community. Aristotle, followed by Plutarch, is explicit on this point: in providing jury
pay, 87 other kinds of public pay, 88 and theoric pay, 89 Pericles “demagogued” in
opposition to Cimon’s patronage. 90 Alternatively, it is reported that Pericles instituted
these public monies in order to compete against the political authority of Thucydides, son
of Melesias (Plut. Per. 11.4). We do not know Plutarch’s source for that latter political
rivalry; in any case, what is important here is that, when they were not associated with
Athens’ empire, these measures were viewed as tokens in a political competition to
secure support from the dēmos.
Our sources paint a consistent picture of Pericles’ taking the initiative to create a
new mode of politics, one in which he redistributed the dēmos’ own funds to itself, but
87 Jury pay: AP 27.2-5, 62.2; Aristot. Pol. 2.1274a9. Cf. [Xen.] Ath. Pol. 1.16. We do not know the original
amount of jury pay, but Cleon is said to have increased it from 2 obols to 3 obols per day: schol. ad Ar. V.
88, 300.
88 It is unclear what Plutarch means here by a1llaij misqoforai=j, or “other kinds of provision of misthos”
(Plut. Per. 9.3), but elsewhere pay for the navy (Plut. Per. 11.4), pay for the navy (Plut. Per. 12.5), as well
as pay for artisans and laborers working on the Acropolis building programme (Plut. Per. 12.5-6) are
attributed to Pericles. Potentially pay for public officials is included here too, on which see Ar. Ach. 65-7,
[Xen.] Ath. Pol. 1.3, IG i 3 82.17-21. See Stadter (1989: 117-18 ad Per. 9.3) for further discussion.
89 It is difficult to determine what exactly is meant by qewrikoi=j, “theoric” payments (Plut. Per. 9.3).
Probably these payments had nothing to do with the Theoric Fund which Eubulus managed in the midfourth
century: Ruschenbusch (1979). What, then, would they have covered? Stadter (1989: 116 ad Per.
9.3) makes a compelling case that Plutarch is following a tradition found in Ulpian (ad Dem. 1.1=Dindorff
33) that Pericles designated that leftover public funds should be devoted to public festivals (theōroi), as a
way of pleasing the dēmos. Ulpian’s note, however, might simply be a garbled misreading of Pericles’
famed generosity in putting on festivals and theatrical performances: cf. Thuc. 2.38.1, [Xen.] Ath. Pol. 2.9.
90 a)ntidhmagwgw=n pro\j th\n Ki/mwnoj eu)pori/an, AP 27.3; katadhmagwgou=menoj, Plut. Per. 9.3.
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such a narrative was in fact contested in Pericles’ day. 91 Note how, if we follow
Plutarch’s narrative here, Pericles’ innovation is actually shot through with overtones of
political subordination of the dēmos. 92 This would not have sat well with all Athenians.
In fact, some of Pericles’ contemporaries referred to his measures and others’ as bribes.
Plutarch himself says that with public pay Pericles was able to “bribe” the masses
(sundeka/saj to\ plh=qoj, Plut. Per. 9.3; cf. Plut. Per. 34.2), and Aristophanes also
insinuates that public pay was a bribe from politicians to obtain favorable jury treatment
(Aristoph. V. 669-79; Pax 632-3, 644-8; Eq. 801-9; cf. fr. 100). 93 As in the previous
section, where we saw that Pericles’ problematic control over public monies was
reflected in public accusations of dōrodokia, again accusations of dōrodokia crop up as
Athenians tried to police the borders of legitimate politics.
Crucially, the dōrodokos was again configured as a disobedient citizen, someone
who had somehow inverted the vertical relations between community and citizen. In
Aristophanes’ Wasps and Knights, for example, Cleon is lambasted for corrupting the
dēmos by bribing it with jury pay. 94 This is a problem not just because the dēmos is
corrupted—although the Wasps’ satire of jurors who pursue money over just judgment is
91
Administering the dēmos’ own funds: th\n tw=n dhmosi/wn dianomh/n, Plut. Per. 9.3; cf. dido/nai toi=j
polloi=j ta\ au(tw=n, AP 27.4.
92
In currying their favor by instituting misthophoria, he was said to “relax the reins” of his rule somewhat
(ta\j h(ni/aj a)nei/j, Plut. Per. 11.4), a metaphor that parallels both Creon’s own inability to control
Antigone (Soph. An. esp. 473-7) and contemporary discussion about Ephialtes’ problematic role in the
democracy (Plut. Per. 7.6). Similarly, Plutarch frames Pericles’ use of political monies—specifically,
cleruchies and misthoi, or wages—as the means by which he acquired such exceptional authority within the
polis (Plut. Per. 9.1).
93
In this light, note Aristotle’s clunky transitions from Pericles’ provision of public pay to the issue of
judicial bribery (to\ deka/zein), which he claims first arose at this time (AP 27.4-5). Because it was Anytus,
not Pericles, who first made judicial bribery public, this line reads almost like a non sequitur unless we
supply a missing conceptual link between Pericles’ public payments and ‘bribery’ of jurors.
94
Ar. V. 669-79, Eq. 801-9. In both plays, Cleon is frequently accused of both giving and receiving bribes:
Ar. V. 960-1, 669-79; Eq. 402-3, 453-9, 994-6, 1080-3. Cf. Nu. 591 and, for similar accusations, Ar. Eq.
103, 258, 707, 824-7. See also Ar. Ach. 5-8 with scholiast (=Theopompus FGrH 115 F 94) with discussion
in Olson (2004: ad loc) and Carawan (1990).
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troubling even without the overtones of bribery. Cleon’s corruption is particularly
problematic because it enables him to escape accountability. 95 Accordingly, his bribe-
giving enables him to invert his relationship with the dēmos so that he, not the dēmos,
becomes master. 96 Just as Pericles’ control over public monies was called into question
by accusations of dōrodokia, here too it is assumed that public speakers illegitimately
control, and disproportionately benefit from, the allies’ imperial monies (esp. Ar. V. 660-
79). All of the monies found in the ways corrupt politicians negotiate politics are thus
cast as the bribes. Hence, that we find Cleon’s misthophoria recast as bribe monies
strongly suggests that a number of Athenians thought that Cleon’s relationship to the
dēmos, like Pericles’—specifically, his influence on the distribution of public funds—was
inherently problematic.
I am suggesting that, as with the Springhouse Decree and public works, with
misthophoria and other political monies created around mid-century the dēmos self-
consciously strove to be its own patron. It identified a money of Cimonian-style
patronage—feeding the public—and refashioned it in democratic form, in effect blocking
elite citizens from playing that role using the old monies of patronage. Nevertheless,
elites like Pericles and Cleon, who previously would have derived political authority
from the politics of patronage, instead tried to appropriate for themselves the dēmos’ new
monies; in this way, they forged a new kind of politics. 97 Even if the picture I am
95 esp. Ar. Eq. 801-9; cf. V. 669-79, 960-1.
96 This point is explored at length in McGlew (2002: 86-111), which focuses on Aristophanes’ Knights and
Cleon’s desire to control the dēmos. See also Wohl (2002) and Scholtz (2004) on the politics of
domination latent in conceptualizing politicians as erastai.
97 So in Aristophanes we find explicit comparisons between the contributions of new politicians and oldstyle
patrons of the dēmos. In the Knights, for instance, the Sausage-seller uses metaphors of food
consumption to compare his deeds to Themistocles: Ar. Eq. 810-19 with Anderson (1989: 15-16), Marr
(1996). As Davidson (1993: 57-62) explores, the comparison, and implicit contrast, with past public
officials signal how unjust the New Politicians’ patron-like redistributions were thought to be.
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sketching must remain mere suggestion, as the relationship between mass and elite
shifted in the second half of the fifth century, it is clear that the terrain on which they
battled for political authority focused on the proliferation of legitimate political monies—
like misthophoria, army and naval pay, or cleruchies—and on their purported corruption,
as represented by bribe monies. 98 To invoke the dōrodokos, as Pericles’ and Cleon’s
critics certainly did, was to contest the implicit meaning of the relationships structured by
those monies: it was to contest their claim to be patron of the dēmos.
Such contestation of the legitimacy of political payments—or, more properly, the
legitimacy of monies used to negotiate political relations—attended a major shift towards
a new style of politics, as practiced by Cleon and his successors. The old-style,
patronage-like model of politics practiced by Cimon, Themistocles or Aristides was
replaced by redistribution of the dēmos’ own money, and we have already examined in
this context how misthophoria was re-read as bribe monies. Yet the New Politicians
were considered dōrodokoi also for the way they purportedly took bribes to speak in
public. 99 As we will see, this last image of the dōrodokos, too, was used to contest the
legitimacy of the New Politics.
The New Politicians represented both a significant improvement for, and a new
potential danger to, the democracy. On the one hand, their use of rhetoric explicitly to
98 In addition to employing the dōrodokos discursively to delegitimize some monies, the dēmos may have
used the law to legitimate other monies. Probably between the 450’s and 430’s, the Athenians imposed
limits on escaping liturgical service and created the antidosis procedure, which helped prevent elites from
shirking their liturgical duties: Gabrielsen (1986), Christ (1990) on antidosis and, on liturgies more
generally, Davies (1981: 98-9), Sinclair (1988: 188-90), Christ (2006: 143-204), Domingo Gygax
(forthcoming: passim). These legal changes have rightly been connected to the rise of the people’s
power—so Christ (2006: 158-61)—but another motivation for their enactment could have been to signal
and enforce through law which kinds of elite contributions to the community were legitimate. Indeed,
codifying legitimate political monies in law could have simultaneously broadcast an authoritative list of
legitimate contributions to the polis and, importantly, signaled the dēmos’ control over determining that list
in the first place.
99 See, for example, Ar. Eq. 930-4, 1196-8; V. 100-2, 240-1, 906-8; Th. 936-7.
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win over the masses fostered more ‘democratic’ politics: attention to and inclusion of the
interests of more citizens, and consequently policies aimed at the benefit of the masses as
a whole, instead of a smaller subsection of it. In effect, this meant that any citizen who
had an idea would have a greater chance of having it proposed by a politician (and
thereby hopefully approved) than he would have earlier in the democracy. On the other
hand, this meant that any citizen who had an idea would have a greater chance of having
it proposed by a politician. When all it takes is a persuasive public speaker to have a
motion approved, there is potentially less quality control on the kinds of issues brought
up for public discussion or, worse, the kinds of proposals successfully voted on. Perhaps
unsurprisingly, therefore, this new, potentially more democratic political technology
brought with it concomitant concerns that the democracy had become an ochlocracy or a
polity ruled by the fickle masses. 100
This outline should be familiar, but what I would like to pose here is the question
of how this shift actually came about. How exactly did Cleon and others manage to forge
this new style of politics? Cleon’s most distinctive difference from his predecessors was
that he repudiated his circle of friends and proclaimed himself to be friend—‘lover’ as
Aristophanes would call it—of the dēmos as a whole. 101 While no subsequent politician
would follow suit in rejecting his own philoi, after Cleon most of them did try to court the
people’s favor, as Aristophanes famously parodies in the Knights. Like Cleon, however,
these politicians were consistently open to the accusation that they were peddling their
100
Ober (1998: 72-121) thoroughly discusses the criticisms that emerged in the late-fifth and early-fourth
centuries.
101
Ar. Eq. 732-4, 1340-4 with Connor (1971: 96-104). See also Thuc. 3.36.6, 4.27.5-28.5, 4.21.3; AP
28.3; Plut. Nicias 8.3; Theopompus FGrH 115 F 92. As Creon’s own civic-oriented conception of philia
might suggest, the conceit that a politician was a ‘polis-lover’ was common in this period—e.g. Thuc.
2.60.5 (Pericles); Thuc. 6.92.2, 4 (Alcibiades); cf. Thuc. 2.43.1, Ar. Lys. 541-8—and was symptomatic of
this broader realignment of civic values: Connor (1971: 103-5), Raaflaub (1994: 129-30). For Cleon’s
relationship with his friends, see especially Connor (1971: 91-4).
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political services—in short, trafficking in decrees, laws, honors, and policies. 102 Cause
and effect are somewhat muddled here—did Cleon first befriend the dēmos and then
begin to profit from it, or was it the other way around?—but the difference is crucial. In
the first instance, we are led to believe that Cleon was corrupted by power gained from
his newly acquired mass support; in the second, Cleon’s corrupt activity was constituted
by his courting of the masses.
There are good reasons for thinking that the latter occurred, that is, that Cleon’s
new practice of politics was inherently considered corrupt and that, in fact, it was plied
through money. 103 First, we should note that political alliances do not spring up ex
nihilo; some kind of reciprocal relation is needed in order to leverage political support.
For the old-school public speakers, this relation readily appeared in the form of philia; for
Cleon, who had renounced his friendships, at first there would have been no such basis
for establishing and organizing mass support. Cleon required an ersatz philia, some kind
of relational glue to enable him to open up political access to a broader swath of the
public. I suggest that this glue entailed what his opponents called dōrodokia; because
Cleon’s politicking forged new patterns of social ties within the practice of politics, the
monies used to negotiate those ties were deemed illegitimate by opponents. Accordingly,
Cleon was called a dōrodokos.
102 Note how insults of the New Politicians typically came in the form of epithets signaling the politician’s
associations with trade, i.e. that he was profiting from his politicking. Cf. Cleon the tanner (e.g. Eq. 44, Nu.
581), Hyperbolus the lamp-maker (Eq. 1316, Nu. 1065, Pax 690), Cephalus the potter (Ec. 248-53),
Aristoxenus the needle-seller (Pl. 175 with scholiast), and the catalogue of politicians at Knights 129-45
with Sommerstein (1981: 150-1 ad loc.). This became a common motif in Comedy: Jackson (1919)
collects the evidence, while Connor (1971: 152-8) helpfully points out the potential class tensions inherent
in calling someone a ‘peddler’ or ‘manufacturer’.
103 That rhētores received a misthos was later taken for granted: Ar. Plut. 377-9, 567-70; Pl. Phdr. 257c-d;
Aeschin. 2.180, 3.173; Dem. 19.246; Hyp. 3.3, 4.28. Cf. APF 518-19.
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Let us reframe the issue of access from the perspective of a relatively poor
Athenian who, in the Cimonian system of patronage, would have lacked the philoi
needed to pass a proposal on his own in the Assembly. One way to overcome such social
distance would have been to create and leverage a similar relational tie through money:
by simply paying a public speaker to make a proposal, a citizen could potentially tap into
that speaker’s network of philoi or, better yet, his clout with the Assembly. Whereas this
kind of practice would have been antithetical to the aims of the old style of politics—
because it gave political authority to someone other than a local patron—and
understandably would have been viewed as the corruption of the friendships that were the
foundation of that system, for Cleon and the New Politicians money for political services
would have been less problematic. Indeed, it naturally would have bonded politician and
citizen into the desired kind of reciprocal relationship, albeit one between two otherwise
complete strangers.
Note how the accusation of dōrodokia here does double-duty both as a descriptive
claim, as we have traced, and as a conceptual lens for understanding Cleon’s actions.
Precisely because Cleon’s political support came from the masses, not his philoi, the
content of his ties to his supporters would have been arms-length: the same kind of tie
frequently found in commercial markets. In this sense, that a commercial misthos was
used to characterize how Cleon’s relationship was negotiated only signaled how, from the
perspective of old-style politicians, Cleon’s political friends were closer to commercial
transactors than actual social relations like philoi. Yet the illegitimacy of these relations
was also signaled by the accusation of dōrodokia itself; it was precisely by delegitimizing
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the currency of the relationship (the bribe monies) that critics of the New Politicians
leveled their attacks.
On this view, we should perhaps flip our picture of the New Politicians on its
head and assign the real innovation not to Cleon but to the political entrepreneurs who
tried to overcome the inaccessibility of the old system of politics by paying public
speakers to make a motion on their behalf—that is, to the masses who stopped
subordinating themselves to patrons and began subordinating patrons to themselves by
giving them a misthos. I suggest that Cleon was simply the first-mover, the first public
speaker to accept the bribes of non-philoi and thereby allow them a kind of political
access usually granted to one’s philoi. For this reason, he was thought to have renounced
his friends among the elite; and it makes sense that he did so, too, for his purported
dōrodokia enabled him to secure broader support with the masses. The bribe itself served
as the initial basis for a reciprocal relationship between public speaker and citizen. Over
time, that relationship was only reinforced at both an individual level (when individuals
continued to pay Cleon for his services) and a more general level (when Cleon exchanged
favorable public policies for broad-based support).
To modern ears, Cleon probably comes across as a corrupt crook at worst or a
political opportunist at best, but it should be noted that the style of politics he began on
the dēmos’ initiative became the standard for generations to come. In other words, what
initially were considered ‘bribes’ later became perfectly licit ‘payments’, a shift that
makes sense if we assign the political innovation here to the dēmos. 104 Far from being a
104 This is a somewhat controversial claim given how often our sources rail against the payments received
by rhētores: e.g. Hyp. 5.25 (Demosthenes received 60 talents for his decrees and for proposing his
trierarchic law); Dem. 18.312 (Aeschines received 2 talents to oppose Demosthenes’ trierarchic law), Plut.
Mor. 848B (Demosthenes received 5 talents for not saying anything). The veracity of these claims is
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self-interested opportunist, in fact, he might genuinely have thought himself ‘champion
of the people’ (or the two could be one and the same). 105 After all, in renouncing his old
friendships, he reportedly criticized the corruption that could result from conducting
politics through selective social and political channels. Philia, Plutarch has him claim,
“often softened one’s thinking and led one astray from right and just policy in
politics.” 106 Following Plutarch, we might imagine that Cleon, like his paymasters, was
himself trying to improve a corrupt system. Whether this testimony is apocryphal or not,
we cannot be certain, but it does make sense if we adopt the perspective of those
Athenians for whom political subordination to a patron was no longer necessary and no
longer desired.
This chapter has examined the figure of the dōrodokos in the fifth century: a
disobedient character whose presence signaled problems in the distribution of monies in
Athens’ public economies of empire and patronage. By the end of the century, the
dōrodokos was not simply a disobedient citizen, but one who had inverted the vertical
relations between citizen and community; in this respect, he was opposed completely to
“people’s power.” As the Peloponnesian War drew to a close, such opposition to the
democracy crystallized in the form of two different oligarchic coups, at which point the
figure of the dōrodokos became inextricably linked with oligarchy. Along with civil war,
impossible to assess—despite the best efforts of Wankel (1982): cf. Harvey (1985) and Hansen (1991:
274-6; cf. 1980). Given the extraordinary sums cited, these instances most likely represent problematic
exceptions, that is, instances when a rhētor’s fee was blamed for his bad performance, rather than strong
indications that payments themselves were banned. In fact, the very point of Hyperides’ testimony is that
these kinds of payments were allowed so long as they did not result in harm to the dēmos.
105
Prostatēs tou dēmou: Ar. Eq. 1128, Ra. 569; cf. V. 419, Pax 684, Pl. 920; Thuc. 8.89.4. Connor (1971:
110-15).
106
w(j polla_ th~j o)rqh~j kai\ dikai/aj proaire/sewj mala&ssousan e0n th| ~ politei/a| kai\ para&gousan,
Plut. Mor. 806F.
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therefore, oligarchy brought with it a new conception of the dōrodokos; and it is to this
newly conceived figure that the next chapter turns.
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In the Shadow of the Thirty:
Dōrodokia in the Generation after the Peloponnesian War
403-378 BCE
When Plato’s Socrates sets up his ideal city in the Republic, he explicitly bans its
citizens from becoming bribe-takers and money-lovers (dwrodo/kouj…filoxrhma/touj
Pl. Rep. 390d6); the dōrodokos was not allowed in Callipolis. As a result, Socrates
argues, the city should ban all poetry that praises or describes dōrodokia, including lines
from Hesiod, parts of the Iliad in which Achilles accepts bribes, and even certain stories
about the gods, like the hero Asclepius who according to tradition took bribes to bring a
man back to life (Rep. 3.390d-e, 3.408b-c). Socrates fears that the moral education of the
citizens of Callipolis might suffer if such poor exempla were held before them. Indeed,
the philosopher goes so far as to say that they should deny that Achilles was ever so
greedy (filoxrh/maton) as to take bribes from Agamemnon or Priam (Pl. Rep. 3.390e6-
8). As Socrates later explains about Asclepius, if someone is the son of a god, they
should insist that he is not venal or greedy (ai)sxrokerdh/j), and if he is greedy, they
should insist that he is not the son of a god (Pl. Rep. 3.408c1-3). The two are simply
incompatible social types.
For Plato, not only was the dōrodokos a distinct social type in its own right, but
that type was, specifically, money-loving just like an Achilles or an Asclepius, a corrupt
character born of economic excess. Elsewhere in the Republic Plato identifies the causes
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of this character corruption (diafqei/rei) as wealth and poverty (Pl. Rep. 4.421d1-4). 1 He
consequently devotes considerable attention in the dialogue to how to separate the
guardians from wealth, poverty, and commerce lest they be corrupted by the taint of
money. 2
In many respects, the dōrodokos of the Republic is strikingly familiar to a modern
audience used to pictures of venal politicians who seek rents out of a desire for money or
power. Although Monoson (2000: 127) astutely points out that the Republic’s policy
recommendations—essentially separating the public and private spheres completely so
that they can never mix—mark a considerable departure from democratic policy reforms,
like the institution of accountability or rotation of office, it should be noted that Plato’s
vision of a complete separation of private and public actually represents the logical,
though radical, extension of contemporary anti-corruption reforms. The philosopher
comes off as one of the first advocates of completely removing the market from politics.
But if in Plato’s dōrodokos we can detect the seed of modern depictions of venal
politicians, it is striking just how far removed the greedy, money-loving dōrodokos of the
Republic is from the disobedient figure we encountered in the previous chapter.
Certainly, when Creon asserts that money perverts men’s minds so that they take to evil
actions (Soph. An. 297-301), we can detect some affinity to Plato’s sentiment. Yet for
Creon, as we saw, money serves as an explanation for only a single incident; he may
lambaste the power of money to achieve discrete aims, but nowhere does he suggest that
1 Along the same lines, elsewhere in Plato wealth is contrasted with virtue (aretē): cf. Pl. Rep. 421d, 591d,
Leg.742e, 705b, 893c, 836a, 919b; Arist. Pol.1273a37-38.
2 Pl. Leg. 9.875a-e similarly posits that self-interest can corrupt even the most just of characters; cf. Pl. Leg.
3.691c-d, 4.713c-d, 9.875a. This point comes out most forcefully in Socrates’ discussion of the Hesiodic
races and their corruption over time (Pl. Rep. 8.547a-b, cf. 4.415a-b). There, the mixing of like and unlike
metals—the races of gold, silver, bronze, and iron—constitutes a form of political degeneracy that leads to
subsequent degradations in political constitution as individuals and society are increasingly ruled by
desires, not reason (Pl. Rep. 8.547a-53e). See Irwin (1995: 281-97) and Balot (2001: 246-7).
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the guard was inherently the type of person, the kind of character who was prone to take
gifts. Indeed, the question of character or character types is largely absent from Creon’s
discussion of bribery, and this marks a crucial difference between Plato’s and Sophocles’
presentation of the dōrodokos. 3
Plato’s distinct correlation of money and character types signals a broader shift in
how the dōrodokos was conceptualized at Athens in the first few decades of the fourth
century. Long before Plato, it had been thought that wealth or poverty could corrupt
one’s character: greed was certainly a well-defined concept before the fourth century. 4
What changed around Plato’s time, however, was that wealth and poverty came to be
heavily correlated with dōrodokia, as well. Dorodokia was conceived primarily as a kind
of financial crime, the dōrodokos a character who had violated economically defined
obligations. Again, to a modern audience this particular conceptualization of bribery may
seem self-evident, but it emerged at Athens for very particular reasons.
This chapter will uncover those reasons, examining what changed from the late
fifth to the early fourth centuries, and then detail the period’s resultant picture of the
dōrodokos. After sketching the political anti-type of the Thirty that pervaded Athenian
political ideology in the decades after their bloody regime, we will examine how the
dōrodokos was closely mapped onto this anti-type in two court cases dealing with
dōrodokia (Lysias 28 and 29). The final section, focusing on Aristophanes’ Wealth and a
3 The distance between Sophocles and Plato is emblematic of the fundamental shift in politics brought on
by Pericles and his successors. Recall that, through provision of jury pay and misthophoria for magistrates
Pericles was similarly thought to have ‘bribed’ the dēmos (e.g. sundeka/saj, Plut. Per. 23.5). Plato later
says that Pericles actively made the Athenians “money-loving” (filargu/rouj, Plat. Gorg. 515e), but
already in Aristophanes we find reflection of whether Pericles improved or corrupted the dēmos. It was
only in discussions of the shift to the New Politics, however, that issues of character corruption arose.
4 Balot (2001: 58-98) on greed (pleonexia) in the archaic period. On the relationship between wealth and
civic character, Solon’s poetry provides particularly relevant comparanda for this chapter: see Sol. fr. 4.5-
6, 6.3-4, 13.11-13W.
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defense speech on the charge of dōrodokia (Lysias 21), will illuminate why this
conceptual convergence took place. As will be clear, primarily because of the
Athenians’ political and economic efforts to get along as a democracy after the horrors of
oligarchy, the dōrodokos became a thief of sorts, someone who sought actively to harm
the dēmos. 5
The Thirty as Anti-type at Athens:
That an Athenian like Plato might view the dōrodokos through an economic lens
ostensibly reflected the dire financial situation Athens faced at the beginning of the fourth
century. 6 Sparta’s occupation of the Attic countryside during the last decade of the
Peloponnesian War had ravaged much of the land, including olive trees, grain, vines, and
livestock and had consequently disrupted agricultural production and patterns of rural
land tenure. 7 Sparta’s threatening position effectively shut down production at the
Laureion silver mines, as well. 8 Moreover, a drop in commercial production and the loss
of virtually all of Athens’ overseas possessions, not to mention the immense annual
5 It should be noted at the outset that the great majority of examples and evidence discussed in this chapter
come from the 390’s and 380’s. Historical sources for the 370’s in Athens are notoriously scarce, while
sources on dōrodokia in the 360’s are few and far between: Timagoras (367 BCE) was discussed in the
Introduction; and our only other attested trial of dōrodokia, that of either Callistratus or Philon (361/0
BCE), receives only a passing reference in Hyperides and Lycurgus (Hyp. 4.1-2; Lyc. 1.93; cf. Dem 50.48).
We simply do not have enough evidence for these two decades to make anything more than a tentative
claim about how Athenians conceptualized bribery at this time. The limited extent to which we can discuss
how the Second Athenian League (379/8-355 BCE) may have affected conceptions of bribery and politics
is discussed below.
6 For general historical overviews to this time period, see Seager (1967), Funke (1980), David (1986),
Strauss (1986), French (1991). On Athens’ economic conditions after the Peloponnesian War, see
Andreyev (1974), Strauss (1986: 42-69), Ober (1985: 14-31), Burke (1990), French (1991). Politics in the
post-war period: Cloché (1919, 1923), Sealey (1956), Bruce (1966), Seager (1967), Funke (1980: 1-26,
102-67), Krentz (1982), Strauss (1986: 11-41, 89-178).
7 Thuc. 7.27.3-4, Lys. 7.6, Aeschin. 2.147, 175. Andreyev (1974: 6-7, 18-25), Ober (1985: 113-14),
Burke (1990: 3-4), French (1991: 24-7). Cf. Hanson (1983: 131-73).
8 Thuc. 6.91.7, 7.191.1, 7.27.5. Ober (1985: 14), Strauss (1986: 46), French (1991: 33).
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tribute paid by the allies, had taken its toll on the Athenian treasury. 9 The result, as
contemporary literary sources dramatically illustrate, was that Athenians were acutely
aware that they did not have as much money as they used to. 10
While having less money surely might incline an Athenian to focus more intently
on financial recovery, it is less clear how economic losses would by themselves shift how
he thought about dōrodokia, economic obligations, public office and the like. Such a
broad cultural shift suggests that the important factor here was the social meaning of the
monies lost: how they had been lost, who had lost them, what they had signified and
what, by contrast, their absence now signaled. Only by grasping this social meaning can
we make sense of the fact that, elsewhere in the Republic, Plato groups dōrodokia
together with crimes like theft, burglary, temple robbery, and blackmail (Pl. Rep. 9.575b-
c), in other words, with outright stealing. Such crimes were financial (and sometimes
violent) in nature, but for Plato they shared one additional feature: they were all also the
crimes of a tyrant, a man of most evil character (cf. to\n ka/kiston, Pl. Rep. 576b3). The
dōrodokos thus acquired distinct political significance, as well—he was a thief just like a
tyrant—and tracing how this particular meaning came to be assigned to him requires that
we examine not just Athens’ economic circumstances, but also her changed political and
social environment in the early fourth century.
Plato’s association of dōrodokia with tyrants was not by chance, for the image of
a tyrant evoked the memory of oligarchs, specifically the oligarchic Thirty who had
9 Strauss (1986: 48-52), Burke (1990), French (1991: 31).
10 To take but a single anecdote, in 399 BCE Athens had difficulty paying back a mere two talents to
Boeotia (Lys. 30.22). Cf. Hell. Oxy. 17.4, Lys. 19.11, Ar. Pl. and Ec. passim. See Ober (1985: 17-19) and
especially David (1984) on Aristophanes, Fuks (1972, 1977) on Isocrates and Plato, respectively.
Although Athens was able to recover somewhat with the Second Athenian League in the 370’s and 360’s,
this state of affairs continued at least through the end of the Social War in 355: in his Poroi, or Ways and
Means (355 BCE), Xenophon remarks how contemporary politicians still blamed poverty for Athens’
imperialistic needs (Xen. Por. 1.1).
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briefly ruled Athens in 404/3 during the aftermath of the Peloponnesian War. 11 This pro-
Spartan junta initially oversaw the re-drafting of Athens’ laws, including a return to the
ancestral laws (patrioi nomoi), which did not include Ephialtes’ contentious, if pro-
democratic, reforms in the mid-fifth century. 12 Yet their rule quickly turned violent and
exclusionary: sykophants and other scoundrels (ponēroi) were executed, as were certain
metics, and the franchise was limited to 3,000 citizens. 13 The oligarchs later confiscated
property and used the Council of 500 as a court to purge the city whether by exiling or
killing their enemies. 14 Civil war soon erupted between the exiled Athenians and those
still in the city, led by the Thirty. After the exiles’ victory at Phyle, the Thirty were
deposed, but a Spartan force defeated the exiled Athenians at the Piraeus, and the Spartan
leader Pausanias effected a reconciliation between the opposing Athenian camps. When
the democracy was reinstated, all citizens swore an oath of amnesty: with the exception
11 To be fair, the image of the tyrant was central to Athenian political ideology throughout the democracy,
as detailed by Rosivach (1988), the essays in Morgan (2003), and Ober (2005: 212-48). I emphasize here
two important points. First, Ober rightly argues that anxieties over the threat of tyrannical oligarchs were
particularly pronounced towards the end of the fifth century; cf. Osborne (2003). Just after the restoration
of the democracy in 410, for example, Demophantus passed an anti-tryanny decree which was sworn by all
citizens and which explicitly rewarded to anyone killed in attempting to kill a tyrant the rewards given to
the tyrant-slayers Harmodius and Aristogeiton (Andoc. 1.96-8). Likewise, Gallia (2004: 458 n.36) sees
further parallels between the early tyrant-slayers and the murderers of Phrynichus, one of the oligarchic
leaders in 411/0.
Second, as will be argued in this chapter, the rule of the Thirty in particular marked a watershed
moment in the history of Athenian political ideology. Beginning in 403, Athenian democratic ideology
came to define the democracy in opposition not to tyranny more generally, but to the oligarchy of the
Thirty, in particular. For reasons that will become apparent, it was in conjunction with this shift that the
dōrodokos came to be associated with tyrant-like (greedy, harm-dealing) oligarchs.
12 Xen. Hell. 2.3.11-12, Diod. 14.3.7-14.4.2, AP 35.1-2. Note how Critias is referred to as a nomothetēs at
Xen. Mem. 1.2.31. Rhodes (1981: 440-5 ad AP 35.2), Krentz (1982: 49-50), Ostwald (1986: 477-8).
13 Execution of sykophants: Xen. Hell. 2.3.13-14, Lys. 25.19, AP 35.3, Diod. 14.4.2; cf. Lys. 12.5.
Metics: Xen. Hell. 2.3.21. Franchise: Xen. Hell. 2.3.18, AP 36.2. For discussion of the Thirty’s political
measures, see especially Rhodes (1981: 415-55 ad AP 34-37), Krentz (1982), Ostwald (1986: 475-90).
14 Prosecutions to confiscate property are mentioned in Lys. 19.4, 27.1, 30.22. Further executions: Xen.
Hell. 2.3.21, 2.4.21; Isoc. 7.67, 20.11; Aeschin. 3.235; AP 35.4, 37.2; Diod. 14.2.1, 14.4.4, 14.5.5; in the
Apology Socrates recounts how he disobeyed an order from the Thirty to arrest Leon of Salamis (Pl. Ap.
32c4-e1). Ostensibly, the bulk of these measures could have been enacted at least under the auspices of
purging the city of unjust men (cf. Lys. 12.5, Xen. Hell. 2.3.18, AP 36.2), but contemporary observers were
not always favorable to the Thirty’s actions.
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of a few select magistrates, nobody could be punished thereafter for any crime committed
during the Thirty’s reign and the ensuing civil war. 15
The ‘amnesia’ sworn by the Athenians was a means of communally forgetting the
horrors committed during the Thirty’s reign; and in other respects, too, the Athenians
tried to forget or undo the period of oligarchy under the Thirty. 16 But, as Plato’s Republic
obliquely evinces, the oligarchs’ legacy lived on. Decades later speakers in court still
brought up their opponents’ involvement in the events of 404/3 as important evidence
that they thought should have continuing relevance. 17 Members of the cavalry, which
had actively cooperated with the Thirty, were resented. 18 Likewise, the good or bad of
someone’s actions was often measured against the Thirty’s example. So, in a prosecution
speech at a dōrodokia trial, one speaker frames his opponent’s bribery in terms of the
Thirty’s heinous actions. 19 We might say that in the decades after the Peloponnesian
War, political behavior was reconfigured in the shadow of the Thirty, as the oligarchs
became an anti-type against which public officials were measured. 20
15 The amnesty applied to all Athenians except the Thirty, their successors the Ten, the Ten supervisors of
the Piraeus, and the Eleven; any of these latter would have been covered by the amnesty had they submitted
their official accounts, but few likely did so (AP 39.6). Carawan (2002) says that the amnesty only applied
to those who were atimoi at the time, but see the cogent reply by Joyce (2008) who reinstates the orthodox
view that the amnesty was about general political forgiveness. See further Loraux (1997), Wolpert (2001),
Ober (2005: 171-82).
16 Demosthenes records that all court decisions from the Thirty’s reign were deemed invalid (Dem. 24.56),
and in 402/1 the properties confiscated by the Thirty were sold by the poletai if not to their original owners
(many of whom had been excecuted), then often to their owners’ neighbors: SEG 16.120-1, 32.161;
38.149, 41.100=Athenian Agora XIX part 2; see also Walbank (1982) for text and discussion. Xen. Hell.
2.4.38 also notes the return of possessions to their owners after the peace.
17 See, for example, the accusations found passim in Lysias 16, 25, fr. 9 (Eryximachus); Lys. 31.12-14
condemns the Athenian Philon simply for not actively opposing the Thirty.
18 Cf. Lys. 16.8, 26.10. On the cavalry’s involvement in the Thirty’s reign, see Bugh (1988: 120-53),
Krentz (1982: 116-17), and Németh (2006: 86-90).
19 Lys. 28.14, discussed in greater detail below; cf. Lys. 25.30.
20 Similarly, in 411/0 less than a decade earlier, the oligarchy of the Four Hundred had set a precedent for a
number of the Thirty’s measures, including vitiating the power of the jury courts (Thuc. 8.67, AP 29.4) as
well as exiling, imprisoning and executing citizens (Thuc. 8.70.2; cf. Andoc. 2.13). Again, though, the
Thirty in particular became a powerful anti-type in democratic politics in the early fourth century, and it
was the latter oligarchy, not the former, that was continually evoked in public discourse. For this reason I
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What was this anti-type exemplified by the Thirty? As Ryan Balot perceptively
details, critics of the Thirty consistently condemned the oligarchs’ lawlessness and greed,
in effect likening them to omnivorous tyrants. 21 In the first place, the Thirty became sole
masters of the polity, just like tyrants, and were later castigated for using political
institutions in harmful, unjust, and undemocratic ways. They replaced the Council with
500 partisan members, and, in later limiting the franchise to 3,000, not only arrogated the
dēmos’ authority to determine who should become a citizen, but effectively transformed
the Assembly into a partisan body, as well. The effectiveness of the courts was vitiated:
public accountability, granted under Ephialtes’ reforms, was removed, and the Thirty
began executing citizens by circumventing the courts and holding trials in the Council of
500. After the franchise was limited, this circumvention became moot, for a law was
passed allowing the oligarchs to execute without trial anybody who was not one of the
3,000. Thus, although the Thirty began favorably by prosecuting sykophants,
embezzlers, and bribe-takers—reportedly much to the people’s delight—their impulse to
use political organs to strengthen their position quickly devolved into a bloody perversion
of democratic institutions. 22
Plato is sure to point out that the lawlessness of the tyrant stemmed from his
incessant, unyielding desire (erōs): in other words, precisely the same cause as his greed
and dōrodokia (Pl. Rep. 9.574e2-575a5). Perhaps unsurprisingly, therefore, source after
focus more on Athenian narratives of the dōrodokos ‘in the shadow of the Thirty’, not ‘in the shadow of
oligarchy’.
21 Balot (2001: esp. 220-2) on the Thirty; the comparison to tyrants appears already in Xen. Hell. 2.3.16.
Balot (2001: 234-48) provides a particularly compelling reading of Plato’s Republic within the context of
contemporary Athenian conceptions of greed. I follow his analysis in juxtaposing the Thirty with Plato’s
Republic, though ultimately I am more interested in Plato’s depiction of the dōrodokos (qua a greedy
official).
22 Council: AP 35.1. Ephialtes’ reforms and the courts: AP 35.2. Jury courts: AP 35.2 with Bonner (1926:
213-15). Execution without trial: Xen. Hell. 2.3.14, 17, 21; AP 37.1. Favorable response from dēmos: AP
35.3; cf. Xen. Hell. 2.3.12, Lys. 12.5, 25.19.
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source posits that the Thirty committed these injustices in order to gain money and satisfy
their greed. Lysias, for example, reasons that the Thirty may have done a number of
things in the name of bettering the constitution, but in fact they simply wanted money,
and he was not alone in his estimation. 23
Yet an equally damning reason for these sources’ focus on money might stem
from the use to which some of that money was put: namely, to pay the Spartan guard that
the Thirty had hired to support and protect the oligarchy. Xenophon explicitly makes this
connection, and it is tempting to follow him on this point. 24 After all, the Spartan guard
had reportedly been instrumental in arresting Athenians before their execution, disarming
those who were not part of the 3,000, and compelling the 3,000 to condemn the
Eleusinians so that the Thirty could seize their property. 25 On this view, just as much as
injustice was a means to acquiring more money, money was a means to injustice—indeed
a very symbol of that injustice.
Whether in taking from the polis or in harming the polis for their own profit, the
Thirty’s desire for money entailed engaging in negative reciprocity, providing bads for
goods to the Athenian people. In pointing to the Thirty’s purported greed, therefore,
contemporary sources called attention to just how problematic the oligarchs’ relationship
to the rest of the city really was: they essentially only ‘took’ from the city, providing
23 Lys. 12.6-7; cf. Xen. Hell. 2.3.16, 21, 43. See further Balot (2001: 220-2) and Lys. 12.5, 12.6, 12.11,
12.83, 12.93, 25.18; Xen. Hell. 2.3.21-2, cf. 2.4.40-2; AP 35.4; Diod. 14.4.4-5, 5.5-7. On the greed and
financial crimes of the Thirty, see also Dillery (1995: 139-63), Németh (2006: 159-66).
24 On the hiring of the Spartan guard under Callibius, see Xen. Hell. 2.3.13, Diod. 14.4.3-4; cf. AP 37.2.
Xenophon reports that the guard had been hired out of the Thirty’s own pocket; yet, given the elite but by
no means super-wealthy status of the Thirty—on which see now Németh (2006: 159-66)—it is unclear
how exactly this cost would be paid for. Xen. Hell. 2.3.21 states that the oligarchs confiscated additional
property and executed metics and former citizens alike explicitly in order to pay for the guard; Lys. 12.6
probably alludes to this same reason.
25 Ostwald (1986: 488-90) points out the potential difficulties in following Xenophon’s chronology here
and in positing that the Spartan garrison was requested early in the Thirty’s rule; I nevertheless follow
Xenophon because Lysias 12.6 seems to refer to the same sequence of events. Arrests: Xen. Hell. 2.3.14.
Disarming: Xen. Hell. 2.3.20. Eleusinians: Xen. Hell. 2.4.9-10, Diod. 14.32.4.
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nothing or, at worst, only bads in return for the goods (monetary and otherwise) they had
received. We will return to this point later, but for now it is worth mentioning that this
focus on ‘taking’ effectively redefined the civic friendship between oligarch and
community. Rather than having a relationship predicated on reciprocal exchange, as
under the democracy, the rulers of the oligarchy only took, never gave, and often actively
harmed. As ‘enemies’ of the city (e.g. e1xqra pro\j th\n po/lin, Lys. 12.2), they were
perceived to be already outside the moral community of the polis, that is, outside of any
reciprocal exchange relationship with that community. The oligarchs’ problematic
relationship to money, therefore, was symptomatic of their problematic relationship to
polity, as well.
So the metic Lysias brings out the injustice of this ‘exchange’ relationship when
he describes his own treatment at the hands of the Thirty. “We were not worthy of this
treatment by the polis,” he laments, “but had produced all our dramatic choruses and paid
numerous taxes” (Lys. 12.20). By weighing his own payment of liturgies and taxes
against the actions of the oligarchs—extortion, property confiscation, theft, and the
murder of Lysias’ brother (Lys. 12.8-19)—the orator underscores how he had given,
while they only took or, worse, gave him but the death of his brother in return. Civic
reciprocity was nowhere to be found.
The context of Lysias’ description helps illuminate another, slightly different
shade of meaning. The orator infers that the Thirty were rounding up metics at the time
in order to pay for their own government (Lys. 12.6; cf. Xen. Hell. 2.3.21). As noted
above, the property stolen by the oligarchs was thus symbolic of the power they were
unjustly exercising for themselves. Lysias makes this point, too, in describing a bribe he
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gave the oligarch Peison (Lys. 12.8-11). Peison swears an oath that he would rescue
Lysias from death were he to receive one talent of silver, which Lysias duly provides
even though he suspects that Peison was untrustworthy. Not only does Peison break his
oath, but he takes far more than just the promised talent. His dōrodokia thereby
constitutes an act of greed, an unjust transgression in its own right and a symbol for the
unjust power that Lysias’ money would be used to support. So the oligarchs profited from
the city’s misfortunes, and their profiting caused the city added misfortune.
As Balot outlines, the dominant image of greed at this time was of an aristocrat
plundering the dēmos’ possessions—providing bads to the community—and it is in this
light that we find the Thirty’s actions linked closely to a social type or kind of
character. 26 Oligarchs in particular were thought prone to covet and steal the property of
others, although it is unclear whether they were so stereotyped because of the Thirty or
the Thirty were so stereotyped because they were oligarchs. 27 In any case, their shameful
profiting (ai)sxroke/rdeia) was thought to be an inherent part of their character (tro/pou,
Lys. 12.19), and here again we are reminded of Plato’s character sketches of tyrant and
dōrodokos alike.
This emphasis on financial crimes, on ‘taking’ from the city rather than providing
it with a good return, is characteristic of stories about all sorts of ‘bad’ politicians in the
26 Balot (2001: 179-233) illuminates the concept of greed in the late fifth and early fourth centuries, and his
analysis provides a helpful foundation for our investigation of how this newly defined social category was
implicated in broader discursive practices. Hence, as will be clear below, one of the central questions this
chapter attempts to answer is why the Athenians described greed at this time using such highly monetized
language as they did, and why, more importantly, it was greed and not some other motive that was posited
for politicians’ misdeeds during this period.
27 E.g. Lys. 25.17, 34.5; cf. Lys. 25.25-26. Certainly these stereotypes existed before the Thirty and were
used to describe the oligarchs of 411/0, on which see Balot (2001: 212-19); but I am inclined to think that
the generic figure of the oligarch further crystallized after the Thirty in direct response to their actions: see
further below.
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first few decades after the Peloponnesian War. 28 What I would like to suggest is that
such a specific focus on negative reciprocity, on providing bads for goods, was born of
the Thirty’s horrific regime. 29 Indeed, the Thirty’s negative exemplum helps explain why
the injustices of politicians might readily be linked with theft or financial appropriations:
both stealing from and actively harming the city were ways of giving bads when goods
would normally be expected. The stereotypical crimes of a tyrant, according to Plato, are
all crimes of ‘taking’ precisely because tyrants are unable to honor the reciprocity
inherent in friendships; no faith can be placed in the tyrannical man. 30 Here, too,
financial ‘taking’ stands as metaphor and manifestation of the tyrant’s unjust relationship
to the polity.
The dōrodokos and the Thirty in Lysias 28 and 29:
Thus far we have seen how in contemporary sources the Thirty’s financial
motives and political injustices were inextricably linked, both on a conceptual level as
forms of negative reciprocity and on a practical level as the pursuit of money was both
cause and consequence of unjust rule. I have suggested, moreover, that this close
interrelationship between money and injustice was symptomatic of a generic type
exemplified by the Thirty and characteristic of a range of ‘bad’ politicians during the first
28 Extrapolating from our admittedly spotty evidence, perhaps more than in any other period politicians at
this time were accused of crimes involving the mismanagement and expropriation of money: Cf. Strauss
(1985: esp. 70-1), Dillon (1987: 165-6). Embezzlement: Lys. 27.19; Pamphilus (Xen. Hell. 5.1.2, 5; Ar.
Pl. 174 with schol.; Plato com. fr. 14K); Epicrates (Lys. 27); Epicrates and Onomasas (Lys. 27.3);
Nicomachus (Lys. 30.26); Alcibiades (Lys. 14.37-8); Archedemus (Lys. 14.25). Malicious prosecution
(sykophancy): Lys. 20.7, 20.15, 20.19, 25.26, 25.30.
29 Cf. Xen. Hell. 2.4.21 and Rosenbloom (2002: 336-7), who posits that the atrocities of the Thirty created
a new conception of violence that ‘private profit’ could cause to the polis. This chapter aims to outline the
effects of this paradigm shift on the different, yet ultimately related, concept of dōrodokia and to examine
in detail the conceptual development that occurred in the generation after the Thirty.
30 Pl. Rep. 9.576a4-8. Note, too, the destruction a tyrant wrecks upon his parents (Pl. Rep. 9.574a5-c4).
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few decades of the fourth century. The dōrodokos, as we have seen, was an example of
this broader generic type modeled off of the Thirty’s negative exemplum.
At this point, I would like to examine this generic figure in action by turning to
two prosecution speeches that deal heavily with dōrodokia. There the character of the
dōrodokos is explicitly framed in reference to the Thirty’s actions; as a result, it
incorporates this association of money with political injustice. Specifically, the conceit
of profiting ‘at the polis’ expense’—in its twin meanings of stealing from the polis and
actively causing it harm—recurs throughout the orations. After seeing that the dōrodokos
was modeled off of the Thirty, we will investigate further reasons why this was the case.
In 390/89 Thrasybulus of Steiria, hero of the democratic uprising against the
Thirty in 403, was sent with his associates on a naval expedition to the coast of Asia
Minor in order to raise funds. This was a major expedition, as Athens was able to extend
her influence in the Aegean back to where it had been before the end of the
Peloponnesian War. 31 After this initial success in Thrace, the expedition was asked to
return and give an audit of their expenses (cf. Lys. 28.5-6). Reportedly on the advice of
his associate Ergocles, Thrasybulus refused and continued extracting money from towns
in the Hellespont, including Halicarnassus, which complained of misconduct (Lys. 28.5-
6, 12, 17). Thrasybulus soon died in a riot, and the rest of the fleet, including Ergocles
and his treasurer Philocrates, returned to Athens, where they faced impeachment
(eisangelia). Ergocles was convicted, sentenced to death, and his money was ordered to
be turned over to the city’s coffers; a version of the prosecutor’s speech for that trial is
31 On Thrasybulus’ expedition and Athens’ involvement in the ongoing Corinthian War, see especially
Seager (1967), Funke (1980).
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found in Lysias 28. When the money was not found, Philocrates was prosecuted for the
possession of public property, as documented in Lysias 29.
Ostensibly, dōrodokia should have very little to do with these cases, for their clear
focus is on klopē, embezzlement (Lysias 28), or on withholding public property (Lysias
29). 32 Consistently, the speakers of each oration emphasize how the defendant has
‘taken’ in one form or another; and these accusations, whether of the defendant’s conduct
or of similar conduct by other officials, regularly involve verbs like kle/ptein (steal),
lamba/nein (take), and u(fai/rein (deprive of)—that is, verbs of clear ‘taking’. 33 This
conceptual focus on ‘taking’ is understandable given the charges of embezzlement for
Ergocles and the withholding of public property for Philocrates. Yet we immediately run
into a problem here. ‘Taking’ is intended to apply to both embezzlement and dōrodokia,
for Ergocles seems to have been charged with both crimes: both are listed whenever his
crimes are catalogued (Lys. 28.3, 28.11; cf. Lys. 29.5, 29.11), and both are thus presented
through the same conceptual frame. 34
How are we to understand this uneasy, confused relationship between ‘taking’ and
dōrodokia? Why, after all, does the speaker of Lysias 28 fear not that Athens is full of
peculators, but that dōrodokia is rampant (Lys. 28.9)? Or why does Lysias 29 read more
32
Cohen (1983: 31-2) usefully outlines the legal background for both speeches. See also Sinclair (1988b:
60-4).
33
kle/ptein: Lys. 28.3, 11, 16; 29.11, 13. lamba/nein: Lys. 28.5, 29.11. u(fai/rein: Lys. 28.7, 16; 29.5.
Cf. Lys. 28.13, 29.13. I use the verb ‘take’ here solely as a conceptual frame and do not intend any overt
reference to the legal class of ‘taking’ in Anglo-American law.
34
The two crimes are nearly conflated when the speaker refers to the embezzled funds as “the property
taken from the cities” (ta\ e)k tw=n po/lewn ei)lhmme/na, 28.5). What is significant about this appellation is
that the verb lamba/nein much more regularly refers to reciprocal exchanges than to outright peculation:
LSJ s.v. lamba/nw II1h. In other words, the very funds that were considered ‘embezzled’ might very well
have been contextualized within a series of regular payments for services, exchanges which, as we have
seen, would have been indistinct from actual bribes. Harvey (1985: 79-80) points out how these crimes are
often closely associated, but it is worth noting that this association was particularly frequent in the first few
decades of the fourth century: Strauss (1985).
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like a catalogue of dōrodokia—including bribery of prosecutors (Lys. 29.1), witnesses
(Lys. 29.7), orators (Lys. 29.6), and juries (Lys. 29.12)—than an indictment for
possessing public property? To say the least, dōrodokia enjoys a surprisingly prominent
role in these speeches, and one reason why, I argue, is that dōrodokia qua a kind of
financial taking (like embezzlement) functions as a metaphor for Ergocles’ and
Philocrates’ problematic relationship to the polis.
In broadly listing Ergocles’ crimes—betraying other poleis, doing injustice to
Athenian citizens and proxenoi, and going from rags to riches at the expense of the
public’s property (e)k pe/nhtoj e)k tw=n u(mete/rwn plou/sioj gegenhme/noj, Lys. 28.1)—
the speaker quickly shifts attention to the last of these offenses: how Ergocles became
one of the richest men in Athens while the ships he had commanded ended up only
poorer (Lys. 28.2, 4). The magistrate’s most heinous crime appears to be that he enriched
his own home “at your expense” (e)k tw=n u(mete/rwn, Lys. 28.13), an accusation repeated
throughout the speech as Ergocles’ own fortunes are counterbalanced against the polis’.
This conceit is configured in two different ways. First, Ergocles is accused of having
taken bribes while the polis was poor (cf. e)n tosau/th| a)pori/a| tw=n u(mete/rwn
pragma/twn, Lys. 28.11): Ergocles’ dōrodokia was especially bad because at that time
the citizens were financially oppressed from having to pay the eisphora (Lys. 28.3, 4).
And second, he is thought to have grown rich while actively making the polis poor: he
and his friends profited even while his ships actually diminished in number (Lys. 28.2).
Repeatedly, Ergocles’ gains are weighed against the polis’ dangers (Lys. 28.4, 7, 13-14)
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as his profiteering is thought to have harmed the masses (plh=qoj a)dikou=si, Lys.
28.13). 35
The speaker uses the trope of profiting e)k tw=n u(mete/rwn in order to cast
Ergocles as one of a familiar breed of corrupt public officials, bad citizens who do the
community injustice in the pursuit of profit (cf. ponhrou/j, Lys. 28.13). In this way,
Ergocles’ offenses are viewed as characteristic of the officials of his day. His opponent
comments:
Not only Ergocles is on trial, but also the entire polis. For today you will
demonstrate to your public officials whether they must be just or whether they
should take as much of your property as possible (w(j plei=sta tw=n u(mete/rwn
u(felome/nouj) and procure their own safety in the same way that these men are
trying to do today. (Lys. 28.10)
By employing a relative clause of characteristic to reiterate Ergocles’ crimes—
overturning cities, stealing money, and committing dōrodokia (Lys. 28.11, cf. 28.1, 3)—
the speaker paints Ergocles not as a unique, and uniquely corrupt, politician, but as a
character type; he is just like the sort of person who would commit these offenses. In
fact, he is a ‘paradigm’ for all men (para/deigma, Lys. 28.11), and he should therefore
be convicted to serve as a lesson to others (Lys. 28.15-16; cf. e)pidei=cai, Lys. 28.9, 15;
e)pidei/cete, Lys. 28.10). With a conviction, Athens would prove that she improves the
character of her leaders (Lys. 28.15); with an acquittal, she would make her citizens only
worse (xei/rosi, Lys. 28.16).
Crucially, this character type is explicitly measured against the benchmark set by
the Thirty’s anti-type. In the middle of his exhortation to make an example of Ergocles,
the speaker instructively contrasts the actions of public officials like Ergocles with the
35 Here, too, the polis’ dangers are contrasted with the safety Ergocles and his philoi seek: Lys. 28.10, 11.
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crimes of the Thirty: “Whosoever…in a democracy harms the multitude (plh=qoj
a)dikou=si) while making their own private homes larger at your expense (e)k tw=n
u(mete/rwn) deserves your anger far more than do the Thirty,” he remarks (Lys. 28.13).
As the speaker explains, the Thirty had been elected to do the people harm
(kakw=j…u(ma=j poih/seian, Lys. 28.14), so there was no surprise when they achieved
just that. By contrast, officials like Ergocles were elected to do the exact opposite. That
Ergocles had endangered the polis rather than save it thus made him more heinous than
even the Thirty (Lys. 28.12-14).
For the speaker, the Thirty prove to be not simply a convenient threshold for
measuring character but particularly a model for understanding the motivations of
Ergocles and his philoi. If profiting e)k tw=n u(mete/rwn and harming the multitude were
characteristic of the Thirty, then Ergocles’ actions brought him dangerously close to the
oligarchs. Ergocles’ response in court, naturally, would have been to prove his own
democratic affiliation—but the speaker warns the jury about just such a rhetorical move
on Ergocles’ part (Lys. 28.12). According to the speaker, Ergocles in fact desires to set
up an oligarchy (Lys. 28.7, 11), and his anti-democratic sentiments are tellingly
reminiscent of the Thirty themselves. First, Ergocles is depicted as wanting to rule, not to
be ruled by others, just like the Thirty became tyrant-like masters of the Athenians (Lys.
28.7). Moreover, like the Thirty who wished both to control the political institutions by
which officials were held accountable and to rid the city of (democratic) sykophants who
might try to hold them accountable, Ergocles reportedly calls his democratic accusers
sykophants (Lys. 28.5-6). By escaping accountability and pursuing more profit, Ergocles
too hoped to “cut out” the sykophants (e)kko/yh|j, Lys. 28.6).
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Indeed, Ergocles’ actions align himself and his philoi against the polis as they
assume a relationship of negative reciprocity with the community precisely as the Thirty
had done. As financial crimes conceptualized as ‘taking’, both embezzlement and
dōrodokia reveal this relationship. No longer are Ergocles and his men considered philoi
of the city (Lys. 28.17), for, by acquiring their wealth, they effectively demonstrate ill-
will towards the people (cf. a3ma ga\r ploutou=si kai\ u(ma\j misou=si, Lys. 28.7; cf.
e1xqran, Lys. 28.16). As a result, the only charis they and others like them have is for the
money they have given and taken. They show no charis to the people (Lys. 28.16).
Thus, if the flow of money marks relations of goodwill, then embezzlement and
dōrodokia equally signal how Ergocles only ‘takes’ from or ‘harms’ the people; there is
no reciprocity, as he and his men treat the city even worse than do her enemies (Lys.
28.15).
As in our analysis of the financial crimes of the Thirty, dōrodokia qua a kind of
financial ‘taking’ here symbolizes the political injustice of Ergocles’ relation to the rest
of the community. The imbalance of profiting ‘at the polis’ expense’ acts as a conceptual
frame for understanding his purported oligarchic aspirations and particularly how he
provides negative reciprocity—active harm—to the people. Because the defendants have
but ‘taken’ from the city, they merit not the ‘giving’ of charis but the ‘taking’ of
vengeance; one bad turn deserves another. 36
It was already noted that dōrodokia plays a prominent role throughout Lysias 29,
too, but by now it should be clearer why this might be the case. With Philocrates’ guilt
36 A point forcefully made in the speaker’s last words: “by the same act you should give thanks to your
friends and take vengeance on the guilty” (a3ma toi=j te fi/loij toi=j u(mete/roij a)podou=nai xa/rin kai\
para\ tw=n a)dikou/ntwn th\n di/khn labei=n, Lys. 28.17). The parallel structure of the clause strongly
contrasts the city’s philoi with the defendants themselves. Moreover, by counterpoising a)podou=nai xa/rin
and di/khn labei=n, the speaker effectively underscores how like merits like.
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quickly established, the speaker spends the remainder of the speech cataloguing all the
various ways in which Philocrates bribed others. Like Ergocles, Philocrates apparently
sought to avoid accountability specifically by bribing citizens, jurors, accusers, and
witnesses. 37 Indeed, throughout the speech Philocrates is presented in tandem with
Ergocles—essentially, he is considered guilty by association with his friend (esp. Lys.
29.3)—and the speaker of Lysias 29 underscores how the pair maintained the exact same
sort of negative reciprocity with the people. Like Ergocles, who actively harmed the
people (cf. kakw=j diaqei/j, Lys. 29.2; cf. 29.14), Philocrates becomes an enemy of the
people by withholding public property (e)xqrou/j, Lys. 29.9). 38 In short, Ergocles and
Philocrates provide the same paradigm of bad citizens who choose to pursue profit even
at the risk of becoming outsiders to the moral community of the city. 39
Unlike in Lysias 28, however, Philocrates’ negative reciprocity is weighed against
the regular, reciprocal exchanges of performing a liturgy for the community, like paying
the eisphora (Lys. 29.9). And again, the speaker contrasts the liturgists’ regular
reservations about the trierarchy with Philocrates’ willingness to undertake the service,
the implication being that Philocrates volunteered so that he could profit (Lys. 29.4). The
speaker reinterprets the motivation of Ergocles, too, in the same light, as Ergocles is
thought to have pursued personal gain, not public honor, in becoming stratēgos
(0Ergoklh=j xrhmatiou/menoj a)ll’ ou) pro\j u(ma=j filotimhso/menoj e)ce/pleuse, Lys.
37 Both men are thought to have paid off their accusers (Lys. 29.1, 6) and potentially their juries (Lys.
29.12, 13); additionally, the speaker insinuates that Philocrates bribed his witnesses (cf. pepo/ristai, Lys.
29.7).
38 Note how the speaker balances the people’s refusal to ‘give’ immunity to Ergocles with Ergocles’ own
negative reciprocity—plundering and embezzling public funds (cf. dw/sete…diarpa/zousi kai\ kle/tousin,
Lys. 29.13). The lack of return given to Ergocles reflects the negative return he provided the city.
39 In fact, the speaker effectively elides any difference between the two when he remarks that with a guilty
vote at Philocrates’ trial the jurors would send the same message as they had in convicting Ergocles
(29.13).
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29.14). The difference is a subtle yet crucial one, for both men are now presented less as
potential oligarchs who might defect from the polity, than as elites defecting on their
explicitly financial obligations to the city. In other words, the conceit of profiting ‘at the
city’s expense’ signals a different kind of failed political reciprocity, one focused on
profiteering elites more generally, not necessarily oligarchic public officials specifically.
From Financial Obligations to Financialized Obligations:
The shift from Ergocles’ oligarchic negative reciprocity to Philocrates’ failure to
make good on his financial obligations to the community—both framed in terms of
dōrodokia ‘at the city’s expense’—suggests a precarious relationship between the
Athenian community and its elite members in the decades after the Thirty. Even if the
possibility of oligarchy—that is, complete elite defection—was a dead issue after the
stain left by the Thirty, the Athenians nevertheless had anxieties that elites might defect
on their financial obligations to the community, precisely the area where their
participation was needed most. Although Athens’ elite citizens might not have wished to
become outsiders to the moral community of the dēmos, as the Thirty had done, they
nevertheless might have wished to keep their money in a sense ‘outside’ the reach of the
community.
This anxiety was particularly acute in the early fourth century, for contemporary
sources frequently insinuate that the wealthy were not giving back to the community as
much as they should. 40 Irrespective of how elites like Ergocles or Philocrates had
acquired their fortunes, they were condemned for not spending it in the proper way, that
40 Cf. Ar. Pl. 352-90, Isoc. 8.125, 127; Lys. 18.18, 22.14, 25.26, 25.30, 26.22, 27.9, 27.21, 28.1, 30.28;
Ober (1989: 233-6) provides a helpful discussion. On the problem of liturgy evasion, see especially
Gabrielsen (1986), Christ (1990; 2006: 143-204).
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is, for not providing a sufficient financial return to the city. In part, this anxiety stemmed
from Athens’ economic reality in the early fourth century. With the loss of empire, she
had lost a tremendous source of revenue in the allied tribute, and she consequently had to
rely heavily on the war-time tax, or eisphora, levied exclusively on her richest citizens.
During and after the Corinthian War in the 390’s and 380’s, the eisphora was levied with
considerably greater frequency than it had been during the Peloponnesian War, and this
increased burden supposedly led many elites to skip out on their duties to the polis. 41
Yet after the Thirty the Athenians were acutely aware, as well, that elites might
make them poorer, just as the Thirty had done. Athenians readily assumed, therefore, that
the wealthy as a whole really did have more money than they claimed. Tax and
liturgical evasion were thought to be rampant at this time, as elites were suspected of
‘hiding’ their wealth, usually by converting it into credit at banks or by refusing to rent
out property which they had not publicly declared. 42 The more elites refused to make
their property ‘visible’—that is, ‘publicly recognized’—the greater the city’s difficulty in
collecting the eisphora and finding trierarchs. As Xenophon attests, such a refusal to
give back to the community, especially in its state of need, was punished as if one had
actively stolen from the public purse (Xen. Oec. 2.6-7).
41 On the eisphora, see generally de Ste. Croix (1953), Ruschenbusch (1978a), Mossé (1979b), Rhodes
(1982), Brun (1983: 3-73). During the Peloponnesian War, the eisphora was levied in 428 (Thuc. 3.19.1)
and perhaps only two more times between 410 and 404 (Lys. 21.3; Diod. 13.47.7, 52.5, 64.4). During the
ten years of the Corinthian War, by contrast, it was levied at least four times, as Brun (1983: 27) notes,
including twice during the period 395-2 (Isoc. 17.41), once in 388 (Xen. Hell. 5.1.5), and once more in
387/6 (cf. Is. 10.20). Burden of the eisphora: Lys. 28.3-4, 29.5, cf. Ar. Ec. 197-8; Christ (2006: 161-2,
165).
42 Given the central financial importance of the liturgical system in the democracy—on which, see Davies
(1971), Lauffer (1974)—the alleged explosion of liturgy evasion was an especially problematic
development. Cohen (1992: 201-7) is foundational for how the rise of banking in the early fourth century
correlated with elites’ purportedly ever greater efforts to avoid liturgical duties. The elites employed
various methods to ‘hide’ their wealth or make it ‘unseen’ (aphanēs): Andreyev (1974: 20), Gabrielsen
(1986: 105), Christ (1990: 158-60), and, for the distinction between ‘visible’ and ‘invisible’ wealth,
Gabrielsen (1986).
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So the precarious relationship elites maintained with the people in the wake of the
Thirty continued to be framed in terms of their financial relationship to the community;
financial transactions were viewed as a metaphor for how citizens, particularly
politicians, negotiated their civic relationship to the community. Indeed, Aristophanes’
Wealth, put on in the same year as the trials of Ergocles and Philocrates (389/8 BCE),
echoes many of the same sentiments from Lysias 28 and 29. 43 Yet of particular
importance for our investigation is how the poet in fact expands our frame for
understanding citizens’ financial obligations to the community. Through Wealth we
come to see that Athenians were concerned not just with financial obligations, but
especially with the ‘financialization’ of civic obligations. Outlining this discursive
process will enable us to examine more closely how, after the Thirty, new patterns of
social relationships in politics affected Athenian discourse on dōrodokia.
Wealth depicts a world in which all the ‘good’ people (chrēstoi) are poor, while
only the ‘wicked’ (ponēroi) prosper (e.g. Ar. Pl. 28-31, 502-4); in such a dystopia, many
men in the city starve or are cold simply because they refuse to be criminal (Ar. Pl. 28-9,
363). 44 Because the god Wealth is blind and unable to tell chrēstos from ponēros, the
wealthy are disproportionately comprised of ponēroi who are willing to ‘take’ from
43 Several scholiasts refer to a ‘first’ and ‘second’ Wealth produced by Aristophanes, and the scholiast at Pl.
173 says that the first Wealth was produced in 409/8. What that play was about and what its relation was to
the second Wealth (389/8) have been hotly debated: cf. Hertel (1969: 28-32), who claims there was only
one production (in 389/8), MacDowell (1995), Sommerstein (2001: 28-33). Even if the original had
included a substantial portion of our current play—so MacDowell (1995), but see Sommerstein (2001: 30-
3)—this would not significantly affect my argument about the late-fifth and early-fourth century shift
towards a monetized vision of the world.
44 Chremylus’ colorful description of a life of poverty—replete with hunger, pests, and rags (Ar. Pl. 533-
47)—is echoed throughout the play, on which see especially Dillon (1987: 162-3). Cf. Ar. Pl. 219, 263,
504, 535-47, 627-30, 843-7.
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others and grow rich. 45 The entire premise of the comedy, repeated by almost every
character, is that the good are poor, while the bad are rich. 46 Just as Plato would later
suggest in the Republic, the mere possession of wealth was itself thought to turn
somebody into a greedy ponēros, and politicians here were ponēroi par excellence (Ar.
Pl. 30-1, 379, 567-70). 47
Hence, the orators’ conceit of profiting ‘at the city’s expense’ transforms into a
‘rags to riches’ trope: anybody who recently acquired wealth must be bad. Yet this
truism has two distinct meanings in the play: people can profit only through being bad,
and simply possessing wealth makes one greedy and bad. 48 Ultimately, both valences are
at stake in the comedy’s version of the ‘rags to riches’ trope. Politicians might ‘take’ in
order to acquire wealth; and, once they have it, out of sheer greed they might not ‘give’ it
up. The profiteering of politicians in Wealth is certainly reminiscent of Ergocles’
negative reciprocity with the community, but the play also picks up on how Philocrates
defected on his financial obligations to the community.
45 They are, as a result, frequently called thieves and contrasted with chrēstoi who ‘give’ to others and to
the community: e.g. Ar. Pl. 203-6, 510-16, 665-6, 672-84, 869-71, 903-23. Cf. Olson (1990: 240-1). On
the terms chrēstos and ponēros in late-fifth- and early-fourth-century public discourse, Rosenbloom (2002,
2004) is foundational.
46 Ar. Pl. 28-31, 36-8, 49-50, 502-4, 751-6. This formulation shares much with the Ecclesiazousae’s focus
on the inherent selfishness of contemporary Athenians: e.g. Ec. 186-8, 301-10, 376-93, and the entire
scene with the selfish man (Ec. 746-876). Cf. Sommerstein (1984: 330-1).
47 See especially Ar. Pl. 107-11, 363-9, 569-70, 1003. Indeed, in a central agōn that has played a critical
role in recent interpretations of the play, Chremylus and Poverty argue over whether Wealth or Poverty
improves one’s character (Ar. Pl. 558-600). McGlew (1997: 35 with bibliography) rightly points out how,
ever since at least Flashar (1967), the majority of critics have viewed Poverty as a decidedly new and
different viewpoint entering into the comedy. For those who think that her argument is stronger than
Chremylus’, the entire second half of the play seems ironically conceived, at best, or unsettlingly proestablishment,
at worst: e.g. Flashar (1967), Konstan and Dillon (1981), Olson (1993). Somewhat
differently, Heberlein (1981) opposes an ironist approach to the play yet, like Poverty, is suspicious of the
changes that occur at play’s end. On the other hand, McGlew (1997: esp. 39-42) is joined by Sommerstein
(1984) in positing that Poverty represents the weaker of the two sides. I do not come down on any
particular side of this debate; for our purposes, it is crucial that both sides in fact agree that money (or a
lack thereof) determines one’s character.
48 Olson (1990: 228-30), Lévy (1997: 205-6).
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So when Poverty and Chremylus have a debate about Zeus’ wealth, it is the
economic return provided by the god that is at issue (Ar. Pl. 582-91). Poverty reasons
that Zeus could not possibly be rich because a rich god would never crown athletic
victors at his festival with crowns of wild olive; rather, because he was so rich, he would
surely give away valuable gold crowns (Ar. Pl. 582-6). This is precisely the logic
Socrates would later employ in claiming that Asclepius and Achilles could not possibly
have been dōrodokoi. Chremylus responds with a different view: Zeus, rich yet sparing,
chooses merely to save his own wealth while not spending anything on the victors (Ar.
Pl. 587-9). Yet in that case, as Poverty criticizes, he is greedy and stingy
(a)neleu/qeroj…filokerdh/j, Ar. Pl. 591), the same affront leveled against Philocrates in
Lysias 29. As in Lysias 28 and 29, therefore, Wealth measures political justice according
to an economically defined ‘good’ given to the community. As thieves or stingy
members of the community, politicians including dōrodokoi are vilified, while those who
give and take in turn ultimately prosper when Wealth regains his sight at play’s end.
Aristophanes’ use of the ‘rags to riches’ conceit in Wealth is thus readily aligned
with the accusation of profiting ‘at the city’s expense’ found in the speeches against
Ergocles and Philocrates; however, this alignment marks a considerable departure from
fifth-century use of the ‘rags to riches’ trope. In the fifth century, as we saw in the
previous chapter, Aristophanes had lambasted politicians like Cleon for just this sort of
suspicious accumulation of wealth. While such accusations certainly underscored how a
politician may have been escaping democratic accountability, they were nevertheless
leveled at pro-democratic politicians. There was no concern of oligarchic aspirations.
By contrast, the ‘rags to riches’ conceit in Wealth was directed at citizens who were
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actively harming the community: greedy elites who, like a Philocrates, potentially aimed
at overthrowing the democracy (esp. Ar. Pl. 568-70). 49 In this respect, we might say that
the ‘rags to riches’ trope, too, was framed in the shadow of the Thirty.
Aristophanes’ comedy moves us past the focus on financial obligations found in
Lysias’ speeches, for in the world of Wealth, money, prosperity and poverty pervade the
way the characters conceptualize the kosmos. 50 In a long and humorous catalogue, two
characters point out that Zeus would be powerless without wealth, for men would no
longer sacrifice to him in order to get wealthy themselves (Ar. Pl. 130-42); nor would
courtesans or artisans continue practicing their trade if they were already wealthy (Ar. Pl.
149-68). Wealth is posited as the cause of political alliances, love, military expeditions,
the actions of politicians, and even the meeting of the Assembly (Ar. Pl. 171-80). 51 In
short, without wealth—specifically money (a)rgu/rion, Ar. Pl. 131, 141, 154, 158; cf.
147)—all things fine and good in the world would be no more (Ar. Pl. 144-5).
In reducing everything to money—in explaining causes and consequences, human
action and natural forces, in economic terms—Aristophanes suggests that the world had
somehow become ‘financialized’. His suggestion does not seem far-off, judging from
other contemporary sources. Especially during this period, elite claims to being a good
citizen were often framed as a financial calculus of the economic expenses a citizen or his
family had incurred on behalf of the polis. To take but a single example, the speaker of
49 As Robin Osborne (2003) has recently detailed, in the fifth century the Athenians were concerned that a
charismatic individual might monopolize power, thus acquiring his riches at the polis’ expense; by the
fourth century, this anxiety over relative power had transformed into fear of outright constitutional change,
i.e. oligarchy.
50 Cf. Albini (1965), David (1984: 32-8), Olson (1990: 225-30).
51 Pay for attending the Assembly, which had only recently been introduced after the restoration of the
democracy, is taken as a particularly clear sign of Athenians selfishness and greed in the Ecclesiazousae.
The lament at Ar. Ec. 303-10 is indicative of the play’s stance towards that new pay. See further discussion
in David (1984: 21-32), Dillon (1987: 178-9) and below.
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Lysias’ speech On the Property of Aristophanes first lists his father’s benefactions—
including chorēgiai, trierarchies, and eisphorai—and then details that his benefactions
totaled 9 talents and 2,000 drachmas, plus additional minor expenses spent on poorer
citizens (Lys. 19.57-9; cf. 19.29). 52 Further, that elites were using banks or ‘hiding’ their
wealth through property markers (horoi) could have cut both ways, as they could have
done so in order to acquire wealth to pay liturgies. On this view, the negative evaluation
of such ‘hidden’ wealth might reflect, too, that there was growing social distance between
people and the land they owned and worked: the commodification of new things (like
land) signaled new ways in which people related to the world. 53 In a sense, therefore,
Wealth opens up the tantalizing suggestion that these were not so much financial
obligations as obligations that had been financialized. 54
As with Plato’s seemingly proto-modern conception of the dōrodokos,
Aristophanes’ thoroughly financialized perspective might sound oddly familiar to a
52
Similarly, Lys. 19.25 with 19.42-3 and 19.9, 26.3. Cf. Ant. 2.2.12, Is. 6.60. Christ (2006: 172-3) on the
‘cost-consciousness’ of Athenians at this time. Conversely, a typical accusation that a citizen had shirked
his financial obligation often entailed an assessment of the economic outlay that was due the polis. By
insisting that an individual was ‘hiding’ his wealth, that he really had more money than he had let on and
could therefore give more money to the polis than he had already done, such accusations were explicit
claims that an individual had denied the polis a specific economic return: e.g. Ar. Ec. 601-3; Lys. 3.24,
20.23; Isoc. 7.35; Is. 5.35-7, 7.39-40, 11.47-9.
53
This is, admittedly, a contentious claim, one that I le ave only as a suggestion, but see Andreyev (1974:
20), French (1991: 27-30).
54 2
Around this time, in fact, we begin to find honorary crowns of specific monetary amounts: IG i 110.11-
12 (1000 drachmas; 409 BCE), IG ii 2 1 .69-71 (1000 drachmas; 403/2 BCE), IG ii 2 2b.6-8 (300 drachmas;
403/2 BCE; restored, but see Henry [1983: 22]), IG ii 2 103.29-30 (1000 drachmas; 369/8 BCE). As Henry
(1983: 22-5) details, by mid-century this practice had become commonplace: e.g. IG ii 2 223 (500
drachmas; 343/2 BCE), IG ii 2 338.19-21 (1000 drachmas; 333/2 BCE), IG ii/iii 2 1252.7 (500 drachmas, cf.
a)pod]w/sousi toi=j eu)ergetou=[sin a)ci/aj tw=n/ eu)ergethma/twn], 1252.15-16; ca. 350-300 BCE); cf.
Whitehead (1986: 163).
Certainly, this focus on the precise cost of the crown might reflect the community’s desire to
budget expenses better in the wake of its financial problems. Yet undoubtedly one by-product of assessing
the cost ahead of time and publicly announcing it was that the ‘worth’ of deeds could be more readily
calculated. In fact, in the earliest examples, the tamiai (or Hellēnotamiai) were to provide a cash award that
was to be used expressly to create a crown: cf. IG i 2 110.11-12, IG ii 2 1.69-71. As a result, over time
distinct crown ‘values’ came to be associated with different kinds of civic benefactions: typically only
foreigners received 1000-drachma crowns, while Athenians most often were the ones to receive crowns of
500 drachmas. See further Henry (1983: 22-6).
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modern audience. That everything can somehow be reduced to money is, after all, a
common anxiety about capitalism and the relationship between capitalist markets and
society. Yet in that case it is all the more striking that this perspective should appear at
Athens alongside Plato’s alignment of dōrodokia and greed. Why at this time was
financial logic so important in considerations of political justice? One reason, I argue, is
that the measures adopted by the Athenians to recover politically and financially from the
Peloponnesian War and the horrors of the Thirty transformed the landscape of social
relations both in and out of politics. The financialized view in Aristophanes was born of
these changes—specifically, the continued movement towards a more impartial,
impersonal public sphere in which all citizens, democrat and potential oligarch, could
cooperate. In order to get along after the Thirty and their financial crimes, the Athenians
actually adopted a ‘financialized’ view of polity.
Once again, we can trace this story by following the dōrodokos. Here our final
guide will be Lysias 21, a speech written (shortly) after 403/2 BCE for an unnamed
magistrate accused of dōrodokia. 55 The speech falls into roughly two halves: an
extensive list of liturgies performed by the defendant (Lys. 21.1-11), followed by an
overview of his conduct as citizen and magistrate alike (esp. Lys. 21.18-19), with some
brief concluding remarks on his civic pride and patriotism (Lys. 21.22-5). Although the
general contours of Lysias 21 resonate with numerous other forensic speeches from the
same period, this particular speech stands out for its unusually long list of liturgies and
55 The date follows Todd (2000b: 228), based on the latest event mentioned in the speech, a chorēgia in
403/2 (Lys. 21.4). Equally as likely, to my mind, is Schmitz’ (1995: 72) suggestion of placing the speech
in early 401. Given the comprehensive, year-by-year list of liturgies provided in the speech, however, it
would be difficult to assume a date much later than Schmitz’ suggestion.
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the resultantly severe imbalance of the composition. 56 On the one hand, the catalogue
seems a grand elaboration on the common topos of requesting charis from the people in
exchange for all the good deeds the defendant has done. 57 On the other hand, whereas in
other speeches requesting charis for euergetism is usually unrelated to the charge brought
forward, in this speech the euergetism somehow forms the crux of the defendant’s legal
argument for innocence. “I would be mad, jurymen,” he reasons, “if, in pursuit of honor
(filotimou/menoj), I should spend my inheritance on you yet also take gifts from others
unto the detriment of the polis” (e)pi\ de\ tw= | th=j po/lewj kakw= | para\ tw=n a1llwn
dwrodokoi/hn, Lys. 21.22). The speaker’s catalogue of liturgies is as much an
explanation of his innocence as a request for pardon. This is perhaps a counterintuitive
claim: how could detailing his expenses on the polis possibly be a demonstration that he
had not taken bribes? Let us investigate further. 58
The defendant’s list of liturgies, indeed the entire extant speech, is framed as a
defense of character: “About the charges themselves, jurymen, I have given you
sufficient explanation,” the speaker begins, “but I think it fit that you listen to me about
56 On the exceptionality of this catalogue of liturgical expenses, see Schmitz (1995: 85-6), Todd (2000b:
229) and especially APF 592-3. The latter in particular explains this extraordinary catalogue as an
extraordinary attempt by the defendant to make up for his family’s oligarchic sympathies; but, as will be
clear from what follows, the catalogue can be seen as playing an integral legal role in the speaker’s legal
defense, as well.
57 So, Lys. 21.25. Likewise, the defendant in Lysias 20 confesses that he and his family treated the city
well solely to gain an acquittal should they ever be prosecuted (Lys. 20.31). Cf. Ant. 2.2.12; Is. 5.41-2,
6.60-1, 7.38-41; Isoc. 18.67; Lys. 25.13; [Dem.] 50.2, 7. For discussion, see Dover (1974: 176-7), Ober
(1989: 226-33, 241-3), Johnstone (1999: 100-8), Christ (2006: 172-81).
58 Scholars are quick to note that what we have of Lysias 21 is not the defendant’s full speech, but an
epilogos, or the second part of a defense coming after the defendant’s treatment of the charges themselves
(cf. Lys. 21.1). Assuming that the speech does not deal at all with the charges, their interpretations have
consequently focused on the defendant’s character and his general strategy to ingratiate himself to the
jurors, not on any legal arguments he makes. Schmitz (1995: esp. 91-3), for instance, explicates all of the
rhetorical arguments with an eye towards illustrating how they were typical for an elite Athenian who, like
the defendant of Lysias 21, probably had oligarchic sympathies; cf. APF 592-3, Todd (2000b: 229). I am
concerned, by contrast, to illuminate how these arguments might be typical for an elite charged with
dōrodokia. After all, it was not uncommon to make legal arguments in an epilogos—e.g. Lys. 14-15, 28-
29—and, as we will see, the defendant in Lysias 21 seems to do just that.
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other things, so that you know what kind of person I am (peri\ oi3ou tino\j o1ntoj e)mou=)
when you cast your vote” (Lys. 21.1). In the defendant’s own estimation, he is a model
citizen who should be emulated by other citizens—“pray to the gods that others are such
citizens [as I]” (21.15)—for his exemplary conduct in public and in private (cf. Lys.
21.18-19). He closes his speech by enjoining the jurors to vote for his acquittal and
thereby to continue benefiting from citizens like himself (toiou/toij…poli/taij, 21.25),
meaning the entire class of liturgy payers. 59
What kind of model citizen was the defendant? Obviously, he was considerably
wealthy, but his subtle presentation of character and financial expense suggests that he
was trying to contest the label of oligarchic sympathizer—precisely the kind of role later
played by Ergocles and Philocrates. Given his clear wealth, almost assuredly he would
have been a member of the 3,000 during the oligarchy, for the Thirty do not appear to
have confiscated his property. 60 The defendant downplays this involvement by glossing
over the year 404/3, when the Thirty were in power, even though he carefully lists his
liturgical expenses with reference to the name of the eponymous archon for every other
year. 61 Further, he seems to rebut a curious series of accusations: that he had been
pleased at the city’s misfortunes, given bad judgments as a judge, done shameful deeds or
profited e)k tw=n u(mete/rwn while in office (Lys. 21.18). This is a curious sequence, for it
reads more like a generic list of the Thirty’s crimes than as a catalogue of complaints
about a specific individual. Finally, he contrasts himself with the political guardians who
59 See Schmitz (1995: 89-90) on the use of the first-person-plural h(mete/rwn at Lys. 29.13.
60 APF 592-3, Schmitz (1995: 92-3). In this light, Schmitz (1995: 84-5) notes that the speaker could have
been an oligarchic sympathizer for his omission of ancestry or involvement in the civil war, his omission of
specific political offices, and his espousal of aristocratic ideals (ko/smion ei}nai kai\ swfro/na, Lys. 29.19).
61 He refers to the year, simply, as a ‘later’ (u3steron, Lys. 29.4) time period, sandwiched between his role
as gymnasiarch when Alexias was archon (405/4 BCE) and as chorus-leader when Euclides was archon
(403/2 BCE): Lys. 29.3-4 with APF 592-3, Schmitz (1995: 85).
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plunder the city, on the grounds that his own financial outlays provided consistent
revenue for the treasury; rather than endanger the city, he endured numerous dangers on
its behalf. 62
In an attempt to distinguish himself from the elites who plundered the city,
providing bads for goods, the defendant thus presents himself as anything but the Thirty’s
anti-type: he was no greedy dōrodokos like the oligarchs. In place of their anti-type, he
substitutes a model of citizenship predicated largely on financial obligations. His own
‘goods’ to the community are explicitly financial outlays, and when he describes the
reciprocity he enjoys with the city, he underscores that he is owed a return precisely for
the steady revenue he has provided. 63 The precise reason why he should be emulated, he
claims, is that he does not covet public property, but rather spends his own money on the
people (tw=n me\n u(mete/rwn mh\ e)piqumh/swsi, ta\ de\ sfe/tera au)tw=n ei)j u(ma=j
a)nali/skwsin, Lys. 21.15), a refrain which recurs throughout his speech (Lys. 21.12, 17,
22; cf. 21.23). He is the sort of person who benefits the polis by being frugal in private
and generous in public (Lys. 21.16), constantly providing maximal revenue for the polis.
And it is precisely because of this expenditure that he considers himself to have justice on
his side. 64
The benefit he provided, however, was not some indescript civic ‘good’, but a
specific, quantified financial outlay; in this sense, the civic obligation itself is
62
Plundering the city: Lys. 21.13, 14. Danger: kindu/nouj u(pe\r u(mw=n kekinduneukw/j, Lys. 21.11; cf.
21.3, 24, 25.
63
He refers to the entire catalogue of liturgies as his way of “doing the city such great goods” (tosau=ta
a)gaqa\ ei)rgasme/noj th\n po/lin, Lys. 21.11; cf. po/sa t\hn po/lin eu} pepoihke/nai, Lys. 21.8). Outlining
further the reciprocal return he expects for the exceptional amount spent on the polis, the speaker
emphasizes the language of gift exchange (cf. dwrea/n, a)nti tou/twn par’ u(mw=n labei=n, lamba/nein,
decai/mhn, a)xa/rista, Lys. 21.11-12). Cf. Lys. 21.13-14.
64
Lys. 21.12. He subsequently reprises this notion in claiming that, because of his public benefactions, the
people should rightly spare him: Lys. 21.17.
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‘financialized’, just as we saw in Aristophanes’ Wealth. The defendant signals this
financialization in two ways: he enumerates the costs of every one of his liturgies, and he
asks the jury to think of how much revenue in money his services brought the city. First,
every single public service is given a numerical price: 2,000 drachmas here, 5,000
drachmas there, 6 talents over one period of time, 30 mnae and 40,000 drachmas over
another. Had the jurors been keeping a running tab in their minds, they would have
discovered that the defendant had spent 63,600 drachmas—the colossal sum of 10.5
talents—in doing ‘good’ for the city. Elsewhere, too, he refers to his money (xrh/mata,
Lys. 21.13, 21) and the specifically financial value it holds for the polis (esp. Lys. 21.12-
13).
Such enumeration of expenses and value is perhaps understandable in the context
of financial outlays, but the defendant also alludes to the quantifiable revenue his services
brought back for the community. When describing his performance of the trierarchy, he
asks how much ‘bad’ his deeds wrought for the city’s enemies, how much ‘good’ it did
the polis itself; but he prefaces both of these questions by asking, above all, how much
money (xrh/mata) a ship decked out like his brought in as revenue. 65 Although the
defendant never signals that a certain total amount of public revenue and private
expenditure would justly merit an acquittal—in this sense, there was ultimately no ‘price’
65
Kai/toi ou3tw pareskeuasme/nhn trih/rh po/sa po/sa oi1esqe a)nhlwke/nai a)nhlwke/nai xrh/mata xrh/mata; xrh/mata h2 po/sa tou\j
polemi/ouj ei)rga/sqai kaka/ kaka/; kaka/
h2 po/sa th\n po/lin eu eu} eu pepoihke/nai; Lys. 21.8. This language returns later in
the speech with the antithesis of eu} peponqo/taj…eu} pepoihko/twn, Lys. 21.22. Both passages pick up
on contemporary public decrees honoring those who “do the polis well” (eu} poi/ein): e.g. IG i 3 80.9 (421/0
BCE); IG i 3 174.6 (c.420 BCE); IG i 3 102.9 (410/9 BCE); see discussion at Veligianni-Terzi (1997: 198-
200). What is remarkable about this echo is that, in the fifth century at least, this formula appears only in
decrees honoring foreigners with either citizenship or the proxeny. The earliest secure attestation of such
praise in a decree honoring a citizen dates to the mid-fourth century: IG ii 2 1188.15-16 (mid-C4); cf. IG ii 2
196.13-14 (353/2 BCE). It is possible, then, that the defendant in Lysias 21 was consciously picking up on
his perceived outsider status and, with reference to his good deeds, seeking re-integration into the moral
community of the dēmos.
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on justice—his itemization of expenses and quantification of revenue suggest that the
‘good’ of each act was nevertheless measured in financial, both numerical and monetized,
terms.
The speaker of Lysias 21 suggests that his civic obligations should be evaluated
according to a narrowly financial lens—that is, they should be assessed according to the
exact amount of financial revenue they provided—precisely because the polis was so
poor, sources of revenue were few and far between, and the city’s leaders were
plundering the treasury (o(ra=te ga/r…ta\ prosio/nta th| = po/lei w(j o)li/ga e)sti/ kai\
tau=ta w(j u(po\ tw=n e)festhko/twn a(rpa/zetai, Lys. 21.13). In other words, according
to the defendant, the city needed to focus on exact financial revenue in order to recover
financially after the Thirty.
The defendant’s line of thinking fits in well with a range of different fiscal
measures taken at Athens in the generation after the Thirty. These measures focused on
the exact financial return an investment would provide the community. In 378/7, for
example, the symmory system was created, whereby wealthy elties were assigned to a
‘share group’ (symmoria) that would cover the specific cost of the eisphora war tax. 66
This reform seems to have been designed to ensure that the city could collect the full
amount of the tax, that the earlier method of collection—on an individual basis by local
demarchs—simply was not effective enough. 67 When the eisphora was collected, the 300
wealthiest citizens, three per symmory, were liable to pay the entire tax up-front, while
collecting reimbursement from the other members of their symmory. By making
66 Philochorus FGrH 328 F46; de Ste. Croix (1953), Ruschenbusch (1978), Rhodes (1984), Gabrielsen
(1985: 36; 1987: 47-51), MacDowell (1986) on the symmory system.
67 Cf. Hakkarainen (1997: 10-11), van Wees (2006: 369-70). On the previous system of eisphora
collection, see AP 21.5 with 8.3, Davies (1981: 143-50), Whitehead (1986: 132-3).
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corporate groups, not individuals, responsible for the sums, the city thus diminished the
impact that shirkers would have on the final total collected. Similarly, Agyrrhius’ grain
tax law of 374/3 was designed to guarantee that a certain financial outcome—there, a
specific amount of grain—would accrue to the city. 68
These reforms were critical to Athens’ financial recovery particularly because the
city no longer had revenue coming in from the allied tribute; even when the Second
Athenian League was established in 378/7, allied contributions did not go towards the
democracy’s administrative expenses. 69 Instead of a tribute, however, Athens did depend
on considerable subsidies from Persia: not only monies for specific public projects, like
the building of the Long Walls, but also payments to support the efforts of Athenian
generals and soldiers. 70 Although funding problems continued for Athenian generals, the
financial boon was appreciated and relied on all the same. 71 In this respect, it is telling
that, whereas in the fifth century the receipt of Persian gold carried with it the stigma of
treasonous plotting, in the fourth century Conon was actually honored for his ability to
leverage the King’s funds. 72
68 Ober (2008: 260-3) illustrates this point well; see also Stroud (1998), Osborne (2000).
69 Davies (1978: 224), Cargill (1981: 124-7), de Ste Croix (1981: 293), Dreher (1995: 79-80). So IG ii²
123.11-12 expressly indicates that allied syntaxeis were to be controlled by the synedrion of the League,
not by the Athenian dēmos.
70 Long Walls and Persian gold: Xen. Hell. 4.8.8-10, Diod.14.84.5-85.4. Persian subsidies of the Athenian
fleet began soon after 401, when Cyrus broke from his brother, thereby breaking the previously strong link
between Persia and Sparta. In 397 Pharnabazos gave 500 talents of silver for equipment and soldier pay
(Diod. 14.39.1), although ultimately the fleet ended up being very poorly paid (Hell.Oxy. 19.2, Isoc. 4.142).
In 395, 220 talents were given to pay for the fleet, but Conon eventually had to ask for more money (Diod.
14.81.5-6). For discussion and further context, see Lewis (1979: 232-3). The trend towards mercenary
armies begins at this time, as the armies of Conon and Iphicrates, and later Chabrias, Chares and Timotheus
were hired out by foreign poleis: Pritchett (1974: 56-116), although see now Trundle (2004) on the
problematic appellation of ‘mercenary’.
71 In the 370’s Timotheus had numerous problems on his expedition to Corcyra: [Dem.] 49.9, 49.13, Lys.
fr. 228; cf. Diod. 15.47.2-3. Likewise, Iphicrates: Xen. Hell. 6.211-14. Pseudo-Demosthenes points out
that, because regular pay was almost impossible, desertion was a problem, and generals had to continually
conscript soldiers: [Dem.] 50.6, 11, 23.
72 Hence not all gifts of ‘Persian gold’ were ill-received, as Lewis (1989) and Mitchell (1997: 111-33)
rightly explore. Treason and Persian gold recur throughout Herodotus’ Histories: Hdt. 1.69.1, 1.105.1,
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When the defendant in Lysias 21 measures his contribution to the city in
explicitly financial terms—63,600 drachmas’ worth of good—his financializing lens thus
parallels a contemporary focus on guaranteeing that a specific amount of revenue might
accrue to the polis. 73 Yet this ‘financialization’ extends beyond simply measuring
drachmas; in the speaker’s view, it defines even how political justice works. One striking
aspect about the speaker’s financial calculus here is that it constitutes an argument in his
own defense. After all, had he wished to demonstrate simply that he had provided an
imprecisely defined, symbolic ‘good’ for the city, he easily could have done so, and with
an impressive list of good deeds at that. 74 Instead, he enables the jurors to calculate an
exact monetary value for his return—63,600 drachmas (at least)—and it is this number
that he seems to weigh when he begs the jury not to think that there is “so much money”
(tosau=ta xrh/mata) for the sake of which he might wish ill upon the polis (Lys. 21.21).
By providing precise financial expenses, he is able to demonstrate how absurd his
opponent’s case must be: why spend 63,600 drachmas on ‘good’ for the community in
order to receive its goodwill in return, only to turn around and squander that investment
by taking bribes and thereby incurring ill-will? Far from being merely a spectacular
3.148, 6.72, 6.82.1-2, 8.29-30, 9.2.3, 9.5.1-2, 9.41.2-4. Cf. Hdt. 5.30.6, 5.31.2; Timotheus fr. 790 Page;
Dem. 9.41-4, 19.271-2. A statue of Conon was erected in the Agora in 393 after Cnidus in recognition of
his military and financial support—cf. Dem. 20.68-70 and see Gauthier (1985: 96-7)—and note how
Alcibiades tried to win the King’s resources explicitly to help, not harm, the city (Plut. Alc. 37.4).
73 We can push this trend back at least to the last decade of the Peloponnesian War. Certainly, as the
treasury was gradually depleted during the war, the Athenians had enacted similar reforms: notably in
414/3 the collection of a 5% tax (eikostē) on imports and exports throughout the empire instead of the allied
tribute, collection of which had apparently been ineffective: Thuc. 7.28.4 with excellent discussion in
Kallet (2001: 196-9). As Kallet details, the imposition of the eikostē, which was a purely economic matter
presumably lacking the tribute’s overt political connotations of subjugation, marked a broader shift in how
the Athenians were thinking about archē. Increasingly, archē was framed in economic, not political, terms.
See further Kallet (2001: 196-204).
74 Contrast the mere passing mention of liturgies performed and dangers endured on behalf of the polis at,
for example, Ant. 2.2.12, Is. 5.41.1, Lys. 3.47.
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display of his largesse, the defendant’s catalogue of liturgical expenses signifies his
innocence and illustrates how irrational his opponent’s claim surely must be.
This is a remarkable argument in context. In other speeches defendants cite their
liturgies as an argument from ethos: a demonstration of their good character and,
occasionally, a reason why they should be treated leniently by the courts. 75 Indeed, this is
how the defendant in Lysias 21 opens his speech, and he draws attention to this exact
phenomenon after finishing his own catalogue of liturgies (Lys. 21.11, 17). Yet his
argument from ethos subtly shifts into an argument from logos, or reason, in two different
ways. He claims that, because elites plunder the city’s coffers, it would be “worth it”
(a1cion) for the community to continue relying on a sure source of revenue, i.e. the
defendant’s financial contributions, rather than to confiscate his property and to have the
city manage it (Lys. 21.13-14). The defendant’s phrasing here is particularly strong, as
he claims that he would make a better tamias—treasurer—than the official tamiai of the
city (Lys. 21.14). 76 Precisely because the financial returns accrued by the city would be
greater if the defendant were to keep his money than if the city were to take it,
confiscating his property would be tantamount to injustice (cf. a)dikh/sete, Lys. 21.14).
75 See above note 57.
76 Schmitz (1995: 87-8) rightly discusses this passage in conjunction with the common rhetorical refrain
that the polis would beneft most by letting the rich manage their own money, but it should be noted that the
defendant here presents a variation on the standard topos. Rather than say that the polis would benefit less
by taking his property than by leaving it alone, the defendant insinuates that the people would not benefit at
all, for others would ‘divide it amongst themselves’ (diane/mountai, in the middle voice, Lys. 21.14). This
subtle variation allows the defendant to transform his version into an argument about political justice. As a
matter of justice, he assumes, the community is owed reciprocity, and only by letting the defendant remain
tamias of his own property could that just outcome be obtained; otherwise, the community would suffer
from negative reciprocity at the hands of plundering elites.
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His is a logical argument predicated on how much money the community would receive:
a vote for the greatest financial gain would be a vote for justice. 77
The second argument from logos comes towards the end of the speech, when, as
we just saw, the defendant proves his innocence by showing how irrational it would have
been for him to have taken bribes in the first place (Lys. 21.21-22). His argument is
strikingly similar to those made by political economists today who employ rational actor
models in studying contemporary corruption. Just as they emphasize that the proper
context of incentives and sanctions will determine whether or not someone is inclined to
take bribes, the defendant claims that in no way would taking bribes have been in his own
best interests. If anything, he asserts, it would have been irrational (cf. mainoi/mhn, Lys.
21.22). As with the previous argument predicated on the community’s pursuit of
financial resources, his defense rests on the assumption that he, too, would always try to
maximize wealth.
With both of these arguments, therefore, the defendant employs logos—rational,
impersonal reasoning—that reduces questions of political justice to profit maximization.
It seems we are back in the world of Wealth, with its thoroughly financialized vision of
politics and society. Yet the argumentation employed in Lysias 21 sheds light on how, or
why, that world became so financialized. In Lysias 21 the financialization of political
justice is ultimately underpinned by the defendant’s shift from ethos to logos: that is, a
shift from arguments based on inherent character to those based on impersonal reason.
Although the defendant begins his speech by focusing intently on his own character, he
ultimately shies away from such a personalized view of justice. Instead, in the course of
77 In making this argument, the defendant virtually equates justice (ta\ di/kaia) with the financial benefits
he provides the people (ta\ lusitelou=nta), as they amount to one and the same thing: his own acquittal
(Lys. 21.12).
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transforming his list of liturgies into an argument from logos, he opens up a
depersonalized space wherein any citizen in his position would have acted the same way
(i.e. not have taken bribes) and consequently would have merited an acquittal (as the
most profitable outcome for the polis). 78
The image of the dōrodokos in Lysias 21 negatively frames a positive image of
political justice, one predicated on impersonal—let us say ‘arms-length’—social distance.
In so doing, that image signals what was a critical shift in how politics was conducted at
the turn of the century. Earlier we saw how changes necessary for financial recovery in
the wake of both the Peloponnesian War and the debt accrued by the Thirty helped shift
the Athenians’ focus towards evaluating the outcome of an action in terms of the money
it might bring the community. As Lysias 21 obliquely suggests, moreover, Athens’
attempts at political recovery in the shadow of the Thirty also contributed to the
transformation of the dōrodokos into a greedy elite. By opening up a greater space for
arms-length ties in the public sphere, within which space the Athenians could frame
political injustice in increasingly impersonal terms, these political reforms sought to
prevent public officials from providing bads for the community’s goods, just as the Thirty
had done.
These changes began immediately with the Amnesty of 403, which signaled a
common desire to make political justice more impersonal. Recall that one hallmark of
the Thirty’s reign was an ad hominem use of political process: they had subverted the
courts to make personal attacks on elite citizens and had personally selected who could
78 That this space is effectively depersonalized, i.e. removed from any personal investment the actors may
have, is clear from the defendant’s comment that, ideally, the benefited should not judge their benefactors
(Lys. 21.22). As he himself notes, however, while such a non-private space would be ideal, it is moot in
his case precisely because he has benefited the entire community (so there is nobody left to judge him).
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and could not be a member of the 3,000. By contrast, with the Amnesty the Athenians
chose to forget completely the entire period of the Thirty, in effect refusing to punish
specific individuals for their specific crimes. That the Thirty and other officials from the
oligarchy had to undergo a scrutiny before being admitted back into the polity only
underscored that they should be brought to trial as offending public officials, not private
citizens. 79 The Athenians thereby laid a foundation of impersonal justice, and in fact later
that year they passed a law making it illegal to create ad hominem legislation (And.
1.87). 80 In short, the Amnesty epitomized the Athenians’ commitment to shaping law
and justice around the abstract, impartial concept of a citizen, rather than the highly
subjective image of an individual. 81
Lysias 21 was delivered probably within only a couple years of the Amnesty, yet
its nod towards impartial political justice points to a trend in political reforms that would
continue for decades. One significant way that the Athenians tried to create a more
depersonalized space for justice was by further separating the ‘private’ and ‘public’
79 Note how it was only after the Thirty that it became routine for all public officials to submit their
accounts at the end of office: see Chapter Six below. Accordingly, that only formal officials under the
oligarchy would be brought to justice could have signaled the Athenians’ commitment to a new system of
mandatory accountability for all officials.
80 As the defendant of Lysias 21 suggests, justice was to be a fair exchanged based on mutual good
character (Lys. 21. 12, 14), a notion which would later underpin the increasingly greater use of contracts in
conducting maritime trade: Cohen (1971), and recently Lanni (2006: 149-74). Even the role of judicial
witnesses like a speaker’s family members, epitomes of a highly discretionary mode of justice, was
severely curtailed. Sometime in the early fourth century it became compulsory for witness testimony to be
presented in written, not oral, form at a public trial: Ruschenbusch (1989: 34-5) suggests an early fourthcentury
date, while Rhodes (1995: 310-11) cautiously posits sometime in the 370’s. Although this law was
probably introduced to diminish the incidence of witness perjury—so Dem. 45.44, [Dem.] 46.6,
Humphreys (1985: 321-2)—it nevertheless could have prevented witnesses from arguing impassionately
(and subjectively) on behalf of a particular litigant: Rubinstein (2000: 72-5).
81 Of course, this process was never complete, and throughout the fourth century, too, we find speakers
appealing to the jurors qua individuals: Allen (2000), Lanni (2006). Still, the shift to a more abstract
concept of law—argued for especially in Ostwald (1986), Sealey (1987), and Harris (2006)—is much more
pronounced around the turn of the century, as epitomized by Socrates’ discussion of the laws in Plato’s
Crito. While I would not refer to the Athenian legal system even in the fourth century as ‘the rule of
law’—see especially Chapter Five below—one central claim I make here is that after the Thirty the
Athenians made the space of law and justice even more ‘depersonalized’ than it had been in the fifth
century.
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spheres. In the last chapter we saw how in the fifth century a Cimon might be extolled
for lavishly spending his money in private, albeit on informal public services like feeding
his demesmen. In the fourth century, however, as the speaker of Lysias 21 suggests, the
paradigm was to be frugal in private, to spend one’s money only on formal public
liturgies. 82 In this sense, it is important to note the striking extent to which the speaker of
Lysias 21 divides monies into ‘mine’ and ‘yours’, that is, into private and public funds. 83
Indeed, such a clear demarcation of monies is good evidence that the dēmos’ earlier
desire to control political monies and to legitimate only certain liturgical channels had
worked.
Crucially, the growing depersonalization of the public sphere—its further and
clearer demarcation from the private sphere, as found in Lysias 21—was born of concrete
changes in the patterns of social relationships that were leveraged within the practice of
politics. Two political trends in particular contributed to the continued growth of this
depersonalized space. First, as emblematized by the creation of a series of new political
boards, there was a greater focus on collaborating and thereby preventing the
concentration of political authority within a single domain. 84 The board of nomothetai, or
lawgivers, provided an immediate check on the Assembly’s lawmaking abilities, helping
to prevent conflicting or unclear legislation. 85 Similarly, a board of forty dikastai kata
82 Cf. Lys. 21.16. On this point, Humphreys (1978b) is essential.
83 See, for example, Lys. 21.11, 13-14, 15, 16. Again, for the speaker the mere possession of such funds
constitutes an essentially private, or personalized, act that should be far removed from the impartial justice
required in the public sphere. For this reason, he remarks that benefactors probably should not be judged
by their beneficiaries (Lys. 21.22).
84 On the increased coordination among fourth-century public officials and political bodies, see especially
Rhodes (1980: 303); on Athenian political coordination more generally, see Ober (2008).
85 The nomothetai were a board of ten, selected one per tribe from the list of annually selected jurors,
beginning either in 403/2 or in 399 after the completed revision of the law code. On the nomothesia
process, see Harrison (1955), MacDowell (1975), Rhodes (1985), Ostwald, (1986: 521-2) Hansen (1991:
165-75).
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dēmou, or traveling judges, was restored, augmented, and relocated to the city center; and
coordination was the central focus in the creation of both the symmories, as we saw
above, and a new selection procedure for secretaries. 86
This bureaucratic expansion certainly helped the workings of the democracy, yet
one probable consequence of such increased collaboration was that it diluted the social
ties of the actors involved. With more collaboration and with collaboration among more
people, the kinds of relationships formed through and leveraged within the political
process would have tended closer to arms-length, what we might call ‘professional’ ties. 87
Indeed, even outside of political boards, we find political groups more atomized in the
fourth century, as their membership changed more rapidly than it had in the fifth
century. 88 This change was due no doubt in part to Athens’ desire to recover politically
from the Thirty. Whereas close relationships had prevailed among the hetaireiai that
oligarchs had leveraged for political power in the late fifth century, in the new democracy
the political clubs were effectively discolored by their associations with the oligarchs,
and they ceased to be such powerful political tools. 89 Instead, elite political associations
86 dikastai kata dēmou: AP 53.1, Haussoullier (1979: 123-6), Whitehead (1986: 261-4). On the
symmories and collaboration, see especially Rhodes (1980: 311). In the fifth century secretaries had been
selected from the Council (IG ii 2 104-107), but later in the fourth century they were selected from the
citizen population at large (IG ii 2 110-11; cf. AP 54.3). This, too, fostered coordination among still more
officials.
87 Arms-length ties, the now familiar ideal in corporate and political contexts, are marked by either brief or
standardized social interaction: see Granovetter (1985), Uzzi (1997), Zelizer (2005b). Commonly they are
thought of as ‘impersonal’ ties, but this just means that the content of the ties tends towards exemplifying
social distance (as between strangers) than social intimacy (as between friends or family). The larger a
corporate body engaged in collective action, the more diluted the relational ties typically are—and hence
the greater the social distance, on average, between actors. In showing that there was greater participation
in the fourth-century democracy, Taylor (2008) provides indirect evidence for the dilution of social ties
within fourth-century politics.
88 Strauss’ (1985: 11-41) sociological analysis of politics in the early fourth century is essential on this
point.
89 Calhoun (1916), Strauss (1985: 11-41).
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were managed by smaller, more short-lived groups of leaders at the top. 90 In this way,
the social ties that characterized these boards—and, more broadly, how deliberative
politics was conducted—were closer to depersonalized arms-length ties. 91
A second way in which the public sphere became more depersonalized was
through the standardization of practices within institutional bodies. Such a shift could
have had a significant impact on the social character of the space in which those practices
were conducted. As we will see in detail in Chapter Six, the processes for holding public
officials accountable were standardized at the end of the fifth century; this meant that all
public officials had to go through the exact same process of appearing before financial
examiners (logistai), then examiners (euthynoi). 92 Likewise, in the first third of the
century, the selection of jurors and magistrates was routinized with increasingly complex
sortition processes. 93 One effect of such routinization was to ensure that citizens
underwent the same process, meaning that no one individual would be given more or less
fair treatment. This same impetus underpins the standardization of public honors in terms
of the language or phrases used as well as, later in the century, the frequency with which
90 A distinct yet analogous shift can be detected in how citizens were praised publicly by the community.
Beginning around 412, abstract nouns and adjectives that marked membership in a broad corporate group—
i.e. those desiring the dēmos’ praise—supplanted more individualized forms of honor: Whitehead (1993:
47) with sources. Certainly these abstract forms of praise were used in reponse to oligarchic sentiments as
a way of distinguishing between ‘us’ and ‘them’, democrats and oligarchs; yet it is striking how, in
response to the threat (and actuality) of oligarchy, the Athenians defined democracy in abstract, impersonal
terms, just as we have been tracing.
91 Note how in Plato’s Republic it is the impersonal force of rational reason which is meant to guide the
Guardians’ political decisions. Just as the Guardians were to be kept utterly separated from private
interests like money or family ties, so, too, was the justice of their decisions predicated on depersonalized
deliberation.
92 For a description of this process, see Andoc. 1.78, AP 48.3-5 and recently Efstathiou (2007).
93 AP 63-6 provides details: see also Chapter Seven below.
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they were awarded. 94 Political justice was characterized by an impersonal, routinized
approach to political process.
With increased political collaboration and a greater routinization of political
process, the practice of democratic politics in the early fourth century most likely would
have been marked by a greater prevalence of arms-length, professional ties. I would
suggest, further, that such ‘professionalization’ of politics was not merely a consequence
but was actually an intended result of at least some of Athens’ institutional changes. So
the defendant of Lysias 21 underscores that people should not be judged by those they
benefit (Lys. 21.22). To modern eyes, his sentiment certainly brings to mind the obvious
idea of conflict of interest, but, again, it is important to remember that this idea emerged
prominently in Athenian politics precisely after a period in which oligarchs had used the
city’s political institutions for their own interests. Athens’ shift towards a more
depersonalized space for politics, itself tied to the concurrent ‘financialization’ of civic
obligations, was a conscious shift away from the Thirty’s mode of self-interested political
practice, as emblematized by the greedy dōrodokos. Accordingly, it is likely that the
creation of more arms-length ties in politics went hand-in-hand with Athens’ political
recovery in the restored democracy.
This chapter has explored two main reasons why the money-loving, thieving
dōrodokos appeared in Athens in the generation after the Thirty. Emphasizing a financial
return constituted both a sign of Athens’ own need for money after the Peloponnesian
94 Praise: see above n. 90. Standardized language appears especially on decrees passed without change
from the Council’s recommendations: cf. Rhodes (1972: 52-81), who collects the sources. The prescripts
of decrees also became standardized with the archon’s name and precise dating according to the Athenian
political or sacrificial calndears—a marked change from the fifth century’s use of names without
patronymics or demotics for identifying the secretary, prytaneis, and proposer of the decree: Henry (1977:
49). By much later in the century (340’s BCE), even the awarding of public honors had become routine for
completion of certain offices: AP 46.1; Aeschin. 1.111-12, Dem. 22.36, 22.38-9; cf. Dem. 22.8-20 with
Whitehead (1983: 73n.32).
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War and, especially, a metaphor for understanding the oligarchs’ problematic relationship
to the polity. Thinking through the relationship between Athens’ elite and the rest of the
community, the Athenians thought with the dōrodokos. Moreover, as our reading of
Wealth and Lysias 21 has demonstrated, configuring the dōrodokos as a greedy thief
entailed a ‘financialization’ of the ways in which civic obligations were understood.
With a proliferation of arms-length ties in the practice of politics, and with the creation of
political institutions focused almost exclusively on gaining a quantifiable financial return,
the public sphere in Athens grew, becoming more like the bureaucratic world to which
modern readers are more accustomed.
Of course, Athens would not always remain in the shadow of the Thirty, and by
mid-century shortly after the Social War, she had made almost a full recovery,
economically as well as politically. But with that recovery came a new problem: the rise
of Philip of Macedon and the growing threat he posed to Athenian freedom. As the next
chapter explores, with these changes in Athens’ economic and political fortunes,
dōrodokia again shifted meaning, becoming an ever graver threat to the democracy.
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The Democracy in Danger:
Dōrodokia and the Rise of the “Crop of Traitors”
378-322 BCE
As Athens tried to move out of the shadow of the Thirty, she faced an
increasingly unstable Greek world, one dominated by inter-state alliances and warfare.
Indeed, as leading city-states rose to relative prominence—first Sparta, then Athens in the
370’s, followed by Thebes in the 360’s—much of the rest of the Greek world allied
against them in order to control any potentially new threat. The Second Athenian League
was one such alliance, directed against Sparta upon its initial formation in 378 but later
counterpoised against Thebes after Sparta’s defeat at Leuctra. Yet by 355, the League
was in shambles after the conclusion of the two-year Social War, in which a number of
Athens’ allies had revolted. With these shifts in international alliances frequently came
civil conflict, or stasis, as cities changed regimes to signal changed allegiances. Even
with such inter-state alliances, no area in Greece was stable for long, for tensions were
high both inside and outside the city. 1
Stasis, then, was an enduring feature of the fourth century Greek polis. 2
Importantly for this chapter, the fear of stasis lay at the heart of the dominant image of
1 On these developments, see Seager (1974), Davies (1978: 168-70), Cargill (1981), Cawkwell (1981),
Jehne (1994), Dreher (1995). The fourth century was rife with stasis: just a cursory overview encounters
violent revolutions in Corcyra (Xen. Hell. 6.2.3-15; Diod. 15.46-7, 15.95.3; Aen. Tact. 11.13-15), Corinth
(Xen. Hell. 4.4.1-13) and the Peloponnese (Isoc. 6.64-7, Diod. 15.40). Cf. Tod 144.25-6, 147.28-9 for
examples of explicit clauses against constitutional subversion in interstate alliances.
2 An overview of stasis in the fourth century can be found in Fuks (1972, 1977, 1979) on social tensions in
Isocrates and Plato’s Republic and Laws, respectively; de Ste. Croix (1981: 292-9); Lintott (1982: 222-
38); Gehrke (1985) catalogues and analyzes instances of stasis in the fifth and fourth centuries. It should
be noted that, while stasis has been interpreted as a primarily political phenomenon instigated by a foreign
power—so Ruschenbusch (1978b), Lintott and Gehrke—Fuks and de Ste. Croix (1981: esp. 293-5) rightly
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the dōrodokos that emerged in the second half of the fourth century. In the ‘amnesia’
following the stasis of the late fifth century the dōrodokos had become thoroughly
financialized, but, as the century progressed, he was increasingly viewed in starkly
political terms. As this chapter examines, the thief soon gave way to the traitor.
The image of a traitorous dōrodokos was closely connected to the rise of Philip II
of Macedon, an enormously wealthy king with an impressively large army. 3 Philip’s
progressive gaining of the helm of Greek affairs dominated the political landscape from
the 350’s until his death in 336. Looking back at this period, in 330 in his most famous
speech On the Crown the orator Demosthenes links Philip’s rise to both dōrodokia and
the stasis it bred:
In all the Greek states—not in some but in every one of them—it chanced that there had
sprung up the most abundant crop of traitorous, venal, and profligate politicians ever
known within the memory of mankind. These persons Philip adopted as his satellites and
accomplices. The disposition of Greeks towards one another was already vicious and
quarrelsome; and he made it worse. Some he cajoled; some he bribed; some he corrupted
in every possible way. He split them into many factions, although all had one common
interest—to thwart his aggrandizement. 4
remind that there were significant social and economic factors augmenting these political tensions within
poleis.
3
Under Philip’s guidance, Macedonia developed from a rugged, pastoral society into a cultured and
prosperous, agricultural-based community (Arrian, An. 7.9.2-3). Macedonia was rich in gold and silver
mines (Hdt. 5.17, Thuc. 4.108.1, Diod. 16.8.6) as well as in timber (Dem. 19.89), and Philip developed
both industries to a remarkable degree. During Philip’s heyday from 348 to 336, his coinage was actually
the strongest currency in Europe, and Macedon’s resources were numerous times greater than those of
Athens even during her revival under Lycurgus. With such enormous resources, Diodorus writes, Philip
employed a considerable army which also proved vital to Macedonian expansion (Diod. 16.8.7). On
Philip’s wealth and the success of the Macedonian army, see further Cawkwell (1978: 47-8) and especially
Hammond in Hammond and Griffith (1979: 2.651-71).
4
Dem. 18.61, which I reproduce in full to highlight the tight sequence of dōrodokia, betrayal and stasis (in
bold): para_ ga_r toi=j 3Ellhsin, ou) tisi/n, a)ll' a3pasin o(moi/wj, fora_n fora_n prodotw~n prodotw~n kai kai\ kai kai\\
\ dwrodo&kwn
dwrodo&kwn
kai\ qeoi=j e0xqrw~n a)nqrw&pwn sune/bh gene/sqai tosau&thn o3shn ou)dei/j pw pro&teron me/mnhtai
gegonui=an: ou4j sunagwnista_j kai\ sunergou_j labw_n kai\ pro&teron kakw~j tou_j 3Ellhnaj
e1xontaj pro_j e9autou_j kai\ stasiastikw~j
stasiastikw~j stasiastikw~j e1ti xei=ron die/qhke, tou_j me\n e0capatw~n, toi=j de\ didou&j didou&j, didou&j
tou_j de\ pa&nta tro&pon dia diafqei/rwn
dia diafqei/rwn
fqei/rwn, fqei/rwn kai\ die/sthsen ei0j me/rh polla&, e9no_j tou~ sumfe/rontoj a3pasin
o1ntoj, kwlu&ein e0kei=non me/gan gi/gnesqai. For other references to this ‘crop of traitors’ cf. Aeschin.
3.234, Diod. 16.54.2, 16.85.4 and, generally, Cargill (1985).
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For Demosthenes, as well as for other contemporary Athenians, Philip’s arrival on the
Greek political scene heralded the rise of a horde of traitors: not merely a handful of
corrupt individuals acting in isolation, but an entire ‘crop’ of rogues from all over Greece
who formed factions, instigated stasis and thus betrayed their cities for the price of a
bribe. Philip’s wealth and dōrodokia became the hallmarks of Greek politics in the final
decades of the Athenian democracy, and, as we will see, it was in light of both their
attitudes towards Philip’s diplomacy and its purported link to stasis that the Athenians
began to reshape their understanding of the dōrodokos. 5
As in the case of Timagoras, whose fateful gifts from the Persian king were
investigated in the Introduction, the bribe-takers lambasted by Demosthenes were
considered traitors to their city. What is crucial for our purposes, though, is that
supposedly they were not working alone. Unlike Timagoras, who was singled out for his
treasonous politicking with the enemy, the purported traitors on Philip’s payroll were a
concerted group acting from within the city. Philip’s trademark brand of diplomacy was
thus thought to have fomented factions within the city: the threat of dōrodokia was a
threat of stasis as well.
So, for example, in the Third Philippic, delivered in 341, Demosthenes holds up
the town of Olynthus as a model for the evil overcoming all of Greece (Dem. 9.56-62).
At Olynthus, he says, the city was divided into those subservient to Philip in all respects
(pa/nq’ u(phretou=ntej) and those trying to ensure that the citizens not become Philip’s
slaves (Dem. 9.56; cf. Diod. 16.53.2). Though the orator does not put a number on them,
Philip’s partisans in Olynthus appeared to be numerous, for, as he claims, they
5 On Philip’s reputation for bribing, cf. Dem. 18.19, 18.61, 19.300; Diod. 16.8.7, 16.53.3, 16.54.3-4,
16.55.4, 16.95; cf. Plut. Mor. 178a-b. See further Ryder (1994) and Mitchell (1997: 149-50).
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systematically ruined the city by maliciously prosecuting and slandering the city’s
defenders until the dēmos was won over (Dem. 9.56). As Demosthenes chillingly
describes of the town of Oreus, it was Philip who directed and funded the inevitable civil
conflict that ensued when his hirelings, now a partisan mass, fought against the city’s
staunch defenders (Dem. 9.59-62). 6
Given that stasis was a persistent problem throughout the fourth century, though,
Philip was no more its cause than were Thebes, Sparta, and indeed Athens. In this
respect, Demosthenes’ suggestion that the problem of political instability was due
directly to Philip’s rise is misleading. In fact, the orator’s alarming portrayal of Philip’s
systematic and systematically corrupt rise, though shared by a number of contemporary
Athenians, was misleading in two further respects, as well. It presupposed a Macedonian
policy of methodical expansion, as if Philip began with some master plan for taking over
all of Greece and for targeting Athens in particular. But, as numerous scholars have
shown, Philip’s actions in context often seem more like shrewd ad hoc measures than an
actual preconceived plan to take over Athenian territory in Attica, let alone all of Greece. 7
6 Calling Philip the chorēgos (choir-director) and prytanis (president; cf. xorhgo\n e)/xontej Fi/lippon kai\
prutaneuo/menoi, Dem. 9.60), Demosthenes borrows civic language from the democracy, thereby showing
how Philip’s presence effectively subverted the workings of democratic institutions.
7 Harris (1995: 115-6); Cawkwell (1978: 108-13), who reaches a similar conclusion about Philip’s aims in
346; and especially Buckler (1996: 84-6); cf. de Ste Croix (1981: 292). In the case of Olynthus, for
example, Philip seemed to be after money, not power, just as Diodorus attests (Diod. 16.53.3); indeed,
Philip’s actions against minor players in the Chalcidian Federation suggest that he might never have
anticipated the capture of Olynthus one year later: cf. Diod. 16.53.2 and Ryder (2000: 53). Moreover,
Cawkwell (1978: 122-3) reminds that some poleis welcomed Philip with open arms, hailing him as their
savior, and at least in these cases Philip’s dōrodokia was irrelevant.
The rhetoric of Macedonian expansionism was common in Demosthenes: e.g. 8.2, 8.14, 8.18,
8.60, 9.6-19. So, for instance, in the Third Philippic the orator ends a chronological survey of Philip’s
conquests with the summary statement, “Neither the Greek nor the barbarian world is big enough for the
fellow’s [sc. Philip’s] greed” (pleoneci/a, Dem. 9.27). Cf. Dem. 19.315-31. Still, it was seemingly not
until the First Philippic (351) that Demosthenes viewed Philip as a true threat: cf. Ryder (2000: 45-51); de
Ste Croix (1981: 607n.36) places this turning point earlier (352), while Harris (1995: 50) would locate this
turning point still later at the fall of Olynthus in 348 (cf. Dem. 19.101-2, 302-6, Aeschin. 2.79). Either
way, Philip was not always a manifest threat for Demosthenes, and in fact the orator himself later confessed
to exaggeration in depicting Philip as waging war against all Greeks (Dem. 18.20, 24).
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Distortion also enters into Demosthenes’ picture in his depiction of all of Philip’s dōra as
bribes, even though in some cases those dōra make more sense as financial support for a
military venture than as corrupting payments meant to benefit only a select few. In the
case of Philip’s activity in the Peloponnese, for example, his funds seem to have been
provided not to induce stasis, but to help various poleis ward off Spartan aggression. 8
Still, despite these historical ‘inaccuracies’, it is crucial that many Athenians seem
to have accepted this storyline exactly as Demosthenes and other prominent Athenians
told it. 9 In other words, Demosthenes’ picture, however inaccurate, had considerable
resonance in Athens in the latter half of the fourth century; indeed, it might be not so
much ‘inaccurate’ as representative of broader contestations of the legitimacy of Philip’s
diplomacy and the consequent significance of his expansionism. Why, then, did stories
about the rise of Philip and his diplomatic use of dōrodokia take the specific form that
they did? What was persuasive about imagining that a faction of corrupt men would
betray the city, and what did conjuring up this image gain for an orator like
Demosthenes? As this chapter examines, the image of a traitorous dōrodokos was quite
malleable during this period, so we should dig beneath its surface to uncover the hidden
factors that shaped its framework.
In order to answer these questions, let us turn to Demosthenes’ speech On the
False Embassy, in which he prosecutes his rival Aeschines for taking bribes from Philip
while they were both on an embassy to Macedon during the middle of Philip’s aggressive
8 Although Demosthenes later repeats his claim that a handful of Arcadians, Argives, and Messenians had
turned traitorous (Dem. 18.295), we have no evidence of factional struggles in these cities. To the contrary,
the historian Polybius’ defense of these purported traitors is a strong indication of Demosthenic hyperbole
here (Polyb. 18.14.6): Ryder (1994: 238-41).
9 Cf. Isoc. 5.73-5; Aeschin. 2.72-3; Dem. 2.4, 4.18, 5.12, 8.20, 8.53, 8.61-6, 9.14, 9.36-47, 9.49, 9.53, 9.63-
7. Although we cannot push this argument too far, another potential indication of the persuasiveness of
Demosthenes’ narrative is the substantial political success he enjoyed from 346 until Philip’s death, on
which period see especially Ryder (2000).
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expansion (Demosthenes 19). By examining how and why the orator distorts his
narrative about Philip’s diplomacy, we can begin to understand the underlying concerns
that shaped this dominant image of the dōrodokos in the second half of the fourth
century. The next section will take up how and why the traitorous dōrodokos appeared in
wholly domestic contexts, as well.
From 357, when Philip seized the Athenian territories of Amphipolis and Pydna
in northern Greece, Macedon and Athens were at war (Aeschin. 2.70, 3.54; Isoc. 5.2).
For the most part, Athens was unable to thwart Philip’s advance, as he slowly secured a
major portion of northern Greece, including Athens’ last strategic stronghold in
Chalcidice, Olynthus, the loss of which in 348 we saw bitterly recounted in the Third
Philippic. By 347, when Philip agreed to enter into peace negotiations with Athens, he
was knocking on the door of central Greece, about to march in and settle an ongoing war
between Athens’ ally Phocis and her bitter enemy Thebes. Early the next year, ten
envoys—including Philocrates and the orators Aeschines and Demosthenes—were sent
to Macedon to negotiate the peace. The First Embassy returned to Athens, where
Philocrates persuaded the Athenian Assembly to ratify the Peace of Philocrates, which
recognized the current holdings of both Athens and Macedon. The same envoys were
elected to the Second Embassy, charged with getting Philip to swear to the same terms,
yet a whole two months passed before Philip would meet the embassy. By the time
Philip swore to the treaty’s terms, Macedon had acquired even more territory in the north,
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including former Athenian holdings, and Philip soon settled the Third Sacred War by
destroying Athens’ ally Phocis. 10
As the dust settled on the events of 346, the Athenians quickly realized that the
Peace of Philocrates and its aftermath were an utter failure for the city: with the Peace,
all of Philip’s gains in northern Greece over the previous decade had been recognized,
and now he had a major hand in controlling affairs in central Greece. Still, Aeschines, a
strong advocate for maintaining diplomatic ties with Macedon, continued to push for
rapprochement with Philip. When in 343 these efforts at diplomacy fell apart, Philocrates
and Aeschines, both major proponents of the Peace, were in trouble. Philocrates was
charged with treason and fled Athens rather than face trial; and, with public opinion
decisively on his side, Demosthenes prosecuted Aeschines for misconduct on the Second
Embassy. 11 Demosthenes’ speech On the False Embassy is based on his prosecution
speech on that occasion. 12
It is abundantly clear from Demosthenes’ prosecution speech that, in the orator’s
eyes at least, his opponent Aeschines took bribes from Philip, and he was a traitor for
doing so. Throughout, Demosthenes’ clear focus is on his opponent’s bribe-taking: no
fewer than 55 times he accuses Aeschines of being on Philip’s payroll, of which instances
10 For a more detailed background to these events with primary sources, see Griffith in Hammond and
Griffith (1979: 2.216-328), Sealey (1993: 50-101), Paulsen (1999: 28-45), Buckler (2000: 117-32),
Ryder (2000: 45-72).
11 Griffith in Hammond and Griffith (1979: 2.450-95), Harris (1995: 102-15), Paulsen (1999: 45-50),
Buckler (2000: 132-4) and MacDowell (2000: 1-14) helpfully collect the primary sources on the aftermath
of the Peace of Philocrates.
12 On the trial itself, see recently Harris (1995: 116-18), Buckler (2000: 134-40), MacDowell (2000: 14-
22). For Demosthenes’ prosecution speech (Dem. 19) and Aeschines’ defense speech (Aeschin. 2), recent
commentaries by MacDowell (2000) on Demosthenes and by Paulsen (1999) on both speeches are
invaluable.
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at least 13 also insinuate that Aeschines was a traitor. 13 In the opening of the speech,
Demosthenes underscores how Aeschines failed in every one of his duties as an
ambassador—by providing a dishonest report to the people, giving them bad advice, not
following their explicit instructions, and wasting precious time that the city could have
used to pursue other opportunities (Dem. 19.4-6)—and each one of these failures was
thought due to the receipt of dōra (Dem. 19.4, 7-8). More damning is Demosthenes’
repeated accusation that Aeschines “profited at the city’s expense,” a refrain familiar
from the earlier part of the fourth century, as we examined in the last chapter. 14 Yet,
instead of profiting at the city’s financial expense, as the accusation earlier signaled,
Aeschines is accused of actively bringing ruin to the city. That is, he is accused of being
a traitor, not a thief. His personal profit is weighed against the destruction of Athens’ ally
Phocis and, Demosthenes suggests, the eventual ruin of Athens herself. 15
Beneath the veneer of these accusations lay a much larger, more sustained
problem, one critical to the very security of the polis: for the democracy to survive,
ambassadors had to be honest and trustworthy (Dem. 19.182-4). 16 As the orator warns,
there would surely be dire consequences for trusting in a traitor like Aeschines. 17 In
13 Dem. 19.8, 9, 16, 19-20, 27, 29, 68, 88, 94, 97, 102, 104, 110, 111-3, 114-5, 116-18, 120, 121, 125, 127,
134, 142, 143-6, 147, 149, 201, 205, 209, 220, 236, 243-5, 254-5, 279, 286, 292-3, 301, 303-9, 308, 313,
316, 328-9, 331 to which should be added the orator’s accusations that Aeschines was a traitor for taking
bribes: Dem. 19. 88, 90, 133, 146, 178, 180, 182-4, 207-8, 229, 258, 301-2.
14 The accusation recurs throughout Demosthenes’ speeches: Dem. 3.29, 8.66, 17.11, 18.109, 18.211-7,
18.250, 18.298-9, 18.320, 21.123-5 57.60.
15 Dem. 19.7, 275. This weighing of interests recurs throughout Demosthenes’ speech: e.g. Dem. 19.8, 90,
143-6, 147, 149. Cf. 18.298-9.
16 As a result, Demosthenes frequently upholds his own, purportedly trustworthy actions and reports as a
foil to Aeschines’: cf. Dem. 19.15-16, 18, 33, 45-6, 150-2 with 155 and 157, 205-8, 211-12, 223, 229-30.
In response, Aeschines takes a similar tack, foregrounding Demosthenes’ ties with Philip’s purported
hireling Philocrates, while distancing himself from Philocrates: Aeschin. 2.14, 18, 54, 56, 63-6, 69; cf.
3.58, 69, 79.
17 Indeed, to further this aim the orator’s accusations repeatedly link Aeschines’ bribe-taking to purported
instances of lying: because Aeschines was bribed, he lied in his reports to the Assembly, he lied about
Philip’s intentions while giving advice to the people, and in this manner he committed the greatest
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describing the resolution to the Third Sacred War, when on Aeschines’ advice the
Phocians handed over their cities to Philip, Demosthenes stresses the trust placed in
Aeschines when he was giving his policy recommendations:
You hear that, men of Athens...‘the Phocians are to hand over their cities’, it says, ‘to
Philip’—not to the Thebans, nor the Thessalians, nor anyone else. Why? Because it was
reported to you by Aeschines that Philip had come for the preservation of Phocis. They
put all their trust in Aeschines (tou&tw| dh_ pa&nt' e0pi/steuon); they were guided by him in
all their considerations; they were guided by him in making peace....Notice how they
trusted and how they suffered (ti/ pisteu&santej ti/ e1pasxon)...No more terrible or more
serious events, men of Athens, have occurred in Greece in our time, nor I think in the past
either. (Dem. 19.62-4)
The Phocians placed their trust in the wrong man and subsequently were devastated by
Philip (cf. Dem. 19.53). Nor were the Phocians the only ones who made the fatal mistake
of trusting one of Philip’s secret hirelings. We saw earlier in the Third Philippic how the
destruction of Olynthus provided a vivid paradigm for the havoc that Philip might wreak,
so it is telling that when Demosthenes reprises the story in On the False Embassy, he
specifically points towards the Olynthians’ foolishness in trusting corrupt speakers like
Lasthenes and Euthycrates. Significantly, instead of pointing to just those two traitors by
name, Demosthenes says that there were (at least) two more unnamed people who joined
Philip’s side; in effect, the corruption was spreading. Even as more and more people
inexplicably came upon more and more riches—and all to the disadvantage of the city—
the Olynthians continued to follow their pro-Macedonian leaders, trusting in them even
more (cf.pistote/rouj h(gh&santo), at times even honoring them and thereby bringing
upon themselves their own demise (Dem. 19.265). 18
conceivable wrong to the city (Dem. 19.184). His actions were “fine and trustworthy” (kalo\j ka)gaqo\j
kai\ di/kaioj) only to his paymaster Philip; to the city they were nothing short of treason (Dem. 19.110).
18 On Lasthenes and Euthycrates, cf. Dem. 8.40, 9.66, 18.48, 19.265, 19.342; Din. 1.26; Hyp. Fr. B19.1;
Diod. 16.53.2; Griffith in Hammond and Griffith (1979: 2.323).
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For Demosthenes, a disease (no/shma) was sweeping across Greece, infecting
leaders and corrupting them to stir up civil strife within their cities. This stasis sprang
from a partisan, self-interested desire by otherwise trusted citizens to gratify Philip by
handing the city over to him (Dem. 19.259-67). 19 Corrupted under the guise of friendship
(philia) with Philip, these traitors sought to satisfy their philos even if that meant
destroying their polis (Dem. 19.259; cf. 18.51-2). 20 And if the destruction across the rest
of Greece was any sort of guide, Demosthenes suggests, Athens was in trouble. Within
her walls were veritable traitors: Philocrates (only just in exile), Aeschines, Phrynon,
Pythocles—associates of Philip, all, and they were not alone. 21 Anybody who spoke in
Aeschines’ defense, even if he were otherwise considered trustworthy, was implicitly
acting in Philip’s, not Athens’ interests (Dem. 19.289). Demosthenes is unequivocal
about the real source of danger to the polis: in Olynthus, Megara, or Elis, he claims,
though doubtless numerous men pocketed public monies, they were not the ones who
19 The image of stasis as a disease or nosos was commonplace: see Brock (2000), Kalimtzis (2000: esp. 1-
31) for further treatments of this motif. Just to get a feel for how novel was Demosthenes’ picture of
dōrodokia leading to stasis, it is worth comparing this passage with two others: the near-contemporary
Third Philippic of Demosthenes himself (341) and Thucydides’ Histories, written some sixty years prior.
In both Demosthenic texts, dōrodokia is seen as the root cause of stasis: because of dōrodokia, patriotic
citizens turn traitorous (Dem. 9.36-40, 19.259), slavery is dressed in the garb of friendship (Dem. 9.36,
19.259), while concord and virtue are traded for vice and faction (Dem. 9.39-40). Under the corrupting
influence of dōrodokia, Demosthenes suggests, things have been turned into their opposites.
It is precisely this alarming trend—where values are turned on their head—that is the hallmark of
Thucydides’ description of the stasis that spread from Corcyra through all of Greece (Thuc. 3.82-4): “At
their own will,” the historian writes, “men changed the customary meaning of words in relation to deeds”
(Thuc. 3.82.4), for a brilliant explication of which see Loraux (1986b). Yet Thucydides attributes the stasis
at Corcyra not to bribery, but to a greedy desire for power (archē) and an ardor for fighting once engaged in
civil conflict (Thuc. 3.82.8). By contrast, Demosthenes underscores how people wanted to befriend Philip
and thereby to win dōra from him—power is never mentioned, and it is altogether unclear that
Demosthenes’ crop of traitors was interested more in power, which most did not obtain, than simply in
dōra. In fact, Athenian bribery was rarely attributed to some excessive desire for power: von Reden
(1995: 95, 103n.76). Thus, although the orator and historian paint the same terrifying picture of stasis,
they differ greatly in illuminating its cause.
20 Note how Aeschines’ corrupt counsel led the dēmos to vote for the Peace of Philocrates, which
Demosthenes outright calls “dangerous, perilous and not to be trusted” (e0piki/ndunoj de\ kai\ sfalera_ kai\
a1pistoj, Dem. 19.97).
21 Phrynon: Dem. 19.189, 229-30. Pythocles: Dem. 19.225, 314; cf. 18.285. That there were still more
traitors in Athens is suggested at Dem. 9.29, 9.39, 18.296-7.
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sought to destroy their city; it was, instead, the partisans of Philip, his “guests and
friends” (ce/noi kai\ fi/loi), citizens who actively abused the people’s trust in order to
betray the city (Dem. 19.294-5; cf. 18.46, 19.248).
No longer was the dōrodokos conceptualized primarily as a thief as he had been
earlier in the century; nor was the dōrodokos a solitary individual like Timagoras a
couple decades prior. 22 By 343, Demosthenes suggests, an entire network of traitors had
become dōrodokoi, threatening the very security of the city; indeed, dōrodokia shattered
the foundations of trust underlying the Athenian polis. The Athenians simply could not
trust that all their leaders were trying to ensure the people’s safety (cf. Dem. 9.64); and
when they did trust a leader, they often did not trust the right one (cf.ou1te pisteu&ein,
Dem. 19.23). 23 In Demosthenes’ vision, the Timagorean model of bribery qua treason
had been transposed into a new context in which the fear of imminent stasis gripped the
polis and ever more distrust was brewing among the citizens. 24
Demosthenes’ speech On the False Embassy reflects a notable shift from
arguments based on logos, as espoused by the defendant in Lysias 21, to those steeped in
ethos and pathos. In so doing, the orator’s narrative about Philip’s bribery brings to the
fore an assumedly pervasive distrust among the citizens, a fear that seemingly
trustworthy citizens had already sold the city’s interests—in other words, that stasis and
22 In fact, Demosthenes compares his opponent to Timagoras three times, each time insinuating that he was
a ‘bad friend’ like Timagoras: Dem. 19.191, 226, 248.
23 Indeed, it was right around this time that the oracle at Dodona warned Athens to be wary of the conduct
of her leaders and counselors, who might betray the city’s interests. On this oracle, see Dem. 18.253,
19.297-9; Din. 1.78, 98; Parke (1967: 139-41). Cf. Aeschin. 3.130. Similar oracles from the Sibyl and
Musaeus can be found in Pausanias 10.9.11, who attributes them, however, to the fifth century.
24 Cf. Isoc. 4.114-17, 167-8. Likewise, in the Third Philippic, Demosthenes rails against how dōrodokia
used to be punished, but now was commonplace and overturning the very concord (homonoia) that had
held together the city ever since the overthrow of the Thirty (Dem. 9.38-9). Here, too, he refers to
dōrodokia as a disease (cf. nenh/soken, Dem. 9.39). On the significance of homonoia as a prominent
political slogan in the fourth-century Greek world, see especially de Romilly (1972), West (1977), Funke
(1980).
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constitutional change were well on their way. Not just another isolated Timagoras,
Aeschines was emblematic of a larger class of ponēroi, lying rogues bought by Philip at
the price of the city’s destruction and plotting the city’s demise from within (Dem.
19.68). Accordingly, Demosthenes recommends that Aeschines be punished to serve as a
lesson to all the current and would-be traitors in Athens (Dem. 19.231-2, 339-40, 343).
Although we should be wary of taking any orator at his word, there appears to
have been at least some truth to Demosthenes’ picture of stasis and pervasive distrust. 25
Indeed, after the conclusion of the Social War in 355—and only two years after Philip
had taken Pydna and Amphipolis—amid considerable anxieties over financial recovery,
Athens was especially vulnerable to the threat of stasis. For one, Philip’s imposing
presence in the Aegean was a direct threat to Athens’ interests in securing grain from
Thrace. 26 As a result, Athens’ use of a select few citizens to handle relations with the
Spartacid Kings in Thrace—and thereby to secure favorable trade terms—became a risky
endeavor, it was thought, for those few elites might easily be corrupted by the enemy to
divert the grain elsewhere. 27 What is more, the Social War and, with it, the demise of the
25
As Plato’s intense focus on stasis would suggest. So, for instance, Rep. 4.422e-423a remarks, “Any
state, however small, is in fact divided into two, one the state of the poor, the other the state of the rich.”
On fourth-century Athenians’ preoccupation with stasis, see further Fuks (1972, 1977, 1979), de Ste. Croix
(1981: 69-80), Brock (2000: 27-30), Kalimtzis (2000: 15-31). Similarly, Aeneas Tacticus’ manual on
siegecraft (350’s) is rife with concerns that the polis might be attacked by its own citizens: e.g. Aen. Tact.
10.20, 14.1, 17.1, 22.21. Cf. Whitehead (1990: 25-33). Note how when the League of Corinth was formed
in 337, there was a clause explicitly aimed at preventing constitutional subversion: Tod 177.12-14; cf.
[Dem.] 17.5, 12, 15.
26
See Oliver (2007: 43-4) on the successful threat Philip posed to Athen’s ability to police maritime trade
in the 340’s and 330’s.
27
Beginning in the late fifth and early fourth centuries, ties between the Spartacids and traders in the
Bosporan region were notoriously close: traders were given tax breaks and priority in loading their cargo
(Dem. 20.31-2), as well as ateleia at the emporion at Theodosia (Dem. 20.33); Bosporan elites were
educated at Athenian schools (Isoc. 17.4, 15.224); and Athenian elites regularly spoke in favor of awarding
Bosporan elites statues and public honors (Gauthier [1985: 156-7]; Oliver [2007: 23]). Moreno (2007:
175-9) provides an exhaustive treatment. Concerns about corruption and the grain trade were thus
pronounced—Lysias 22 is a classic early example of fears in this area—but ultimately these did not include
fears of treason. Whereas the grain-dealers in Lysias 22 might be castigated for trying to harm the dēmos
(Lys. 22.14-15) and even for colluding to get rich (Lys. 22.20), they were not suspected of trying to
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Second Athenian League only demonstrated how infeasible empire was in the mid-fourth
century. No longer, then, could the Athenians even hope to gain public revenues from
external League monies; instead, they once again had to look to within their community
to raise public monies. 28
On two different fronts the city’s internal financial reorganization likely
problematized the bonds of trust between citizens. First, anxieties over elite defection
only increased as the public treasury relied still more on their involvement in raising
public revenues, in terms of both providing and managing the city’s revenues. We saw in
the last chapter how concerns over gaining a specific amount of revenue prompted the
creation of the symmories, or groups of citizens responsible for paying the cost of the
eisphora tax during war. Likewise, in the 360’s these same symmory groups probably
became the basis for paying the costs and upkeep of naval warships (triērarchia), as
well. 29 By the 350’s, both liturgies, crucial for the defense of the city, acquired new
prominence as the most critical—and hence the most honorable—financial contributions
to the city. 30
overthrow the democracy. In this sense, the fears surrounding their dealings were wholly analogous to
those leveled against the purported dōrodokoi of Lysias 27-9 analyzed in the previous chapter: cf. Moreno
(2007: 222).
With the emergence of Philip, however, there was a tangible threat that an enemy might affect the
provision of grain—and it was here, in the combination with Philip, that fears of stasis emerged. At this
time, wheat became synonymous with bribery from Athens’ enemies—e.g. Dem. 19.114, 19.145; Din.
1.43—as the reliance on only a handful of individuals thus became a major security issue for the Athenians.
Cf. [Dem.] 34.47, 42.20; Oliver (2007: 41-4).
28 See especially Cawkwell (1981: 40-55), Hakkarainen (1997: 4-8) on this conceptual shift; this idea
features prominently in Isocrates’ On the Peace (esp. Isoc. 8. 19-21) and Xenophon’s Ways and Means, cf.
Rh. Al. 1446b19-21.
29 Whether or not the eisphora and triērarchia were collected through the same symmory groups is still a
matter of debate: see, for example, Ruschenbusch (1978: 275-84) for, MacDowell (1990: 372-3) against.
30 Demosthenes’ speech against Leptines in defense of rewarding military liturgists with exemption from
festival liturgies (ateleia), is a locus classicus for emphasizing the importance of military liturgies over and
above festival liturgies: Dem. 20, 21.160, cf. Lyc. 1.139 with Hakkarainen (1997: 14-19).
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Once the polis had acquired these revenues, they had to be managed for the
community’s benefit. One marked difference around this time is how public monies were
concentrated into fewer and fewer hands. Through the middle part of the century we find
a shift from disbursement of all funds by approval of the Assembly to the creation of an
‘allocation’, or merismos, to specific officials to be used as needed within their own
domain. 31 Simultaneously, the domain of the Theoric board, created or at least heavily
reorganized in the 350’s, grew considerably over a period of a few decades until it
encompassed the construction and maintenance of public buildings, certain religious cults
and festivals, and even war and defense policy. 32 It, too, was managed by citizens elected
to the Theoric board, not by the Assembly as a whole. 33 With both the collection and
management of the polis’ revenues, therefore, increasing dependence on elite
involvement—and especially elite goodwill—could have amplified fears that elites might
defect. 34
31 Cf. IG ii/iii 2 29 (386 BCE), IG ii/iii 2 223 B, 226 (both dated to 343/2 BCE), AP 48.2, Arist. Pol.
1321b31. On the growing use of the merismos in public finances, see especially Rhodes (1980: 309-15),
Hakkarainen (1997: 5-6).
32 See, for example, Cawkwell (1963: 56-7), Hakkarainen (1997: 6-7); the fund itself was called the
‘common administration of finances’ (koinh\ dioi/khsij, Aeschin. 2.149). Theoric handouts to citizens:
Theopomp. FGrH 115 F 99, schol. ad Dem. 10.11 (=Dind. 203.21). Building programme: Din. 1.96,
schol. ad Dem. 3.29 (=Dind. 133). Our sources seem to confuse the origin of the Theoric Fund with earlier
monies to citizens: e.g. Pericles’ misthophoria and jury pay (cf. Plut. Per. 9) or Agyrrhius’ provision of
pay or Assembly attendance (cf. Hesych. s.v. draxmh\ xalazw=sa). While some scholars have thus
assumed that the Theoric fund had existed long before Eubulus in the 350’s and 340’s—e.g. Jacoby (ad
Philochorus FGrH 328 F 33), see further citations in Cawkwell (1963: 55n.53)—I view these as
anachronistic references to institutions that performed a similar kind of function: see Ruschenbusch (1979)
for a cogent argument in favor of Eubulus’ creation of the Theoric fund.
33 Cawkwell (1963: 58-9). On the election of the Theoric commission, see AP 43.1.
34 Hakkarainen (1997: 14-19) perceptively points out that around this time elite contributions became more
regularly rewarded with charis from the community, that is, that a formal system of reciprocal exchanges
emerged: see further Whitehead (1983) on the central importance of philotimia as a civic pursuit at this
time. I will take up this idea in the next section, but for now it is worth pointing out that one reason why
the provision of charis became regularized was that it needed to be: without the guarantee of charis in the
form of public honors, elites very well may have defected. In this way, the institutionalization of an
explicitly reciprocal relationship between elites and the community could have stemmed from heightened
anxieties over elite defection.
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Such fears implicated the relationship between elites and other citizens, but there
is evidence that Athens’ financial reforms problematized the relationship between
citizens and foreigners, as well. During the Social War, a number of slaves and metics
had deserted the city, thereby significantly reducing the city’s commercial revenues and
the taxes they accrued (Isoc. 8.20-21). As a result, one major focus of Athens’ financial
recovery in this period was on fostering commercial trade. So the Athenians tried to
entice metics to return to the city, facilitated trade through the creation of commercial
courts, and even naturalized metic bankers so that they would remain in Athens. 35
Crucially, these efforts at boosting commercial trade destabilized traditional
categories of civic status, in effect blurring the lines between citizens and others and
thereby diluting the content of civic ties among citizens. Metics were enticed to return in
large part by the grant of enktēsis, or the citizen right to possess property within the
polis. 36 Similarly, the commercial courts granted what was essentially a citizen right—to
defend oneself or prosecute another before an Athenian jury—to foreigners; indeed, a
number of bankers at this time were actually granted citizen status. 37 In both cases,
traditional boundaries between citizen and non-citizen were blurred. 38 It is important
here that the space in which this occurred, the Piraeus port, was heavily commercialized,
35
In his Ways and Means, Xenophon explicitly recommends bringing back metics (Xen. P. 2.1-7), creating
facilities and hostels to promote trade (Xen. P. 3.12-13; cf. Din. 1.96), and creating commercial courts dikai
emporikai (Xen. P. 3.3) on which see [Dem.] 7.12, AP 59.5, Pollux. 8.63 and Cohen (1973: 59-74),
Vélissaropoulus (1980: 241-5). Additionally, Xenophon recommends creating a board of ei)rhnofu/lakej
to make the city more attractive to trade (Xen. P. 5.1); such an idea may very well have underpinned the
creation of the Theoric Commission.
36
Pečirka (1962: 152-60) collects the sources; see also Burke (2002: 182).
37
Cohen (1973: 59-74) on the maritime courts, Osborne (1981-3: 194-9, 210-15) on the naturalization of
bankers.
38
Most forcefully argued by Burke (2002: 182-3). On the marked distinctions between citizens and metics
in Athenian civic ideology, Whitehead (1977) is foundational; recently, Kostas Vlassopoulos (2007) has
argued that these boundaries were far more blurry in reality than our literary sources would suggest—cf.
Hagemajer Allen (2003) for a similar conclusion reached from a different approach—but accepting his
view does not preclude constant contestation and problematization of those same boundaries.
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meaning that the content of pre-existing social ties among citizens in that space would
have already been diluted to something closer to an arms-length tie. Within that context,
interactions between citizens and non-citizens would have been virtually identical, the
civic bond linking two citizens and the trust it engendered thus diminished. 39
We have good reasons to think, therefore, that citizens really were more anxious
about the civic bonds of community at this time. As a result, what had earlier been
conceptualized as a socio-economic class of elite rogues plundering the city’s resources
was now envisioned as an amorphous and omnipresent group of pro-Macedonian elites;
political, not socio-economic, affiliations were now key. This conceptual frame for the
dōrodokos was a potent one in the 340’s and 330’s and was frequently used to
delegitimize public speakers and their policies. Time and again, an orator labeled his
opponents pro-Macedonians or outright cronies on Philip’s payroll in order to cast doubt
upon their policies and actions. So, in 341 Demosthenes insinuated that anyone who was
in favor of peace with Philip was receiving payment (misthos) from the Macedonian; and
in 330, Aeschines and Demosthenes traded barbs, each claiming that the other was a
traitorous hireling of Philip. 40 Similarly, around 338 Hyperides’ speech against
Philippides revolved around the claim that certain public officials whom Philippides had
proposed be honored were, in fact, Macedonian sympathizers. Moreover, Hyperides
claims, they had taken bribes to honor either Philip, certain Macedonians, or even some
pro-Macedonian Athenians. 41
39 See further Karayiannis and Hatzis (2007: 9).
40 Demosthenes asserts that all pro-Macedonians were hired by Philip: Dem. 8.53. Cf. Dem. 6.32, 6.34,
8.61, 8.66, 9.9. Aeschines on Demosthenes: Aeschin. 3. 58, 66, 81, 167, 170, 173, 209, 226, cf. 3. 239-40
and Dem. 18.82, 103-4, 107, 19.222. Demosthenes on Aeschines: Dem. 18.28, 31-3, 36, 42, 44, 45-9, 50-
1, 51-2, 131, 149, 236, 284, 296, 298-9, 307, 320.
41 Hyperides 2: see especially fragments 15a and 15b for the accusation that the officials were traitors who
had taken money from some Macedonian source. Similarly, Din. 1.10, 18-21, 70 with Worthington (1992:
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This narrative of dōrodokia was used to delegitimize opponents even in
unexpected situations. In one fascinating case from the early 320’s, known from
Hyperides’ speech On Behalf of Euxenippus, the defendant Euxenippus was prosecuted
for speaking publicly against Athens’ interests after taking a bribe. 42 As the narrative
goes, after sacking Thebes in 336, Alexander the Great gave Athens the territory in
neighboring Oropus, where there was a shrine to the local deity Amphiaraus. Athens
divided the territory into five regions, one for every two tribes. There was a problem
with the division, however, as the area surrounding the shrine to Amphiaraus—area
which had been consigned to two of the tribes—was thought to belong to the god and
therefore could not be divvied up for those tribes (cf. Hyp. 4.16). So Euxenippus and two
other Athenians were sent to sleep in Amphiaraus’ shrine, that they might have a
prophetic dream from the god about who owned the land (Hyp. 4.15-18). Euxenippus
reported that the land belonged to the god, whereupon one Polyeuctus proposed that the
two tribes be compensated for being deprived of the land. He was immediately tried and
convicted for proposing a contradictory law (graphē paranomōn, cf. Hyp. 4.15), after
139-43 ad 1.10); Diod. 17.4.8, [Plut.] X. Or. 848a. In his speech Against Ctesiphon (Aeschines 3),
Aeschines plays off this common accusation of treasonous bribe-taking when describing Demosthenes’
dealings with the Persian King (Aeschin. 3.238-40). Although the King had initially refused to send any
gold to Athens, in 336 he sent 300 talents to win the city as an ally, a gift which the Athenians refused to
accept. Still, Demosthenes purportedly ended up pocketing 70 talents of that money, probably as an
inducement to persuade Athens to ally with Persia. Here, rather than accuse Demosthenes of having simply
taken money against Athens’ interests, Aeschines claims that Demosthenes took the King’s money and
committed treason by refusing to spend even 10 talents to help Athens’ ally Thebes fight against
Alexander. Demosthenes’ inaction resulted in Thebes’ destruction; for this reason, Aeschines suggests,
Demosthenes was a danger to Athens (Aeschin. 3.24). Dinarchus and Hyperides, too, later call
Demosthenes a traitor for the same reason: Din. 1.10, 1.15, 1.18-21, 1.24, 1.26; Hyp. 5.17, 5.21.
42 Hyperides quotes the charge from the nomos eisangeltikos, under which Euxenippus was prosecuted:
Hyp. 4.1-2, 4-10, 27-30, 38-9. For the wording of this law, see Hansen (1975: 12), Whitehead (2000:
187-9 ad 4.8).
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which he retaliated by prosecuting Euxenippus on the grounds that he had been bribed to
misreport his dream and to speak against the interests of the city (Hyp. 4.30, 39). 43
What is remarkable about this case is that Polyeuctus accuses Euxenippus of
taking bribes not from the enemy (i.e. Alexander), but from other Athenians. Hyperides
underscores the paradox of the prosecution’s claims: how could Euxenippus have been
bribed to speak against Athens’ interests if he was receiving bribes from other Athenians?
Though we lack Polyeuctus’ speech, we can piece together a tentative answer.
Apparently, his prosecution depicted Euxenippus as a Macedonian “toady” (ko/laka,
Hyp. 4.20; cf. kolakei/a, 4.19, 23), one who had already committed treason by doing
favors for Alexander’s mother Olympias. Moreover, Polyeuctus seems to have claimed
that Euxenippus had been bribed by traitors within Athens, people who were acting
against the dēmos (u(penanti/a pra/ttontaj tw| = dh/mw|, Hyp. 4.39), that is, other pro-
Macedonians.
Though at first glance this case seems to be about Athenian internal affairs—how
the tribes were to distribute the land in Oropus—the narrative framework of Polyeuctus’
prosecution speech actually shared much with the Demosthenic narrative examined
above. Euxenippus’ purported dōrodokia was readily explained through reference to a
network of pro-Macedonian conspirators within the city. Although Hyperides
masterfully illuminates the seemingly tortured logic of Polyeuctus’ case, it is significant
that Polyeuctus, like Demosthenes before him, understood Euxenippus’ purported
dōrodokia as the act of a traitor plotting with the enemy from within the city’s walls.
Philip and Beyond: dōrodokia as a Threat to the Democracy:
43 See further Whitehead (2000: 153-61) on the historical background to this speech.
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Of course, not all instances of dōrodokia were explained as the machinations of a
pro-Macedonian faction plotting against the city. Unsurprisingly, in fact, most cases of
dōrodokia involving domestic issues were not filtered through a Macedonian lens; it is
striking, though, that narratives about domestic dōrodokia nevertheless were shaped by a
similar anxiety over the fate of the democracy. As suggested by a number of dramatic
changes at this time—including moving the location of treason trials (eisangelia) from
the Assembly to the lawcourts, granting the Areopagus Court authority to investigate
potential crimes against the state, and renewing an anti-tyranny law (337/6)—many
Athenians believed that the democracy was in danger and only the laws could save the
city from ruin. 44 Even if Macedon was not considered the specific source of danger, the
threat of stasis was thought to be only growing.
Demosthenes’ sensational portrait of Philip’s dōrodokoi in fact points to deeper
structural problems in the democracy in the last half of the fourth century. As we will
examine in this last section, the persistent fear of citizen defection thus shaped the
development of a second, related picture of the dōrodokos who was again likened to a
traitor, but of a somewhat different sort. This time he was thought of not as a
Macedonian hireling, but as a dangerous citizen who rejected the rewards of democracy,
thereby betraying the people, the laws, and even the democracy itself. In this way, the
figure of the dōrodokos continued to be used in a range of domestic scenes, as well, to
think through what ‘democratic’ politics should look like.
44 Eisangelia: Hansen (1975: esp. 53-5), Rhodes (1979: 108). Areopagus: For changes to the Areopagus
at this time, see especially Wallace (1989: 131ff.). Following Chaeronea, the Areopagus was granted the
power to sentence to death anyone who left the city: under this aegis Leocrates was prosecuted (Lyc. 1.52,
53), but the court also seems to have prosecuted others as well (e.g. Aeschin. 3.252). Anti-tyranny law:
SEG 12.87; Ostwald (1955: esp. 119-28), Mossé (1970), Teegarden (2007: 104-40). In addition to these
institutional changes, it appears that at this time the eisangelia procedure for treason or overthrowing the
democracy was increasingly exploited even in trivial cases: Hyp. 4.1-3; cf. Hansen (1975: 29-31), Todd
(1993: 114).
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By the measure of any contemporary account, the Athenians had cause for
concern in the 330’s, an especially volatile time for Athenian foreign relations. By 340,
Athens and Macedon had openly broken the Peace of Philocrates and renewed hostilities.
Philip appeared to be on the move yet again, and a coalition of Greek forces was
marshaled to stop him. But the Greek side was outmatched, and the resultant battle at
Chaeronea in 338 was an unqualified disaster for Athens and her allies: Philip won
decisively and assumed control over Greek affairs, a hegemonic position which he
institutionalized the next year as leader of the panhellenic League of Corinth; the Second
Athenian League was dissolved.
Not surprisingly, Chaeronea sent shockwaves through Athens. Even though a
number of Athenians were resistant to the League of Corinth—largely because Philip
appeared to be treading on the autonomy of Greek poleis—the battle at Chaeronea had
demonstrated that nothing much could be done with Philip still at the Macedonian helm.
In 336, however, anti-Macedonian proponents saw their chance when Philip was
assassinated. There was a series of revolts, but again it was not enough. Philip’s son,
Alexander the Great, quickly suppressed the revolutions, and decisively so (Diod.
17.4.4). The following year, when Thebes again tried to muster some form of resistance,
Alexander razed the city and enslaved some 30,000 of its citizens (Diod. 17.8. 3-14.1,
Arr. 1.7.1-8.8, Plut. Dem. 23.1). After Thebes’ obliteration, direct resistance to Macedon
was essentially a dead letter. 45
45 Sealey (1993: 194-205), Habicht (1997: 11-22), Ryder (2000: 78-84), Worthington (2000b: 90-9).
Sparta’s subsequent attempt at a coup resulted in a heavy defeat in 330. As Worthington (2000b: 94)
astutely remarks, calling for resistance to Macedon at that time would not have been a winning rhetorical
strategy in large part because Alexander had left for the East soon after the sack of Thebes. Unlike Philip,
who had maintained a near constant presence in Greece for decades, Alexander was a manifestly more
distant threat.
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Throughout this tumultuous period, there was a considerable tension brewing
among Athens’ citizens, as some seemed to acquiesce to the Macedonian hegemony
while others grew only more restless, awaiting the right moment to score some
advantage, however small. The divided citizen body fragmented the democracy, and in
the 330’s we find some hints that Athenians feared that Philip or Alexander would install
a tyranny at Athens. 46 At the same time there was an acute focus on Demokratia, the
abstract embodiment of the Athenian democracy. In 333/2, for instance, a statue of
Demokratia was set up, and later the generals for the year made sacrifices to
Demokratia. 47 Contemporary authors appeared newly intent on determining the essence
of the Athenian democracy, and discussions about the patrios politeia, or ancestral
constitution, were common. 48 As a direct result of these concerns, the authority of the
Areopagus court only increased, taking on new powers of investigation (apophasis) and
reclaiming its ancient status as ‘guardian of the laws’ and the democracy; and this was
but part of a broader shift after the Social War towards more centralized administration. 49
46 Cf. [Dem.] 17.14, Hyp. 2fr.1. Hence, Ostwald (1955: 123-5) and Teegarden (2007: 109-15) tie
Eukrates’ law against tyranny and subversion of the dēmos to anti-Macedonian sentiment. In response,
Mossé (1970) paints too one-sided a view of Athenian politics in the 330’s: granted, anti-Macedonian
sentiment would not have been prudent after Chaeronea, but resentment of Macedonian control was not
mere rhetoric; one wonders, after all, why a jury would have so overwhelmingly voted in Demosthenes’
favor at Ctesiphon’s trial if Demosthenes’ political views were marginal. Although Sealey (1958) is right to
point out the potentially ad hominem spirit of the law, he too is unconvincing in wholly removing its
Macedonian dimension. That said, it is enough for our purposes simply that the law was part of the
period’s back-and-forth political battles.
47 A base from the statue has been found: IG ii² 2791. Sacrifices: IG ii² 1496.131-2, 140-1. Similarly,
Euphranor of Isthmia was known to have done a wall a painting in the Stoa of Zeus Eleutherios with
representations of Demos and Demokratia together with Athens’ legendary founder Theseus (Paus. 1.3.3-
4), and the anti-tyranny decree of 337/6 was inscribed beneath a depiction of Demokratia crowning the
Demos. For these contemporary actions and more on behalf of Demokratia, Raubitschek (1962) remains
foundational.
48 E.g. [Dem] 59.75-7; Isoc. 12.143-8; Lyc. 1 passim. Ruschenbusch (1958: esp. 399-408 on the Solonian
Consitution), Mossé (1978), Hansen (1989). For a thorough review of Demosthenes’ conception of the
patrios politeia, see Witte (1995).
49 In the late 350’s or 340’s the Areopagus was granted additional powers to draft a public report (called an
apophasis) concerning suspected acts of treason: cf. Din. 1.50. On the apophasis procedure and its
significance, see Carawan (1985), Wallace (1989: 113-9), Worthington (1992: 357-62), de Bruyn (1995:
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Significantly, therefore, the Athenians’ response to the suspected threat of stasis in the
340’s and 330’s focused on Athens’ laws, institutions, and political constitution as
embodiments of the democracy itself. 50 As we will see, it was this new symbolic
embodiment of the polis which was under attack by the dōrodokos.
In particular, more than ever before the Athenians weighed the monies of
dōrodokia against the currency of civic contributions and public honors. Certainly by the
middle of the fourth century, it had been well-established that financial contributions by
the wealthy were an essential part of the democracy: no longer did the city have an
empire of allied states contributing a tribute, and, as we saw above, the city’s financial
recovery in the 350’s and 340’s was predicated to a large extent on considerable elite
involvement. 51 Above and beyond mere financial importance, however, the good works
of elite citizens played a vital symbolic role within the polis as well. While Athens’ other
117-20), and most recently Sullivan (2003). A number of contemporary sources discuss the Areopagus’
role in the democracy: e.g. Isoc. 7 passim; Din. 1.5, 6, 9, 54-9, 62; Dem. 18.133-4; de Bruyn (1995: 155-
61) and, on legal attacks against the Areopagus, Sealey (1958: 72-3).
50 Indeed, that the laws, not the people, were sovereign was commonly pointed out in this period: cf.
Aeschin. 1.4-5, 3.6, 3.169; Dem. 21. 223-5, 23.73, 22.46, 24.5, 24.75-6, 24.118, 25.20-1, 57.56; Lyc. 1.3-4;
Din. 3.16; Hyp. 4.5. Hansen (1975: 48; 1990b: 239-42), Ostwald (1986: 497), Ober (1989: 299-304);
Lanni (forthcoming) reminds, however, that this was as much a rhetorical claim as a reality, that the law
was subordinated to judgments of the people in numerous ways. For the laws and the judicial system as the
democracy’s safeguard, see especially Aeschin. 3.6, 3.169, 3.196; Lyc. 1.3-4, fr. 70; Dem. 24.156, 24.216
with Allen (2000: 180-3). In this light, it is perhaps unsurprising to find that, in two cases of attempted
overthrow of the democracy, the prosecutor claims that the defendant had simply broken the law, but that,
because the laws embodied the democracy, his action had infringed upon the constitution, as well: the two
cases involved Lycophron (Hyp. 1 fr. 4a.12, Lyc. fr. 70) and Diognides (Hyp. 3.3)
51 On this point, it is crucial that the allied contributions to the Second Athenian League were termed a
syntaxis (contribution) instead of phoros (tribute) precisely because the word phoros carried such pejorative
connotations from the fifth century: IG ii² 45.21-2; Harpocration s.v. su/ntacij; cf. Dreher (1995: 59-60).
More importantly, as IG ii² 123.11-12 indicates, the allied syntaxeis were to be controlled by the synedrion
of the League, not by the Athenian dēmos. Unlike with the tribute, the democracy’s administrative
expenses simply were not alleviated by the League’s contributions: Davies (1978: 224), Cargill (1981:
124-7), de Ste Croix (1981: 293), Dreher (1995: 79-80). For Athens’ general financial woes during the
fourth century, see especially de Ste Croix (1981: 607n.37). Concerning, specifically, the depletion of the
treasury after the Social War, Dem. 10.77 remarks that the city’s total post-war revenues were a mere 130
talents. Within ten years, however, this number was up to 400 talents (Dem. 10.37-9; Theopomp. FGrH
115 F 166). Accordingly, much of Eubulus’ policy at the time was directed at generating domestic
revenues through leasing the mines, maintaining foreign interests (especially in the Chersonese), and using
private monies in public works: on these fiscal policy changes, Cawkwell (1963) and recently Burke
(2002: esp. 171-5; 181-2).
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efforts at financial recovery effectively destabilized the status boundaries between citizen
and non-citizen—granting to non-citizens what had been citizen privileges in exchange
for the financial boon they provided the city—the civic honor inherent in being a citizen
was reinscribed in the monies that citizens provided the community. This amplified the
symbolic value of those monies so that they became metaphors for a citizen’s loyalty to
the polis; indeed, they were emblematic of a citizen’s trustworthiness, as well.
As wealthy citizens contributed (financially or otherwise) to the community,
increasingly during this period they were publicly honored for doing so. Just as in
general during the mid-fourth century we see a roughly two-thirds increase in the number
of extant public inscriptions, around the 350’s and 340’s we find an explosion in
epigraphic sources recording public honors awarded an official for doing his job well. 52
As Lambert (2004: 86) reminds, “it is clear that decrees honoring Athenians were not a
wholly new phenomenon in the 340’s; it was the regular inscribing of the decrees by the
city that was new.”
Indeed, that civic honors were a privileged currency in the polis is an idea familiar
from Chapter 2, where we saw how in the fifth century the dēmos’ authority to distribute
public honors intimately shaped attitudes towards dōrodokia. Yet in the fifth century,
these public honors were awarded infrequently in comparison to the regular provision of
wage or misthos—itself also a symbolic reward—for a range of public officials. 53 By
contrast, in the fourth century, our evidence for a similar misthos is scarce; it appears,
instead, that magistrates were not provided a ‘wage’ which also doubled as a symbolic
52 Hedrick (1999: 392 with discussion at 391-3). Of the more than 250 inscriptions honoring Athenian
citizens during the democracy, none pre-date the 350’s: for fuller discussion, see Lambert (2004: 85-6).
53 Detailed extensively in Domingo Gygax (forthcoming); see also Gauthier (1985).
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token of gratitude. 54 Rather, the dēmos and local deme assemblies increasingly turned to
dispensing symbolic honors for magistrates and private citizens alike: crowns of olive
and gold, civic privileges, and public inscriptions commemorating the award of these
honors. 55
Not only were these honorific inscriptions more prevalent from the middle of the
fourth century, but, crucially, they were also more specific in how they praised an
honorand. For instance, honorific decrees shifted from naming a citizen solely by name
to regularly including the names of his father and deme as well. 56 In the 360’s the
Assembly and deme assemblies began to describe an honorand’s achievements and
services more elaborately, employing a range of ‘cardinal virtues’ to characterize the
public works and the honorand. 57 As David Whitehead has compellingly demonstrated,
54
Whether or not there was pay for public office in the fourth century is a vexed issue among ancient
historians. Although it does not significantly affect my argument, I side with Hansen (1979, 1980), who
claims, largely based on the silence of our sources, that after 411 there was no systematic misthos (“wage”)
for public officials. At the deme level, this is surely correct, as Whitehead (1986: 161) points out; and
epigraphic sources confirm that ambassadors were regularly paid a misthos of 20 drachmas, but only upon
successful completion of their objectives, meaning the payment itself was not so much compensation as a
token of gratitude: IG ii² 102.10-13 (c. 370), 124.12-18 (375/6), 264.9-12 (before 336/5).
The opposite viewpoint has been championed most vigorously by Gabrielsen (1981) and
supported by Rhodes (1981: 691-5), but the lynchpin in Gabrielsen’s argument, Aristotle’s Ath. Pol. 42.3
and 62.2, states only that the nine archons and certain other officials received payments for “maintenance”
(trophē or sitēsis), not a general, all-purpose “wage,” as misthos more regularly connotes: cf. MacDowell
(1983: 75-6) pace Gabrielsen (1981: 67-81), and von Reden (1995a: 89-92) on misthos. Again,
Gabrielsen (1981: 118-19) erroneously assumes that, because the masses frequently (he suggests almost
exclusively) occupied lotteried public positions, they must have been remunerated or else they never would
have chosen to enter office. Yet this premise is contradicted by the fact that every year hundreds of
citizens—including those from lower social strata—spent a number of months serving as chorus members
(chōreutai) in the city’s major festivals. Significantly, these citizens, like most public officials according to
Hansen, received only the provision of meals as ‘remuneration’. In a city with a remarkably strong ethos of
civic participation, it is not inconceivable that poorer citizens would have opted to run for public office,
even without ‘compensation’, once or twice in their lifetime. After all, as Gauthier (1985: 118-9) reminds,
political office was fundamentally an honor (timē).
55
Henry (1983: 22-42; 241-6; 262-78) catalogues the awarding of crowns, exemption from taxes (ateleia),
and public dining, respectively.
56
This development continued well through the democracy to the point that at the end of the fourth century
there emerged detailed relative clauses which still more specifically described the honorand: Henry (1983:
10-11).
57
Naming: Henry (1983: 13). Elaboration in 360’s: Whitehead (1983: 61); cf. Henry (1983: 42-3).
Cardinal virtues: Whitehead (1983; 1993: esp. 52-7, 67-72) on the division between general, all-purpose
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by the middle of our period, in the 340’s, words cognate with philotimia (“love of
pursuing honor”) “were integral to the language of achievement and reward in all
Athenian honorific decrees.” 58 By the mid-fourth century, then, specifically identified
citizens were regularly given specific rewards for specific actions in office. The honor a
citizen won through exchanging goods with the community was more closely identified
with the citizen himself. It thereby commemorated his trusted standing within the polis.
Accordingly, the preponderance of civic honors for citizens and misthos for public
office appears to have switched from the fifth to the fourth centuries, and by the time of
the last few decades of the democracy, it was the currency of symbolic honors that was
most highly prized. Simultaneous with this shift towards the more regular award of civic
honors, citizens counted more and more on receiving some sort of regular, institutional
recognition for jobs or services performed well. In other words, by the middle of the
fourth century, just as much as services, liturgies, and public outlays from citizens had
become essential for the democracy to function, the civic honors these citizens received
had become a necessary inducement for their participation in the system. 59
If in fact there was no regular misthos for public office, these honors had become
the only formal reward for services to the community; and even if there were pay for
office, the currency of honors awarded by the dēmos was manifestly more valued than
cardinal virtues and those that describe more specific actions or attitudes; and, more generally on the
language of fourth-century public honors, Veligianni-Terzi (1997: 165-227).
58 Whitehead (1983: 62, emphasis retained). Similarly, Hedrick (1999: 422-3, catalogued at 434-5) notes
that the incidence of the disclosure formula OPWS AN FILOTIMWNTAI (“so that [others] engage in the
pursuit of timē”) is heavily concentrated in inscriptions dated to around the mid-fourth century. Of 40
occurrences in the corpus of Athenian honorific decrees, he tallies, 29 date to the fourth century, and 16
come from the 330’s. Cf. Whitehead (1983: 63-4).
59 See further Domingo Gygax (forthcoming: 284-91).
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any ‘wage’ provided. 60 While wealthy citizens on trial frequently cited their public
works in the hopes of receiving favorable treatment from a jury, an informal reward of
this kind was at best irregularly awarded and hence could not be counted on. By contrast,
civic honors voted by the dēmos and by deme assemblies had become symbolic
cornerstones of the community. 61 To reject the pursuit of civic honor was thus to reject
the symbolic foundations of citizenship and the city itself; it was to deny the very ethos of
a democratic citizen.
We can now begin to see why the aforementioned rhetorical shift from presenting
dōrodokia in terms of logos to casting it in terms of ethos and pathos appeared, crucially,
at this point in the democracy. To examine this trend further, let us take a look at the
most famous case of dōrodokia in Athenian history, the Harpalus Affair. In 324,
Alexander was only just returning from India and finally disciplining various corrupt
officials who had been overseeing affairs for him in Greece and Persia. Harpalus was
one such official infamous for rampant corruption and extortion while treasurer at
Babylon. Upon Alexander’s return, Harpalus fled with 5,000 talents of silver to Athens,
where he had been granted citizenship and where he hoped to find sympathy among the
60 Hence the reciprocal exchange of philotimia and communal charis became standardized and formalized
at this time: see especially Hakkarainen (1997: 14-19).
61 On this point, Demosthenes is particularly vehement in his prosecution of Leptines for proposing a law in
355 to abolish the awarding of ateleia, or exemption from taxes in return for services to the city (Dem. 20).
As the orator warns, to eliminate such an honor would effectively discourage anyone from wanting to
benefit the city (Dem. 20.5). His argument is predicated on the notion that citizens assumed that one good
turn would merit another from the people (cf. Dem. 20.151), and that civic honors for services rendered
were a mark of pistis, or good faith, in the reciprocal relations between private individual and public
community. To revoke previously granted honors would thus render all civic honors a)pi/stouj or
“untrustworthy” (Dem. 20.124). This would have been catastrophic for the dēmos, Demosthenes intones,
because it would have removed the one factor that made civic honors in a democracy more valuable than
those in an oligarchy or tyranny: public authorization of the honors (Dem. 20.15-17). Without such
publicly authorized honors, Athens might very well become another Pydna, a city supposedly betrayed by
traitorous citizens who had been bribed by Philip with none other than dwreiai/, that is, the very ‘honors’
which a democratic polis usually bestowed on its citizens. Cf. von Reden (1995a: 98-9) on public
dwreiai/.
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city’s anti-Macedonian leaders. Though initially forbidden to enter the city with a
sizeable number of troops, he was later granted entry as a suppliant. Immediately, there
arrived envoys from Alexander’s mother and Antipater, the viceroy of Greece,
demanding that Harpalus return the treasure he had stolen (Hyp. 5.8; Diod. 17.108.7). In
response, Demosthenes proposed that Harpalus be held in jail and the treasure be placed
in the Acropolis for safe-keeping until official word from Alexander arrived (Din. 1.70,
89, 90; [Plut.] X. Or. 846b). The people agreed and decided that Harpalus’ money—
which the Macedonian claimed totaled 700 talents (Hyp. 5.9-10; [Plut.] X.Or. 846b)—
would be taken to the Acropolis the following day. The next day, Demosthenes departed
for Olympia on a political embassy; upon his return, Harpalus escaped from prison, and
the Athenians discovered much to their dismay that only 350 talents remained in the
Acropolis. 62
It was assumed that Harpalus had used the missing 350 talents to bribe his way to
freedom; most of the city’s leaders were consequently under suspicion. This was a truly
grave offense, for the Athenians could not have imagined that Alexander would be happy
that they had let escape a former official who had stolen a tremendous sum from the
King. The city panicked amid a growing number of accusations of treason and plots
against the people (Ath. 8.341f-342). Most of the suspicion focused on Demosthenes,
62 The Harpalus Affair cannot properly be understood without reference to the larger political context of
Alexander’s return from India, at which time the king decreed that all Greek poleis accept the return of
their exiles and mercenaries—displaced groups whose presence posed a direct threat to Alexander (cf. Hyp.
5.18-19). Though the Exiles Decree loomed large in the background of the Harpalus Affair—in particular
Athens, wishing to retain Samos rather than have the island’s exiled population return, sought to appease
Alexander perhaps by getting rid of his antagonist Demosthenes—this political background does not play
any discernible role in how the prosecution condemned Demosthenes. In other words, it is in itself
significant that the specific, compelling arguments used to convict Demosthenes refer only to this second
narrative of dōrodokia qua treason and not at all to Demosthenes’ adversarial relations with Alexander.
Moreover, it is not at all clear that Demosthenes’ role in the Harpalus Affair would have placed Athens in
any more precarious role vis. Alexander: as Dinarchus reports, Alexander never even asked that Harpalus’
money be returned (Din. 1.68). On the historical and political context, see further Badian (1961), Sealey
(1993: 212-15), Whitehead (2000: 355-64), Worthington (2000b: 41-77).
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who had played a central role at every step of the way, but others too were publicly
accused, including Demosthenes’ ally Phocion and the anti-Macedonian Hyperides (Plut.
Phoc. 21-22). On Demosthenes’ initiative they turned to the Areopagus to investigate the
matter (e.g. Din. 1.4). After six months of investigation and deliberation, the Areopagus
produced a list of ten names with ten monetary amounts: Demosthenes at the top of the
list, then Demades, Aristogiton and seven others (Hyp. 5.5-7). All ten were tried for
dōrodokia before a jury of 1,500 citizens: of the ten, only Demosthenes and Demades
were convicted for sure; fined 50 talents, Demosthenes left the city in exile. 63
We have four prosecution speeches from the trial—Hyperides’ speech against
Demosthenes (Hyp. 5), and Dinarchus’ three speeches each written on behalf of one of
the prosecutors against Demosthenes, Aristogiton, and Philocles (respectively, Din. 1-
3)—all of which orations employ essentially the same rhetorical strategies against their
opponent. 64 Indeed, this is unsurprising given that, beyond the Areopagus’ terse report
(Hyp. 5.5-7), there was no evidence against the defendants. Here we will focus on
Dinarchus’ speech against Demosthenes, by far the longest and best preserved of the
foursome (Din. 1). As we will see, although the nature of the trial naturally focused on
condemning Demosthenes, in Dinarchus’ speech the greatest threat to the city was not
63 Demades’ punishment is mentioned in Din.1.29, 104. Of the other citizens on trial, Philocles was
probably convicted (cf. Dem. Ep. 3.31-2); Aristogiton was acquitted (Dem. Ep. 3.37, 42), as perhaps were
Hagnonides and Polyeuctus of Sphettus ([Plut.] Mor. 846c-d). This split in convictions based on the exact
same evidence has only reinforced scholars’ suspicions that the Harpalus Affair was a political trial aimed
at removing Demosthenes and Demades from Athens: so, for example, Worthington (1992: 58-73; 1994:
308-9; 2000b: 106); cf. Badian (1961: 34-5). While this possibility cannot be ruled out, it should be noted
that, although the prosecution admittedly had the same positive evidence against each defendant—i.e. the
Areopagus’ report (Din. 1.113, 2.21; Hyp. 5.5-7)—the assumption that the same evidence fit the character
and history of each defendant identically is erroneous. After all, forensic oratory is rife with ethical
arguments which predicated the plausibility of guilt or innocence on a defendant’s character. Thus, despite
the Areopagus’ report, it might have been easy to believe that Demosthenes, but not Aristogiton, say, was
the kind of person who would readily be suspected of being part of a network of corruption.
64 Recent commentaries on these speeches are provided in Whitehead (2000) for Hyperides and
Worthington (2000b) for Dinarchus.
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Demosthenes but a veritable network of corrupt statesmen. By convicting Demosthenes,
Dinarchus urged, the people could preserve Athens’ honor, her laws and her constitution.
The formal charge brought against Demosthenes was probably one of “taking
dōra against one’s country” (kata\ th=j patri/doj), as it is this specific formulation
which recurs verbatim throughout the speeches of Dinarchus and Hyperides. 65 Clearly,
then, Demosthenes and the others were thought to have committed treason by taking dōra
from Harpalus—a connection explicitly made at least nine times in Dinarchus’
speech 66 —and the prosecution is careful to point out how Demosthenes, at least, had
been implicated in betraying Thebes, too, long before he had attempted to betray his own
city. 67 In a page seemingly taken from Demosthenes’ own prosecution of Aeschines,
Demosthenes himself is portrayed as a traitor as much to his friends as to his city (Din.
1.41), a man who was of use only to the city’s enemies for the way he consistently acted
against the interests of Athens herself (Din. 1.33). In the same vein, Demosthenes is even
compared to those iconic traitors of yore, the elite leaders who overthrew Olynthus (Din.
1.26; cf. 2.24-5).
By comparing Demosthenes to the traitors who overthrew Olynthus, Dinarchus
conjures up a by now familiar paradigm of dōrodokia leading to the destruction of a city.
65
Cf. Harvey (1985: 108n.114). The phrase “against the country” (kata\ th=j patri/doj vel sim.) recurs
eleven times in Dinarchus (Din. 1.13, 1.26, 1.60, 1.64, 1.67, 2.6, 3.18, 3.22; cf. 1.3, 1.99, 2.26), two times
in Hyperides (Hyp. 5.21, 5.38). To this, add four times of “against the city” (kata\ th=j po/lewj, Din.
1.29; cf. 1.4, 2.7, 3.2) and two instances of “against the constitution” (kata\ th=j politei/aj, Din. 1.3, cf.
[e)pi\] th| = politei/a| k[ai\ toi=j] no/moij, Hyp. 5.2). Although Dinarchus more frequently refers to taking
dōra “against your [sc. the people’s] interests” (kaq’ u(mw=n)—cf. Din. 1.11, 1.15, 1.40, 1.46, 1.47, 1.53,
1.88, 1.108, 2.1, 2.3, 2.15, 2.20, 2.22, 2.23, 3.2, 3.6, 3.18; cf. Hyp. 5.40—this can easily be taken as a more
personal reformulation of the actual charge. On such ‘catapolitical’ bribes, see Harvey (1985: 108-13).
66
Din. 1.33, 1.47, 1.64, 1.66, 1.77, 1.101 (Demades), 1.103, 1.107, 1.109. Cf. Hyp. 5.22. Demosthenes
apparently admitted to receiving some funds from Harpalus as a loan to the theoric fund; crucially, the
orator thus depicted these monies as taken for, not against, the city’s interests: Hyp. 5.13.
67
Din. 1.10, 1.15, 1.18-21, 1.24, 1.26. This was a common, if untrue, attack leveled against Demosthenes:
cf. Aeschin. 3.156-7, Hyp. 5.17, 5.21 with Worthington (1992: 139-43 ad 1.10; 164-8 ad 1.21).
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Given that paradigm, it is unsurprising to find that Demosthenes and his purported
consorts in the Harpalus Affair did not seem to be the only problem in Athens: as
Dinarchus warns, there were “many people (pollou/j) in the city taking bribes against
your [sc. the people’s] interests” (kaq’ u(mw=n, Din. 1.11). Like Demosthenes before him,
Dinarchus underscores how the city was endangered by a class of “leaders and
demagogues” conspiring to mislead the dēmos and profit privately (oi( h(gemo/nej kai\ oi(
dhmagwgoi/, Din. 1.99; cf. 2.22-3, 3.1, 3.19), and it was precisely these many others who
needed to have a strong message sent to them (Din. 1.11). Hence, the conviction of
Demosthenes and the rest would be a necessary, and necessarily forceful, indication that
the Athenians would not tolerate traitors in their midst.
Unlike Demosthenes, however, who posited that the internal threat at Olynthus
was instigated by an external source (Philip), Dinarchus identifies what is essentially a
wholly internal threat. Harpalus was no Philip or Alexander, and as a matter of fact this
dangerous group of traitors was plotting against Alexander (and the city), not for him. 68
As Dinarchus warns, there was no hope in times of danger if the city allowed widespread
dōrodokia with impunity, for corrupt leaders would consistently betray the city’s interests
(Din. 1.67, 1.88, 1.107, 3.10, 3.19). According to Dinarchus and Hyperides, the life of
the city was thought to hang in the balance of this trial, and it was the specific culprit of
widespread, domestic dōrodokia which endangered the very foundations of the city. 69
68 Only once does Dinarchus suggest that Harpalus posed an external threat to the city, and this mention
comes only in passing, at that (Din. 2.30). While I do not deny that Harpalus could have been involved in
fomenting a revolt against Alexander—so Badian (1961)—the important point to remember is that the
orators do not specifically mention this: they certainly could have imagined a scenario in which
Demosthenes was plotting to endanger the polis from harm at Alexander’s hands, but they never do so.
The danger is consistently viewed as coming from within the city.
69 Cf. Din. 1.2, 1.31, 1.88, 1.99, 1.109, 2.1, 2.5, 2.7, 3.3; Hyp. 5.2, 5.34-5.
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While dōrodokia by a foreign autocrat and domestic dōrodokia were equally
perceived as threats to the life of the city, the ways in which they endangered the city
were not the same. As we have seen, taking money from Philip was tantamount to
subordinating the city’s interests to his interests; if Olynthus, Pydna, and a host of other
Greek cities were any indication, this entailed placing the city under his control. Even if
the constitution itself were not radically altered, the threat of Macedonian hegemony was
still a powerful one. In the case of domestic bribery, however, the stakes were rather
different. As Dinarchus and Hyperides point out repeatedly, the apparently
commonplace dōrodokia of which Demosthenes was but one of many corrupt
practitioners was a threat to the city insofar as it entailed contempt for the city’s honor, its
laws, and its politeia, or political constitution. 70 The concern here was that elites were
rejecting the symbolic foundations of Athens’ polity, in effect dishonoring the democracy
by opting out of it. Accordingly, although this picture of rampant domestic dōrodokia
was also thought of as treason, there were additional elements that were contributing to
this conceptual frame. Let us take a closer look.
Men like Demosthenes were thought to bring ill-repute, adoxia, upon the city
through their corrupt actions; only by convicting Demosthenes could Athens thus hope to
regain her honor (Din. 1.93; cf. 3.21). In the extant speeches of the Harpalus Affair, there
are a number of permutations of this argument—that Athens lost her honor and good-
standing in the Greek world because of the policies proposed by corrupt statesmen
(a)doci/a|, Din. 1.31); or that, in taking Harpalus’ money, a corrupt few implicated the
Athenian people as a whole in a “shameful charge” (ai)sxra=j ai)ti/aj, Din. 1.93; cf.
70 Din. 1.65, 1.87, 1.113; Hyp. 5.12. Cf. Val. Max. 6.3.ext.2. Tellingly, in a rhetorical move familiar from
the other contemporary narrative about dōrodokia, Dinarchus frames this overturning of the city’s
institutions as a betrayal of the people’s trust (Din. 3.4).
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ai)sxu/nhn, Din. 3.7)—both of which variations were relevant concerns for dōrodokia
from an external source, too (e.g. Dem. 18.63; kataisxu/naj, Dem. 19.255).
Yet there is a third variation that seems best to encapsulate the dishonor done the
city by pervasive domestic bribery, a frame which has the added advantage of bringing
together all of the elements at play in conceptualizing domestic dōrodokia as treason.
Dinarchus seems to get at the heart of the matter when he posits that leaders like
Demosthenes disgraced the city—literally, made it ‘base’ or ‘lowly’ (tapeinh/, Din.
1.98)—by so flagrantly defying its laws. According to this condemnation, corrupt
leaders who were part of a broader network of corruption were debasing the city precisely
by the way they placed themselves above the law.
There were two interrelated elements in this condemnation: Demosthenes and
others had contempt for the laws, and they displayed a more general contempt for the
values of the city. It was obvious that anybody guilty of dōrodokia had broken the law,
but Dinarchus’ more damning point is that Demosthenes thought himself above the law
when he broke it. So Demosthenes is contrasted with the general Timotheus, who
captured over 24 cities yet willingly acquiesced to the penalty imposed upon him for
taking money from the Chians and Rhodians (Din. 1.14-17, cf. 3.17). 71 Despite
Timotheus’ great services to the city, Dinarchus notes, the general did not ask for pardon,
but rather submitted himself to the law and the jury’s decision. By contrast,
Demosthenes seemed to think himself above the law, as if his previous services for the
city, incidentally far less impressive than Timotheus’, outweighed his current crime. 72 In
71 On Timotheus, see further Worthington (1992: 148-57 ad 1.14). Isoc. 15.129; Din. 1.14, 31.17; Diod.
16.21.4; Nep. Timoth. 3.4-5, Iphicr. 3.3; Aelian, Var. Hist. 14.3; DH Din. 677, Lys 680; [Plut.] Mor. 605f.
72 Dinarchus later expands on this argument by pointing out that even the gods fairly submitted themselves
to trial at Athens (Din. 1.84-7). That Demosthenes first proposed that the Areopagus investigate the
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this respect, were the jurors to acquit him, Dinarchus warns, they would effectively
betray justice (to\ di/kaion), favoring Demosthenes’ reputation over the honor the city
would recoup by punishing him (cf. do/cai, Din. 1.27).
Dinarchus similarly contrasts Demosthenes with Themistocles, Aristides, and
other renowned Athenians to imply that, no matter how great Demosthenes’ reputation,
or doxa, it should never be placed above that of the city. Demosthenes, in fact, is thought
to have diminished the city’s own doxa by placing his own safety above that of the
community (cf. a)docote/ran, Din. 1.40). In this way, Demosthenes assumed an
undemocratic air, as if he considered himself somehow better than the city and the people
or, worse still, somehow immune to the laws and the Areopagus’ report (Din. 1.40; cf.
1.45, 87; Hyp. 5.12). 73
As this last comparison suggests, Demosthenes’ symbolic contempt for the city’s
laws also betokened contempt for the symbols and values of the city itself. Unlike the
city’s great benefactors—men like Themistocles or Aristides who built the city’s walls
and brought in the first tribute from Athens’ allies—Demosthenes refuses to give any
good (agathon) to the city, watching over only his own safety and treating everything as a
source of income (Din. 1.40; cf. 2.15). Accordingly, his corrupt activity, so indicative of
his contempt for the city’s laws, indicates, too, a conscious refusal to perform public
Harpalus Affair and then tried to escape the court’s verdict thus inflates his own unseemly arrogance
(beyond that of the gods!) and denigrates the authority of the laws. See further Dem. 24.5; Aeschin. 1.4,
3.6, 3.196; Din. 2.19, 3.3; and Ober (1989: 217-19) on the Athenians’ antipathy towards legal advantages
for anyone, especially the wealthy.
73 Pseudo-Demosthenes makes a similar point in underscoring how those who sell the interests of their
country have regard for neither laws nor oaths ([Dem.] 17.13). It was readily assumed, therefore, that
citizens accused of crimes like sykophancy or dōrodokia—which appeared to involve a malicious disregard
for the law (cf. Dem. 19.101, 120)—considered themselves above the law. So, Demosthenes warns the
jury not to let Aeschines become “greater than the masses” (mei/zw...tw=n pollw=n, Dem. 19.296), nor to
pardon Theocrines, accused of sykophancy, for consciously and arrogantly casting aside the laws (Dem.
58.15, 24).
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works. Rather than be an engaged citizen using his money for the city’s benefit,
Demosthenes moved away from the city to the Piraeus port, where he spent his time
living in luxury amid the city’s misfortunes. 74 This lifestyle is instructively described as
“bringing shame on the city’s doxa” (kataisxu/nwn th\n th=j po/lewj do/can, Din.
1.35). What is more, the comparison to Timotheus underscores how Demosthenes then
tried to pass off his corrupt profiteering as an actual benefaction in exchange for which he
might escape conviction (Din. 1.17). 75
Implicated in this nexus of corruption and contempt for the city’s laws, therefore,
is a veritable weighing of bribes against good works. Such a weighing is familiar from
the last chapter, where we saw how, for instance, the defendant of Lysias 21 weighed his
public works against the charge of corruption. Demosthenes seems to go one step
beyond simply not using his gains for the greater good, however, for he seems to reject
the value of such a system altogether, actively preferring the corrupt currency of bribe
monies to the symbolic currency of honoring, and being honored by, the city. As we saw
in the previous section, the kinds of commercial dealings at the Piraeus in which
Demosthenes purportedly engaged were devoid of any real civic content, for they
74 trufw~n e0n toi=j th~j po&lewj kakoi=j, kai\ e0pi\ forei/ou katakomizo&menoj th_n ei0j Peiraia~
o(do&n,Din. 1.36. Cf. Din. 1.69; Aeschin. 3.209; Hyp. 5.16b. Demosthenes’ location in the Piraeus had its
own ideological significance of removal from the asty (city) of Athens, for it was the civic space of the
Piraeus which so many foreigners, traders, and foreign cults occupied. In fact, throughout the fourth
century, the Piraeus was conceptualized in just this way as some kind of other world to the city-center
itself: von Reden (1995b), Roy (1998: esp. 198-201). Demosthenes’ purported allegiance to the Piraeus
thus marked him as morally corrupt and not truly allied with the city itself: cf. Plato, Laws 705a-b, Dem.
32.10-11, Arist. Pol. 5.1303b7-12. Here, Dinarchus’ reference to the luxurious lifestyle of Demosthenes
(cf. trufw~n) also plays off of class tensions within the polis: rather than adhere to the middling,
egalitarian ideology of the polis, Demosthenes flaunts and wastes his wealth. For more on the civic
ideology of the ‘middling’ (metrios) citizen, see e.g. Ober (1989: esp. 257-9).
75 In passing off his venality as a public service, Dinarchus says, Demosthenes “instructs” the people about
what to think about his greed (peri\ th=j e(autw=n pleoneci/aj paragge/llein, Din.1.40). The verb
paragge/llein is normally used of a general giving orders (LSJ. s.v. paragge/llw II) and thus regularly
connotes a disparity in authority between two people. That Demosthenes so “commands” the people to
reinterpret his selfish gains as public benefactions only reinforces the notion that he thinks himself above
the people and the laws.
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entailed the intermingling of arms-length citizens with metics or foreigners who had
citizen privileges—in short, people whose interaction was not at all predicated on the
content of some civic tie. Equally by living off in the Piraeus and by taking dōra,
Demosthenes was thought to be devaluing the city’s symbolic economy of civic honor.
In rejecting the symbolic foundations of citizenship and the city itself (Din. 1.89), he
implicitly disavowed a democratic character and threatened the very ethos of the city.
The purportedly corrupt activity of other public speakers, too, was conceived as a
threat not just to the laws, but even to the character of the city. Dinarchus details, for
example, how on at least six different occasions Demosthenes was purportedly bribed to
propose actual laws or the award of honors, statues, and even citizenship (Din. 1.41-5).
This list is prefaced with a telling detail, namely, that his corrupt activity as a public
speaker made him “unworthy” (a)na/cion) of the city (Din. 1.41). The word a)na/cion,
often used of measuring the value of two different things, picks up on the exact same
symbolic measuring we have been examining: by taking dōra and cheating the system of
public honors, Demosthenes proved both that he was “unworthy” of the city’s honors,
that the values he privileged were clearly not those of the city. 76 By implication, to honor
Demosthenes with an acquittal would be tantamount to dishonoring the city itself.
76
Further, a)na/cion picks up on a verb only a few lines prior: talking about rogues like Demosthenes,
Dinarchus comments, “They have made the city more disreputable (a)docote/ran) than themselves, and
now, convicted of taking bribes against you (dw=ra kaq’ u(mw=n), they deceive you and think it worth it
(a)ciou=si a)ciou=si a)ciou=si), a)ciou=si after conduct such as this, to give you instructions (paragge/llein) on their own greed” (Din.
1.40). What Demosthenes and other corrupt traitors value is first to dishonor the city (a)docote/ran) by
privately gaining without giving back to the community and then to presume themselves sufficiently above
the law to instruct (paragge/llein, cf. supra n.63) the people on how to esteem their public ‘works’. Their
valuing of private gain (a)ciou=si) is antithetical to the city’s valuing of public outlay (a)na/cion). Such
explicit evaluation of public outlay was commonplace in this period, as is clear from two formulae from
contemporary honorific inscriptions, in which the dēmos provided a “worthy” (a/ )cion, etc.) reward or
thanks to an official who had done his job well. Honorands were either provided “very worthy thanks” (e.g
xa/ritaj...[k]ataci/aj, IG ii² 505.43 ; cf. IG ii² 423.5; restored at IG ii² 183.7, 269.10-11, 391.11-12,
392.2-3, 425.13) or were to be granted “whatever good they are deemed worthy of” (a)gaqo\n o4tou a2n
dokei= a1cioj ei]nai, IG ii² 360.75, 412.5, 424.11; cf. IG ii² 232.13, 235.2, Dem. 20.151). In the same vein,
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On the one hand, by taking dōra to bestow honors on others, Demosthenes
implicitly devalued the entire system of public honors: no longer could Athenians tell
which honors were well-deserved, which earned only through bribing a public speaker. 77
Such an offense was bad enough to dishonor the city, yet the gravity of the offense was
compounded by the implication of an entire network of similarly corrupt citizens.
Although Dinarchus does not explicitly accuse Demosthenes, in particular, of being part
of just such a corrupt network, the jurors certainly might have inferred as much given
Demosthenes’ purported contempt for the laws and shameful dishonoring of the city.
Other orators, for instance, were more explicit on this point, describing an entire
system of corruption, wherein those guilty of malpractice—including dōrodokia—would
bribe public speakers not to prosecute them at their audit for public office (euthyna). So
Timarchus is lambasted by Aeschines for doing damage to the city by receiving bribes
from crooked public officials trying to escape audit (Aeschin. 1.106-8). Similarly,
Aeschines describes how the law against receiving a crown before undergoing a euthyna
was first passed in reaction to bribe-givers who were consistently getting away with
crimes. Before they came up for audit, these purportedly corrupt officials would bribe a
public speaker to award them a crown. According to Aeschines, after these officials
received a crown from the dēmos, jurors refused to convict the officials at their audit lest
Dinarchus castigates Philocles for committing dōrodokia and thereby selling the “worth” (a)ci/wma) of a
public office conferred by the people (Din. 3.12).
77 Compare Demosthenes’ own castigation of those who speak in the Assembly or move resolutions after
being bribed (Dem. 23.146-7): that such men proclaim someone either good or bad (xrhsto\n kai\
ponhro/n), not on account of his character but because of the wishes of their bribe-giver, implicitly
devalues similar estimations by all public speakers. Because the Athenians cannot know which estimations
are true, which are motivated by money, their entire system of public recognition is devalued, destabilized,
and dethroned. For this reason, Demosthenes asserts, the “most wicked” class of men is that of bribed
public speakers (ponhro/taton, Dem. 23.146). For similar accusations of bribed rhētores in this period,
see Dem. 15.32, 20.132, 23.201, 24.3, 24.14-15, 24.99, 24.122, 24.123, 24.203; Aeschin. 1.106-8, 1.114-5,
1.154, 2.23, 2.93, 2.144, 2.148, 2.152, 2.154-5, 2.165, 3.58, 3.66, 3.81-2, 3.85, 3.103-5, 3.113-4, 3.129.
3.221, 3.237, 3.242. cf. Aeschin. 3.9.
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the people be disgraced for contradicting themselves by honoring someone who later was
shown to be corrupt (Aesch. 3.9). Clearly, this purported network of corruption, like
Demosthenes himself, both threatened the city’s laws and devalued its symbolic economy
of honors. 78
On the other hand, as was noted above, Demosthenes’ activity signaled more than
just a devaluing of the city’s economy of honors; it was a wholesale rejection of that
economy, as well. In this light, it is helpful to return to Demosthenes’ prosecution of
Aeschines to see how this exact same accusation—that Aeschines preferred Philip’s
bribes to the dēmos’ honors—casts Aeschines as a traitor. Pointing out that Aeschines’
bribe-taking achieved nothing for Athens, whereas the Thebans’ own refusal to take
bribes gained them Philip’s favor, Demosthenes explicitly weighs the symbolic rewards
of civic honors against Philip’s bribes:
And what have the [Theban] ambassadors gained? Nothing at all except the satisfaction
of having achieved these results for their city. Ah, but that is worth having, men of
Athens; a glorious reward, if you set any store by that virtue (a)reth/) and good repute
(do/ca) which Aeschines and his friends bartered for money (xrhma/twn a)pe/donto,
Dem. 19.142).
By taking Philip’s dōra, Aeschines manifestly did not pursue the ‘honor and good repute’
offered by the polis. By contrast, Demosthenes juxtaposes his own actions with
Aeschines’ to show how he, himself, acted honorably, pursuing philotimia rather than
Philip’s money (Dem. 19.223). His point is an apt one, for he underscores that a
conscious calculus of values led him to follow a course of truth and justice (tou= dikai/ou
kai\ th=j a)lhqei/aj, Dem. 19.223, cf. 19.28); although each could certainly be pursued for
its own sake, he explicitly calculated that public honor, timē (cf. timhqh/sesqai, Dem.
78 In a similar blending of these two narratives, Demosthenes considered Philip, too, a threat to Athens’
laws and the democracy: Dem. 6.25, 8.41-2.
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19.223), would come only by abstaining from dōra. To receive money from Philip,
therefore, would have entailed losing honor from the people and even rejecting the city’s
values in order to benefit its enemies, as Aeschines had done. 79 It is ironic, then, that the
same weighing of civic honors against monies from corruption would later prove
Demosthenes’ downfall in the Harpalus Affair.
Although he mentions this only in passing, it is crucial that the ultimate guarantor
of trust and justice in Demosthenes’ vision of Athens was the currency of public honor
and recognition. Without this glue binding elites to the straight and proper course of
justice, they might have strayed onto a treasonous course, like Aeschines did, and bring
the utmost ruin upon the city. Given the pronounced threat of stasis and the distrust it
engendered, we can see how at this time the Athenians began to rely more heavily on
both their laws and system of public honors, qua sanctions and incentives, to keep elites
pursuing the community’s interests. This is one reason why contemporary accusations of
dōrodokia were comprised of arguments from ethos and pathos, not logos. The
opportunity for winning timē proved a powerful carrot for the wealthy, yet this
inducement was necessary to help protect against their immediate defection. The
prospect of winning public honor encouraged elites to act justly, in the sense of
privileging the honor of the democracy, and thereby to reinforce what were then thought
to be dangerously weak bonds of trust among citizens.
79 Note how Demosthenes earlier accuses Aeschines of being a “noble gentleman and just (ka)gaqo\j kai\
di/kaioj) to that man [sc. Philip] while a traitor to you” (Dem. 19.110). The orator’s choice of epithets here
is significant, for Aeschines is thought to exhibit the civic virtue of kalokagathia, which by this period
could be considered the virtue of an ideal citizen: e.g. Dem. 18.93, 278 and generally Ober (1989: 260-1).
Yet in that case it is extraordinarily troubling that Aeschines is just to Philip while being a traitor to the
Athenians, for he effectively pursues the civic ideals of justice and virtue but only insofar as they benefit
Athens’ enemy Philip. In other words, Demosthenes here underscores how Aeschines pursues civic ideals
only to the extent that they harm, not help the polis. Likewise, as we saw above, the leaders of Pydna were
thought to have sought out public gifts (dwreai/) not from the city, but from Philip in exchange for
betraying the city (Dem. 20.63).
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It was therefore noteworthy when a citizen manifestly did not act corruptly, that
is, when he was vindicated for having pursued public office—and the timē it might win
him—not for the sake of gain, but for the sake of the community and its system of
honors. In fact, we find this concept attested in three honorary inscriptions from the
middle of the fourth century, where citizens are praised for their actions: in one, a
thesmothetēs is given an olive crown for doing his job “[well,] justly, and adōrodokētōs”;
in another, a judge of the Thargelia festival is honored for judging the winner of a
competition in the same manner; and in the last the public speaker Phanodemos is
honored and crowned for having given counsel “well, in pursuit of honor, and
adōrodokētōs.” 80
Although some scholars have posited that the adverb adōrodokētōs means
“placing communal ahead of personal obligations,” 81 if we turn to the orators’ usage of
the adverb (and cognate adjective), we find a clear indication that, as might be expected
of an alpha-privative formation, the adverb simply and literally meant “not engaging in
dōrodokia.” 82 What is striking about this usage is that in five of the seven passages, the
adverb is used in contradistinction either to an accusation that an official had committed
dōrodokia or to another person who demonstrably had committed dōrodokia (Aeschin.
3.82; Dem. 19.4, 19.27, 19.232, 58.35). Of the two remaining passages, one probably has
80
Respectively, IG ii² 1148.4-5 (before mid-fourth century): [kalw=j kai\ d]ikai/wj kai\ a)dwr/[odokh/twj
h]rcen] th\n a)rxhn; Veligianni-Terzi (1997: C8, 206). IG ii² 1153.5-7 (mid-fourth century): kalw=j ka/i\
dikai/wj kai\ a)dworodokh/twj e)/krine th\n [f]ul[h\n] nika=n Qarg/h/lia; Veligianni-Terzi (1997: C12,
206). IG ii² 223A12 (342): kal[w=j k]ai\ f[i]loti/mwj kai\ \ a)dwrodokh/twj; Veligianni-Terzi (1997:
B5A, 207). For post-classical uses of the word, Whitehead (1993: n.68) helpfully collects the following
citations: IG ii² 649.29-30, 1011.44, 1165.23-4, 1215.9, 1299.2, 1304.31, SEG xxv.112.9-10.
81
So Whitehead (1993: 68n.12) follows Herman (1987: 77-8) in understanding the adverb adōrodokētōs
as signifying that an official had put communal obligations before the personal ones entailed in giftexchange,
in other words, that one had actually abstained from gift exchange (cf. Herman [1987: 77]).
Similarly, Harvey (1985: 98n.78). Veligianni-Terzi (1997: 289) rightly questions Herman’s conjecture
but offers no better substitute.
82
Cf. Aeschin. 3.82, Dem. 18.250, 19.4, 19.27, 19.232, 19.274, 58.35.
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the same nuance, namely, that the dēmos expected Callias to have an honest and
adōrodokētos character, but apparently he did not on his embassy to the Persian King
(Dem. 19.274). And the other, in the phrase dikai/wj kai\ a)dwrodokh/twj, might pick
up on the language from a euthyna at which Demosthenes would have been prosecuted
for dōrodokia but acquitted as having acted “justly and adōrokētōs” (Dem. 18.250).
Based on these comparanda, it appears that the adverb adōrodokētōs on inscriptions
might very well have indicated that someone had been accused, but absolved, of having
committed dōrodokia.
Still, while the strict meaning of the adverb adōrodokētōs might simply be “not
having engaged in dōrodokia,” those inscriptions which praise an official for having
acted adōrodokētōs indicate that he was rightly praised for pursuing the very honors and
virtues praised by the community rather than for seeking money. Rather than take
monies symbolic of treason, he had worked within the civic economy of public honors.
In the first and last of these inscriptions, for instance, the honorand is later praised for
acting “for the sake of honor (aretē) and [a sense of justice (dikaiosynē)] towards the
dēmos.” 83 Note, too, how in the third inscription the speaker is explicitly said to be
acting with philotimia. Given how at this time public officials were honored for
exhibiting philotimia even when they merely discharged the duties of their office
satisfactorily, we might posit that where dōrodokia—and a job unsatisfactorily done—
began, philotimia ended. 84 Officials vindicated and praised for behaving adōrodokētōs
83 a)reth=j e4neka kai\/[dikaiosu/nhj th=]j ei)j to\n dh=mon (IG ii² 1148.8-9, IG ii² 223A12).
84 For this phenomenon, see the examples provided by Whitehead (1983: 73n.32). Note how, by the time
of Aristotle’s Constitution of Athens (late 330’s to early 320’s), the Council regularly received a dōrea of a
gold crown after successfully submitting its accounts: AP 46.1; Aeschin. 1.111-12, Dem. 22.36, 22.38-9;
cf. Dem. 22.8-20.
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were thus honored as much for discharging their duties ‘uncorruptly’ as for valuing the
community’s interests and the very honors bestowed by the community.
Ultimately, Demosthenes was not vindicated as having acted adōrodokētōs, but
was instead convicted and fined 50 talents. A man who only seven years earlier had been
crowned as one of Athens’ greatest patriots and counselors was imprisoned, though
allowed to escape into exile (Plut. Dem. 26.2-5). Much of the political atmosphere at
Athens had of course changed in the interim. Still, as Dinarchus’ prosecution speech
suggests by connecting Demosthenes to other corrupt traitors through outright
comparisons or more subtly through various tropes from contemporary narratives of
dōrodokia, much of the political atmosphere was the same, as it had been since Philip’s
emergence. Although Demosthenes was no Aeschines—part of a corrupt network of
traitors hired out to a foreign king—he was deemed a traitor all the same, just one of a
group of leading citizens who debased the city and endangered her laws through their
systematic domestic corruption.
That the dōrodokos became a traitor—and, specifically, a traitor working with
other traitors within the city—pointed to deep rifts in the democracy during the last half
of the fourth century. The fear of elite defection, which would have entailed civil war
and probably constitutional change as well, was persistent; if the rest of Greece was any
indication, this fear was a veritable threat at Athens. The bonds of trust between citizens
were increasingly diluted as Athens tried to effect a financial recovery. So the Athenians
looked to their laws and their own system of public honors as stick and carrot to induce
elite members of the community to participate in the democracy. And so, Demosthenes,
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like others before him, was convicted perhaps in a desperate effort to salvage the city’s
honor and deter the rest of his purportedly corrupt band from further ruining the city. 85
With the hindsight of history, the city’s efforts to curb elite defection from the
democracy could not save the democracy itself. By the end of 323, Athens’ leaders,
newly invigorated by the death of Alexander, had led the city into what would be her last
war as a sovereign entity: a war on behalf of all of Greece against Alexander’s viceroy
Antipater. But the Lamian War proved yet another failure, as Athens and the rest of
Greece came to be completely controlled by Antipater (Diod. 18.17.3-5). 86 Meanwhile,
Demosthenes, at long last recalled to the city during the lead-up to the Lamian War, fled
Athens after Antipater’s victory and, pursued by the Macedonian’s men, sought refuge in
a temple to Poseidon. When asked to give himself up, he stalled for time, feigning to
write a letter to his relatives while really withdrawing in private to drink some poison
concealed in the tip of his writing reed (Plut. Dem. 29). Though Demosthenes died a free
man, his city remained under Macedonian control for centuries until the advent of the
Romans.
Given the warnings of the oracle at Dodona, of Dinarchus, of Hyperides and even
of Demosthenes himself, it is perhaps ironic that ultimately the democracy was done in
not by a crop of traitors but by a group of patriots hoping to reclaim the city’s freedom—
in other words, by democrats, not dōrodokoi. In this light, the Harpalus Affair, and the
indomitable specter of a political set-up which the trial brings to mind, raises important
questions about the role of dōrodokia trials and accusations in the larger workings of the
85 Sealey (1993: 214) notes that within just six months the Assembly had pardoned or at least partly
exonerated most of the men suspected of involvement in the Harpalus Affair; by the summer, only
Demosthenes for sure was still in exile.
86 Lamian War: e.g. Ashton (1982) and, for the aftermath of the war in Athens, Habicht (1997: 36-66).
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democracy. If the previous chapters have shown how the meaning of dōrodokia was
articulated in tandem with changing conceptions of the democracy, the following
chapters will examine in closer detail how such conceptual change was reflected in the
law and political institutions. By investigating how these formal responses reinforced,
complemented, or even contradicted informal mechanisms for regulating the behavior of
politicians and citizens alike, we will uncover crucial ways in which bribery helped shape
the Athenian democracy.
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What to Do with the dōrodokos?
Approaching Bribery and the Law at Athens
We have spent the past few chapters investigating the role of the dōrodokos
within Athenian public discourse: the social meaning of the space he occupied in the
community, and how this meaning, along with his defining features, changed over the
course of the democracy. Essentially this investigation has amounted to tracing the place
of the dōrodokos within the moral community of the dēmos. As we have seen, merely
describing the dōrodokos’ role within the community has entailed considering his
relationship to that community: was he an insider or an outsider? Was the civic violation
at the heart of his dōrodokia the transgression of someone who belonged, or did not
belong, in the polity? The last chapter, for example, revealed how a purported dōrodokos
like Demosthenes was considered a traitor to the city, an outsider who had made his way
into the moral community of the dēmos and thereby threatened it from within.
Throughout, we have investigated not simply who the dōrodokos was, but especially who
was allowed to make that call in the first place.
This last point is a crucial one, for descriptive claims about the moral standing of
the dōrodokos—as insider (disobedient citizen), outsider (traitor), or insider desiring to
become outsider (thief)—were always also implicit claims about what his moral standing
would or should be going forward. If Demosthenes qua a dōrodokos was inherently a
traitor, the thinking went, he would and should always be considered an outsider to the
democracy. Indeed, Dinarchus comments, it was precisely those wishing ill upon the city
who thought that Demosthenes should be allowed to live (and the city harmed), while
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those hoping for the city’s own prosperity wished to see Demosthenes dead (Din. 1.65),
thereby permanently removed from the community. To contemplate a dōrodokos like
Demosthenes within the polity was thus to envision, and perhaps hope for, a polity
without him.
Moving our investigation of the dōrodokos forward in this way—pushing it past
descriptions of the here and now and looking into what role the figure would play in the
city’s future—helpfully underscores how discursive representations of dōrodokoi mapped
onto public deliberation about the future of the democracy. Thinking with the dōrodokos
was a way to think through the democracy. How, then, did this powerful discursive role
shape the way the Athenians legislated against dōrodokia? If the Athenians always
looked to the outcome of the dōra given or received, and if in instances of potential
bribery they implicitly weighed in which direction their democracy should head, what
kind of space did the dōrodokos occupy in their political and legal institutions? Although
this claim will be fully argued in the chapters to come, already we can see how the
Athenians’ specific conception of the dōrodokos could have had a profound impact not
only on how dōrodokia was framed within the laws—what kind of offense was it? how
was it defined?—but even on how it was punished—should the dōrodokos become an
insider or an outsider?
Expanding our inquiry in this way immediately raises important questions about
how the Athenians created laws and for what purpose they did so. Were laws against
dōrodokia strictly deterrents—legal process merely an extensive apparatus for
enforcement—or was the role of law in Athenian society more broadly construed? What
were the formal norms governing dōrodokia, how did these relate to informal
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understandings of what constituted dōrodokia, and what was the relationship between
these norms and the courts? The inherently political nature of dōrodokia also brings up
tangled questions about the relationship between law and politics. In short, did the courts
merely enforce norms concerning dōrodokia, or were dōrodokia suits used as deliberative
moments when such political norms were contested and ultimately legitimated by a mass
jury?
These are all central questions that will be explored in the next few chapters, as
we use the laws against dōrodokia as a case-study for understanding broader trends in the
relationship between Athenian law and society. Broadly speaking, we will be attempting
to trace the story of how Athenian dōrodokia legislation was created—that is, how legal
innovation came about in ancient Athens—and, consequently, what role this legislation
and the legal process it engendered played in Athenian society. On both counts my
approach diverges from that by recent scholars working on the legal regulation of bribery,
whether in the ancient Athenian setting or in more contemporary societies. This chapter
outlines the theoretical framework underpinning our analysis and then put this framework
to the test by examining what I argue was Athens’ first law against bribery.
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Athenian Legal and Institutional Responses to Bribery:
By the end of the democracy, the Athenians had developed a range of formal
measures concerning dōrodokia. A series of public oaths and curses condemned those
who committed dōrodokia, and at least six different legal procedures covered dōrodokia
of one form or another. These included four public procedures (graphai), each most
likely pertaining to a distinct law against dōrodokia: the graphē dōrōn for a general law
against giving and taking dōra illicitly, as well as for making corrupt promises; the
graphē dekasmou for a law against bribing judicial bodies; the graphē dōroxenias,
presumably attached to a law against bribing a jury for acquittal in a citizenship trial; and
an unnamed graphē for indicting public prosecutors or witnesses (synēgoroi) who had
taken dōra for a public or private suit. 1 Moreover, there were two procedures for
prosecuting public officials either while still in office or at the end of their term:
respectively, public impeachment (eisangelia) of generals who had taken dōra while on
campaign and public speakers who had spoken against the city’s interests after taking
dōra; and prosecution of a public official during his regular audit (euthyna) at the end of
his term. 2 In the second half of the fourth century, there was also the possibility of
1 On these laws and procedures, see generally Thonissen (1875: 213-21), Lipsius (1905-15: 2.401-6),
Calhoun (1913: 66-77, 117-18, 131-3), MacDowell (1978: 170-3, 183-6; 1983), MacDowell (1983a),
Hansen (1991: 193-4), Kulesza (1995: 34-7), Taylor (2001: 154-7), Hashiba (2006), of which the
overviews by Thonissen, Lipsius, MacDowell, and Hashiba are by far the most detailed and
comprehensive. General law and graphē dōrōn: Dem. 21.113, Lipsius (1905-15: 2.401-4), MacDowell
(1983a: 74-6), Hashiba (2006: 67-74). Graphē dekasmou: [Dem.] 46.26; Lipsius (1905-15: 2.402),
MacDowell (1983a: 63-8), Hashiba (2006: 67-74). Graphē dōroxenias: AP 59.3; MacDowell (1983a:
68-9). Unnamed graphē: mentioned in [Dem.] 46.26 as a graphē before the thesmothetai; Rubinstein
(2000: 52-3).
2 Eisangelia: Hyp. 4.7-8, 29; Lipsius (1905-15: 1.176-211), Hansen (1975), MacDowell (1978: 173-6;
1983a: 62-3). Euthyna: AP 54.2; Lipsius (1905-15: 2.286-98), Piérart (1971), Carawan (1987). Hansen
(1991: 193) argues that an apographē—or a list of money or property received as a bribe, to be
confiscated—could also be employed to prosecute someone for dōrodokia. However, his one attested
example, IG ii² 1631.361ff., refers to a case in which one Sopolis already owed money to the treasury
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investigation (apophasis) by the Areopagus Court into an alleged instance of dōrodokia.
Finally, depending on the offense and procedure used, there were three different penalties
for illicitly giving and receiving dōra: outlawry or, later, disfranchisement (atimia),
death, and a tenfold fine for the amount of the dōra. 3
Taken as a whole, these measures exhibit two characteristics strikingly at odds
with each other. There is a wide range of coverage, including a variety of offenses
(illicitly giving and taking dōra, making corrupt promises) by a variety of specific agents
(generals, public speakers, and political assemblies of various kinds are all singled out).
Yet there is also considerable overlap in the offenses and procedures, where bribing a
group of people conceivably falls under any of three different graphai, to say nothing of
the possibility of investigating the offense under an apophasis or, if the offender was a
public official, an eisangelia or euthyna.
How do we account for such rich legal innovation? For scholars of Athenian law,
this variety of reforms straightforwardly indicates a persistent anxiety in the democracy
about dōrodokia. 4 They assume either that the Athenians first identified a range of
(precisely the kind of property normally confiscated under an apographē); that part of his property came
from bribes he received is thus purely incidental.
3 Our sources give conflicting accounts of the penalties for dōrodokia; this is an intractable problem for any
legal history of dōrodokia. Atimia: explicit in the law cited at Dem. 24.113; cf. And. 1.74, Aeschin. 3.232.
Tenfold fine: AP 54.2, Hyp. 5.24, Din. 1.60, 2.16-17. Death: Isoc. 8.50, Aeschin. 1.86-7 for the graphē
dekasmou; Din. 1.60, Hyp. 5.24 (conjectured). Of these sources, Aeschin. 3.232 lists only atimia as a
penalty for the graphē dōrōn, while both Din. 1.60 and Hyp. 5.24 claim that the penalty was either death or
a tenfold fine. I argue below that these last two penalties applied only at a euthyna or eisangelia procedure
(although originally instead of death atimia qua outlawry was used), while, as Aeschines attests, atimia
(qua disfranchisement) was the only penalty used in a graphē dōrōn suit: see note 33 below. The penalty
under an apophasis could vary according to the public decree calling for the investigation: in the case of
the Harpalus Affair, for example, Demosthenes was fined 50 talents after being suspected of taking 20
talents in dōra (Plut. Dem. 26.2). It is unknown what the penalty was for conviction in a graphē
dōroxenias, but atimia qua outlawry was likely: see Chapter Six below.
4 Such a baldly functionalist view underpins the consensus scholarly view. So, for example, Strauss (1985:
73) remarks, “Bribes threatened to turn an individual against the commonwealth, hence they were
outlawed.” Similarly, MacDowell (1983a: 57): “It is...not surprising that some attempts were made to
check corruption by legislation and prosecution.” Cf. Calhoun (1913: 67), Harvey (1985: 95), Taylor
(2001: 157), Hashiba (2006: 72).
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discrete offenses and later grouped them together into a comprehensive law (thereby
creating overlap), or that they first identified a general offense (dōrodokia) and later re-
legislated its most egregious types, perhaps with harsher penalties in a further attempt to
discourage potential offenders. 5 Alternatively, it is surmised that the overlap was
consciously created to increase the likelihood of prosecution; procedural flexibility would
enable someone to prosecute a dōrodokos and thereby incur just the right amount of risk. 6
There are considerable problems in painting a broad legal history based on such
generalizations about the development of Athenian law 7 ; even if we put these to one side,
however, there are still further problems with this approach. In accounting for legal
innovation, these scholars have proceeded from two basic assumptions: to curb
corruption, the Athenians decided to define dōrodokia in law and they thereby created
legal penalties that would act as deterrents to future dōrodokoi. To my mind, both of
these assumptions are incorrect.
These assumptions are remarkably similar to contemporary legal scholars’
discussions of the rule of law. For those scholars, the rule of law is a central goal of anti-
bribery legislation: the law, and ideally only the law, is to be used to provide a definition
5 Broadly, these are the approaches taken by Hashiba (2006: esp. 76) and MacDowell (1983a), respectively,
who have offered the only in-depth examinations of the legal history of dōrodokia in classical Athens. Of
these, only the treatment of MacDowell (1983a) is comprehensive, but its conclusions have been rightly
criticized by Todd (1993: 303n.16) and especially Hashiba (2006), whose own examination is more evenhanded
yet does not aim to be exhaustive.
6 Demosthenes posits precisely this reason for the variety of Athenian laws on theft: Dem. 22.25-7. He has
been followed by Osborne (1985), Ober (1989: 144-5), Todd (1993: 160-3); see especially Carey (2004)
for the criticism that this explanation does not account for the entire Athenian legal system. As I will
argue in Chapter Seven, the motivation behind procedural flexibility in dōrodokia suits potentially
stemmed from the need for different authoritative bodies to be the judge in different circumstances.
7 See especially Humphreys (1983: 229-31), Cantarella (1987), Cohen (1989: 91), Todd (1993: 69-70) on
the various dangers of adopting an evolutionary approach in the study of Athenian law. It is puzzling, in
this regard, that Hashiba (2006: 68n.27) notes the problems with making evolutionary assumptions about
the development of Athenian law, yet nevertheless posits that the general law against dōrodokia (as cited in
Dem. 21.113) evinces “some intellectual sophistication of legislative language.” In effect, diachronic
changes in the Demosthenic law are understood as increasingly sophisticated attempts at defining
dōrodokia comprehensively. I offer a different approach below.
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of what is and is not socially legitimate; and the law is to provide a series of incentives
and penalties that structure how political agents behave. In essence, advocates of anti-
corruption reform argue, by designing the right laws and the right institutions—with
clearly defined norms and stringent penalties to hold officials accountable—a polity can
effectively curb the cancer of corruption. 8
In response to both sets of scholars, however, it is unclear that the Athenians had
such an impulse to define things systematically, let alone to use the law to do so. 9 As we
have seen, the Athenian word for bribery was ‘dōrodokia’, which meant approximately
“the receipt of gifts in exchange for a bad outcome” (dōra + dekomai), yet nowhere was
this ‘bad outcome’ further defined. 10 Even a superficial look at Athenian laws on
dōrodokia confirms this claim, for the offense of dōrodokia is never legally defined
beyond the receipt of dōra resulting in some kind of ‘harm’ or ‘bad’ to the dēmos 11 ; in
any case, those definitions certainly do not amount to “taking gifts [sc. in office],” as
some classicists have tacitly assumed. 12 Nor is dōrodokia the only offense which the
Athenians did not rigorously define. 13 If the Athenians had a more exact understanding
8
See recently Rose-Ackerman (1978, 1999), Klitgaard (1988), Doig (2000), della Porta and Rose-
Ackerman (2002), Johnston (2005).
9
Note, by contrast, how the law code of Zaleucus was famous for its precision in calibrating a different
penalty for each offense: Ephorus FGrH 70 F 139.
10
See above Chapter One.
11
See further MacDowell (1983: 74-6). The law against dōrodokia cited at Dem. 21.113 mentions only
giving or taking “to the harm of the dēmos.” Likewise, the eisangelia against public speakers defines
bribery as taking money and speaking against the interests of the Athenian dēmos (Hyp. 4.8); the graphē
dekasmou simply calls the offense dōrodokia; and apophasis by the Areopagus was based on a public
decree which need not define the offense more specifically than taking gifts “against the country” (kata\
th=j patri/doj, e.g. Din. 1.13).
12
Harvey (1985), Kulesza (1995), Taylor (2001), Hashiba (2006). Harvey’s (1985: 108-13) discussion is
particularly relevant here, as he seeks to differentiate ‘catapolitical’ bribery—i.e. bribery “against the
community”—from other kinds of taking gifts in office. Ultimately, though, he concludes that both
offenses were surely outlawed even though our legal sources consistently refer only to catapolitical bribery.
I differ from his approach in saying that dōrodokia was, and was only, catapolitical bribery.
13
Commonly noted in our ancient sources: AP 9.2, cf. AP 35.2; Arist. Rhet. 1.1354a27-30, b11-16,
1374a8; Pl. Polit. 294a10-295a7; Rhodes (1981: 162 ad AP 9.1). For a good discussion, see Harris (1988:
367-70), Todd (2000a: 26-7).
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of what constituted dōrodokia—which kinds of things were ‘bad’ gifts, under which
specific circumstances a gift might be deemed ‘bad’, etc.—that definition is not in our
record.
Just as we might query scholars’ focus on the substantive aspects of dōrodokia
legislation, so, too, might we cast doubt on their functionalist conclusion for why specific
legal procedures or penalties were created for dōrodokia suits. As the orator Dinarchus
explains in a prosecution speech against Demosthenes on the charge of dōrodokia, the
laws against dōrodokia established two possible penalties. The dōrodokos was to be
punished either with death, “to ensure that anyone happening to receive this punishment
would be an example (para/deigma) to others,” or with a fine ten times the amount of
the bribe, “so that those who commit the offense would not profit” (i3na mh\ lusitelh/sh|
toi=j tou=to tolmw=si poiei=n, Din. 1.60). 14 To a degree we can readily understand both
penalties as deterrents, yet it is worth pointing out that they function as deterrents in
different ways. A financial penalty is thought to deter the original dōrodokos, while the
death penalty is intended to deter other dōrodokoi. If Dinarchus is correct, then the death
penalty was not merely a deterrent, but played a broader, one might say educative, role
within the polity. 15
More generally, therefore, a second reason for resisting the functionalist approach
taken by scholars of ancient and modern law alike is that such an approach tends to
minimize the rich variety of Athenian legislation, especially the range of penalties and
procedures created. What may appear to be ‘harsher’ penalties—adopted presumably as
14 Dinarchus’ testimony here is actually erroneous on two counts—on which, see note 3 above–but is
helpful evidence all the same that Athenians consciously crafted different penalties for dōrodokia for
different reasons.
15 Recall from the Introduction, too, how the death penalty was viewed in the case of Timagoras’ dōrodokia
as a means of deterring the Persian King from giving bribes (cf. Dem. 19.137).
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a greater deterrent—may actually reflect new conceptions of dōrodokia, the law, or
penology. Accordingly, we should ask not just why the Athenians decided to adopt
formal regulations concerning dōrodokia, but especially why they enacted these
particular measures with these particular penalties and procedures. In other words, what
tends to get lost in approaches premised on broad generalizations about Athenian
lawmaking is the tremendous social meaning legislation had for the Athenians. Certainly
there was overlap in Athenian legislation on dōrodokia, but this was motivated by
profound social and political considerations, as we will see, not necessarily by a
conscious desire to promote the rule of law, that is, to effect strictly legal definitions of
legitimate action backed by legally enforced penalties.
Dinarchus’ testimony exposes an additional problem in assuming that Athenian
dōrodokia legislation aimed at something similar to the modern notion of the rule of law.
The rule of law presupposes a specific role for law as the ultimate arbiter of legitimate
action; in a rule of law context, the polity is structured by, specifically, legal norms, and
this system of norms—the law—is ideally kept separate from the contestation of political
norms in deliberative, legislative bodies. Legal penalties thus should be the primary
means of deterring illicit action. For classicists examining Athenian legislation on
dōrodokia, all of these purposes were implicitly served by creating not only a
comprehensive definition of dōrodokia within the law but also an effective system of
accountability to enforce that definition.
To be fair, the Athenians certainly believed in equality before the law—all
citizens had equal access to the courts, and nobody was to be above the law—and the
laws themselves were constantly hailed as one, if not the, central authority on communal
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norms. Yet it would be misleading to conclude that, for the Athenians, ‘the law’ was a
predictable, autonomous system of rules that constituted legitimate action. The
Athenians did not adhere in that sense to what we might call ‘the rule of law’. 16 Athens
was a legally pluralistic society: although citizens used the courts to legitimate certain
actions, as we will see shortly, law did not have a monopoly on legitimacy, nor did its
authority always trump that of other socially legitimate sources of authority. 17 This was
particularly true with bribery, as noted by the fourth century orator Hyperides (5.24): the
laws forbad profiting from public office, but the people nevertheless allowed officials to
take gifts provided that doing so did not harm the dēmos. 18
Like broader cultural narratives about dōrodokia, then, Athenian legislation and
institutional reform actually tell us a lot more about dōrodokia than these scholars would
allow. In essence, their view provides a plausible reason for some kind of legal or
institutional change—dōrodokia was a ‘problem’ in society that needed to be
addressed—yet fails to explain why the Athenians made the precise changes that they
16 This is contra the view taken by Ostwald (1986) and Sealey (1987) and Harris (2006), on which see the
succinct reply by Todd (1993: 299-300), Lanni (2006). The extent to which the Athenians developed a
concept like ‘the rule of law’ has been hotly debated among ancient historians: see Ostwald (1986), Sealey
(1987), Cohen (1995), Todd (1993: 299-300), Allen (2000: 168-96), Lanni (2006; forthcoming),
Karayiannis and Hatzis (2008).
17 Much sociolegal literature from the 1980’s is devoted to this idea of legal pluralism, a helpful overview
of which is provided by Merry (1988). On legal pluralism generally, Moore (1973, 1978), Galanter (1981),
and Griffiths (1986), Woodman (1998) are essential. Arthurs (1985) details how the normative order of
formal law has a constitutive influence on other normative orders in society, while Felstiner, Abel, and
Sarat’s description of the way divorce attorneys give counsel describes how the legal order can be
constituted by the norms of other social fields, in their case professional lawyers (1980). For the relevance
of legal pluralism to archaic Greek law, see Lakin (2005), Papakonstantinou (2008: esp. 143-4 n.50).
Fourth-century evidence that ‘laws’ were sovereign: Aeschin. 1.4-5, 3.6, 3.169; Dem. 21. 223-5, 23.73,
22.46, 24.5, 24.75-6, 24.118, 25.20-1, 57.56; Lyc. 1.3-4; Din. 3.16; Hyp. 4.5. Cf. Hansen (1975: 48; 1990:
239-42), Ostwald (1986: 497), Ober (1989: 299-304). Yet the modern conception of sovereignty here is
misplaced; certainly the laws were authoritative, but they were still only guides, not absolute authorities:
Todd (1993: 59), Allen (2000: 176-7).
18 Hyperides’ distinction has rightly become the accepted view among ancient historians since at least
Harvey (1985: 108-13). I would point out, however, that we have no evidence of any law prohibiting mere
profiting from office; Hyperides’ comments might instead be read as rhetorical manipulation designed to
empower the jury to vote against his opponent.
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did. 19 A different approach to Athenian legal and institutional reform might focus more
on the differences than on the similarities among these responses: why did the Athenians
develop these particular laws, with different penalties and different procedures, and why
did they modify their political institutions in these particular ways? For that matter, when
did the Athenians choose to create a new legal procedure, and when did they choose to
reform an institution? The rest of this chapter will lay out a theoretical approach for
addressing these questions; Chapter Six will put the theory to work by examining the
democracy’s formal and informal responses to dōrodokia.
Both Dinarchus and Hyperides press on implicit assumptions we might make
about the role (and rule) of law in Athenian society. We can re-examine those
assumptions by investigating how the laws against dōrodokia worked in practice—the
subject of Chapter Seven. Who were the litigants, what were their underlying concerns,
and what were the broader causes and consequences of dōrodokia suits? To an extent,
the answers to such questions will also give us a better handle on why the Athenians
drafted the particular dōrodokia legislation that they did. Further, such questions will
return us to one of the central ideas that has framed this dissertation: that, in defining
dōrodokia, the Athenians subtly deliberated over democracy. As the next few chapters
will examine, it was in the legal space created for the dōrodokos that the Athenians could
weigh whether an official, process, or policy should be aligned with dōrodokia or
democracy.
19 Essentially, these functionalist views focus on the direct effects of legislation, positing that Athenian
legislation against dōrodokia was designed to eliminate the taking of gifts in office (vel sim.), not the
indirect effects of these actions—say, the poor performance of one’s public duties or official action that
went against the dēmos’ interests. On the difference between direct and indirect effects of legislation, see
especially Griffiths (2003). I would maintain instead that, inasmuch as illicit exchange was the paradigm
through which the Athenians understood other, distinct problems in their polity, the law gave expression to
this offense, but primarily for the purpose of curbing these other problems.
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Towards a Theory of Athenian Legal Innovation:
If how the Athenians innovated is something of a black-box question in Greek
history, how they created legal innovation is perhaps closer to a black hole. Most of the
precious few testimonies we have about deliberative politics in action—Thucydidean
speeches and the occasional report in other historiographers, comic parodies, as well as
scattered, biased references in the orators—pertain to policymaking not legal regulation
in its own right. Recently, in an attempt to explain how the Athenians innovated
politically, Josiah Ober has examined the specific ways in which Athens’ political
institutions aggregated the knowledge of her citizens and thereby fostered collective
action and innovation. 20 Ober’s idea can be helpfully mapped onto legislation like that
on dōrodokia, but we are still left with a couple key questions. First, what kinds of
knowledge were considered ‘expert’, or what kinds of considerations went into drafting
such legislation? Did the Athenians focus only on solving a discrete ‘problem’, or did
they tailor the legislation so that the overall shape of the legal system was ideally
maintained? And second, to what extent did the intended effect of this legislation shape
how it was created? Did the Athenians modify, say, the legal process or penalty involved
so that the law might act as more than a mere deterrent?
For Ober’s framework to be readily applicable to Athenian laws on dōrodokia, we
must unpack the social meaning of that legislation, in effect defining the various kinds of
20 Ober (2008), the basic conclusions of which I build off of in constructing a theory of Athenian legal
innovation. It should be noted that my argument does not require that the Athenians strived for efficiency
in legal regulation, or what we might call legal efficacy. Still, Ober’s perceptive model will be a helpful
backdrop for understanding how the Athenians strove to reach the ‘best’ policy, by whatever criteria that
might be judged. Chapter Seven offers a couple different aims of Athenian laws on dōrodokia, each
predicated on a different way in which the law in action was being used for broader political purposes.
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‘expertise’ that went into its creation. Accordingly, this chapter outlines how the social
meaning of such legislation was generated through a dialectic process involving social
and legal representations of the dōrodokos. Two main points will be sketched here and
argued for in greater detail in the chapters to come. First, creating new legislation on
dōrodokia entailed ‘translating’ the social figure of the dōrodokos into a legal entity. The
final form of that legislation was thus shaped both by the social meaning of dōrodokia—
changing conceptions of the dōrodokos—and by the social meaning of law and legal
process more generally. This process of translation occurred in three different ways: in
the legal definition of dōrodokia, the penalty assigned to it, and the process by which it
could be prosecuted. One crucial aim of this section, then, will be to abstract general
principles for each area of translation. Of course, translating the dōrodokos into a legal
entity implies knowing the intended effect of a law or new legal process, so our final
point will concern the various functions that dōrodokia legislation played in the
democracy.
Our first concern is straightforward: how do we move from an action in society
to its legal regulation? Some kind of abstraction of this action must occur in order to
create a general legal rule applicable to a range of specific cases. In other words, an
offense must be defined in the law in some way, yet doing so fixes a particular, albeit
general, idea of what the offense is: both what constitutes the offense and what its
broader significance is. This process of abstraction inevitably entails a kind of
translation, for a fixed legal definition can never fully match up with how an offense
might be described by its participants (or even by its observers). When litigants bring a
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dispute to law, therefore, invariably there are ways in which legal space constrains or
expands, distorts, refracts, or clarifies litigants’ narratives about an offense.
Legal historians of ancient Athens have helpfully outlined a number of ways that
the law in action transformed everyday experiences. 21 I focus here on three specific areas
in which such translation would have occurred when a law was first drafted: defining an
offense, assigning it a penalty, and choosing a process by which it could be prosecuted.
For each of these areas, I would like to underscore that there were two kinds of
considerations that shaped the final form of the legislation: the social meaning of an
offense, viz. the way it was understood in society irrespective of any legal meaning
attached to it; and the social meaning of law more generally, that is, how specific features
of the law were articulated in relationship to each other, irrespective of how the offenses
were commonly conceptualized in society.
For Athenian laws on dōrodokia, therefore, we would expect that how dōrodokia
was conceptualized in society would have at least some bearing on how it was
consequently defined, punished, and prosecuted in law; yet as dōrodokia was transformed
into a legal space, its precise shape may have been conditioned by other entities within
that space, like how similar crimes were punished or prosecuted. These considerations
amount to, respectively, exogenous and endogenous factors that affected the process of
translation: the first affecting the starting point, or how dōrodokia was understood within
society; the second, the end point, or how dōrodokia was incorporated into law. 22 If we
21
See especially Humphreys (1983, 1985), Todd (1993), Carey (1994, 2004), Johnstone (1999), Lanni
(2006).
22
Ultimately, we should not seek to isolate completely these exogenous and endogenous factors. As recent
sociolegal scholars have demonstrated, the way an offense is conceived affects how it is incorporated into
law, but how it is incorporated into the law shapes, too, how it is conceived in society. In this sense, law
both structures and is structured by cultural norms: Silbey (1992, 2005), Sarat and Simon (2001), Ewick
and Silbey (2005), Mezey (2003), Rosen (2006).
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think of these factors as endpoints on a sliding scale, then ultimately our goal here is to
pinpoint the balance struck between them. At different points in time, and for different
aspects of a given law, the balance will shift closer to one end or to the other; tracking
these shifts for any given law will provide a framework for tracing the role of that law in
society.
In terms of defining an offense, Athenian laws were notorious for being
substantively vague. 23 Moreover, there is little reason to think that legal definitions
entailed considerable translation from common understandings of what an offense was.
After all, there were no real legal professionals in Athens, so there was no institutional
context by which a legal definition could be fixed, have precedent, and consequently be
refined over time—traditionally the very processes by which ‘law’ becomes divorced
from social realities. 24 Even when litigants referred to the legal definition of an offense,
for example, they did so only informally, focusing on the spirit not the letter of the law. 25
We can expect, then, that when dōrodokia was given legal expression, its definition
closely matched prevailing ideas of what constituted dōrodokia.
Inasmuch as Athenian litigants commonly cited legal definitions only
informally—and only rarely tried to determine whether an offense in question matched its
legal definition—we would expect that there would be relatively little correlation
23
Noted already in antiquity: AP 9.2, cf. AP 35.2; Arist. Rhet. 1.1354a27-30, b11-16, 1374a8; Pl. Polit.
294a10-295a7.
24
Precisely because it was left to jury members to define, for themselves, which social norms applied to a
particular case, rigorous legal definitions were unnecessary: see further Chapter Seven, cf. Carey (1994:
178-9), Lanni (2006: 117-18). The divorcing of legal norms from social experience has been underscored
in sociolegal scholarship on legal consciousness. To the extent that social actors are aware that their
actions are constituted by legal norms in particular, they reframe their own experience of those actions: see
especially Yngvesson (1989), Ewick and Silbey (1992, 2003), Silbey (1992: esp. 45-6).
25
Todd (2000a: 29-30) rightly points out that informal definition of the law, focusing on the broader
meaning of a statute, not on the details of its wording, was common in Athenian courtrooms in large part
because statutes were mere evidence (cf. Arist. Rhet. 1.15.2-12), not strict rules by which evidence was
judged: cf. Harrison (1971: 134-5), Harris (1988: 367-70), Todd (1993: 58-60), Carey (1994: 178-9).
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between changes in the wording of a law and how litigants presented their case. As we
will discover in Chapter Seven, however, this was not the case with Athens’ laws on
dōrodokia. There, changes in the legal definition of dōrodokia seem to have had a direct
effect on how litigants conceptualized the offense. This exception needs explanation, and
the same chapter will accordingly take up the question of the specific role dōrodokia
legislation played.
How did the Athenians assign a penalty to a particular offense? Hyperides
suggests that the punishment should fit the crime (Hyp. 3.4-6), and we can understand
this idea in two different ways. A punishment should meet general expectations for what
kind of recompense is required for a particular crime. Officials guilty of adikion, or petty
financial mismanagement, were thus liable to repay the sum in question (AP 54.2). We
can readily imagine that this particular penalty ‘fit’ the crime insofar as the offense was
conceptualized as a financial offense—it was investigated by financial auditors, after
all—and an insignificant one at that, requiring only repayment of lost monies. In this
way, both the type and magnitude of the penalty could be calibrated with how an offense
was conceptualized by the Athenians.
At the same time, a punishment might be calibrated to other legal punishments; in
this sense, it might reflect how an offense was incorporated into law, rather than how it
was conceptualized within society. Note how the magnitude of the penalty could also be
measured according to other legal penalties, not necessarily to the offense itself. For
instance, certain orators remark that dōrodokia was given a tenfold fine, whether opposed
to the simple fine of adikion or equivalent to the tenfold fine for embezzlement, precisely
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because it was such a grave offense. 26 Here it is clear that the penalty for each offense
was grouped together with other similar legal offenses—similar because they were
prosecuted in the same manner and applied to the same legal category of individuals (i.e.
public officials or archontes)—and the grouping of offenses was thought relevant for
how to assign a specific penalty for each offense. Thus, both exogenous norms about the
kind of recompense demanded by a crime and endogenous norms about how other similar
crimes were punished could be used to determine whether a punishment fit a crime.
As we will see in the next chapter, in assigning a penalty to dōrodokia, Athenian
law translated the dōrodokos from a social to a legal entity in very specific ways. He was
first deemed either an ‘insider’ of or an ‘outsider’ to the moral community of the dēmos;
it was then determined, also based on the way that the offense was conceptualized,
whether or not he deserved to be an ‘insider’ or an ‘outsider’. These determinations were
based on the kind of social figure he was. The disobedient citizen was an insider who
needed to be kept out of the community; the thief was an insider who tried to become an
outsider, so his punishments reflected a desire either to keep him out or to try to
reintegrate him into the community; finally, the traitor was an outsider who must always
remain an outsider. These assignations underpinned both the content of the laws on
dōrodokia and hence the changing penalties for dōrodokia throughout the democracy.
In tracing this process of translation, we have tacitly assumed that law’s role
within society is to settle disputes and restore reciprocity, yet this is never a given in any
society. 27 Indeed, we saw above how Dinarchus posits two different functions of law
26 Din. 2.16, Hyp. 5.24; cf. AP 54.2. Din. 1.60 errs in calling the simple fine a twofold fine, but
nevertheless singles out dōrodokia for the death penalty.
27 Cohen (1995: 9-24) helpfully lays out recent legal anthropological work outlining, and critiquing, just
such a functionalist approach to conflict and the law’s assumed role in defusing it.
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when he points to divergent penalties for dōrodokia: whereas a tenfold fine might
prevent an official from profiting through dōrodokia, capital punishment was intended to
deter others from committing dōrodokia (Din. 1.60). Indeed, when Demosthenes relates
how the Persian King stopped giving dōra after Timagoras was put to death for
dōrodokia, the stringency of capital punishment appears akin to political signaling about
the kind of city Athens was. 28 Punishments could certainly restore reciprocity and
thereby function as deterrents, but they might also be bound up within broader processes
of signification, cultural negotiation, and even education. 29
Once an offense had been defined and matched with an appropriate penalty, by
what criteria did the Athenians decide how it could be prosecuted? This is perhaps the
least intuitive of the areas of translation we will investigate, but it will prove one of the
most important when we turn to examining the role of Athenian dōrodokia legislation. It
was noted above that there was considerable procedural flexibility in the laws on
dōrodokia, as for a number of offenses in ancient Athens. 30 Demosthenes attests that this
procedural flexibility stemmed from a desire to foster litigation: with more legal options
available, litigants would choose the process that made the most sense to them (Dem.
22.25-7). Although this idea does not seem common to all areas of the law, even if it
were true in principle, it would still tell us little about why specific legal processes were
chosen for specific offenses. After all, nowhere does Demosthenes, or any Athenian for
that matter, purport that the Athenian legal system allowed maximal procedural
28 Dem. 19.137. Note how in his prosecution of Demosthenes for dōrodokia, Dinarchus claims that Athens
needed to kill Demosthenes in order to show the rest of the world that she would not tolerate dōrodokia
from her officials: Din. 1.93, cf. 3.21.
29 A point commonly noted by sociolegal scholars: e.g. Silbey (1992: 41-6), Sarat and Simon (2001: 15-
21). For the broader role of punishment in Athenian society, see Allen (2000), Karayiannis and Hatzis
(2007: esp. 11-12).
30 See above, p.122.
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flexibility, viz. every offense could be prosecuted by every process. 31 Rather, specific
legal procedures had specific meanings, and I suggest that this meaning had to be
matched with an offense.
Prior to 399, laws were publicly displayed in a somewhat chaotic fashion around
the city. Still, there was some order to this chaos, as at least the laws of Draco and Solon
were grouped together in the Stoa Basileus, probably from the time of Ephialtes. 32 After
399, this practice continued, but the centralized re-publication of the laws near the Stoa of
the Basileus listed laws according to the magistrate who presided over the trial;
moreover, many new laws were published in the area to which they applied. 33 We can
detect in both practices a common inclination to group together laws belonging to the
same space or domain. Whereas originally this space had been defined according to the
lawgiver, in the second half of the democracy the focus was on the domain of the
presiding magistrate: that is, on the domain over which he could pass authoritative
(kurios) judgments.
Not all judicial bodies were created equally at Athens: both functionally and
symbolically, juries were distinct from the Assembly, which was distinct from the
Areopagus Court. In practice this meant that different judicial bodies were differently
qualified to render judgment on a particular matter. In the creation of the homicide courts
31 On the contrary, by the end of the democracy we find complaints that the eisangelia process was being
abused by those who were prosecuting trivial offenses like hiring flute-girls at below-market price (Hyp.
4.3): see further Hyp. 1.12 with Philips (2006). That this was considered an abuse of the system strongly
suggests not only that the social meaning of legal process was differentiated, but especially that such
differentiated meaning played a role in which process would be matched with which offenses.
32 Ostwald (1986: 410) brings out this point about the haphazard location of laws throughout the city in the
fifth century. AP 7.1 says that the Solonian kyrbeis were located near the Stoa Basileus. See further
Ruschenbusch (1966: 14-22).
33 On the re-publication of the laws near the Stoa Basileus, see And. 1.82 and compare IG i 3 104.7-8
(Draco’s homicide law); Dow (1961), Rhodes (1981: 131-5; 1991: 90-1), Clinton (1982), Ostwald (1986:
513n.60, 519), Hansen (1990a). Organization according to procedure: Hansen (1991: 165) with Dem.
24.20-3, Lanni (2006: 142-8), cf. [Dem.] 46.26. Laws published throughout the city: e.g. Nikophon’s law
on the testers of silver coinage, SEG xxvi 72.45-6 (375/4 BCE).
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and courts for commercial suits (dikai emporikai), for example, the Athenians
demonstrated considerable sensitivity to how the details of legal process, including who
was authorized to judge a suit, needed to be calibrated to the offense in question. 34 One
part of this calibration was determining which judicial body would be kurios: so the
archon basileus dealt with offenses involving religious matters, while the authoritative
domain of the archon polemarchos was offenses relating to war; similarly, as Athens’
most hallowed body, the Areopagus consistently dealt with the gravest religious
offenses. 35 These domains of authority, as we might call them, were not mere
jurisdictions, but were fields of an expertise of a sort that rendered an official or judicial
body kurios over a particular group of legal offenses.
In creating new legislation, I suggest, the Athenians utilized this concept of
domains of authority, in effect matching an offense to its relevant domain. Of course,
this was never a static process: the Athenians did not simply divide up the kosmos into
various domains and assign new offenses accordingly. Rather, the boundaries of various
domains of authority could be contested with the result that over time domains could
expand or shrink, be combined with or substituted for other domains. Ultimately, the
logic of how these domains were utilized was contingent on the specific circumstances
under which a law was drafted; still, as the next chapter will show, these four operations
on domains recur in Athenian legislation on dōrodokia throughout the democracy.
For the definition of an offense, its penalty, and the legal process by which it was
prosecuted, we have seen how both exogenous and endogenous, social and legal factors
shaped how a law was crafted. One final consideration, then, is the intent of the
34 Thus, one defining feature of the homicide courts was that they were held in the open air supposedly in
order to minimize the risk of spreading the homicide’s pollution to the jurors: Ant. 5.11, cf. AP 57.4.
35 Hansen (1991: 165). Cf. AP 56-8. On the Areopagus’ domain of authority, see below, n. 80.
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legislation. We have already seen that different penalties very well might imply different
roles of the law in action, so it is worth outlining what these roles might be. There are
two different roles that will be of importance in our investigation in Chapter Seven: an
educative and a legitimating function of the law.
Law and legal institutions are commonly understood as shaping communal
expectations, defining or signaling norms, and enacting social rituals that tap into the
collective consciousness of a polity: broadly speaking, this is law’s impact on culture
and public discourse. 36 What we will be interested in here is a conscious motivation to
use legislation to impact public discourse. One idea that will emerge in Chapter Seven is
that the Athenians consciously matched vague legal definitions and high penalties with
the proper domain of authority in order to signal publicly what constituted an
unacceptable political outcome (i.e. dōrodokia). By watching dōrodokia trials, or even
by simply focusing on the outcomes of the trials, Athenians could gauge better what
kinds of actions were considered democratic, which were considered undemocratic or
characteristic of the dōrodokos.
Such an educative role for the law is itself predicated on a different, legitimating
function of the law. As we will see, to the extent that the Athenians used dōrodokia trials
to define which political outcomes were acceptable, they were using legal process as a
legitimizing force in society. In essence, litigants unhappy with a given political result
frequently called foul and brought someone to trial for dōrodokia in order to contest the
legitimacy of the original result. Legal process thus opened up a political space in which
the two litigants could debate not only whether a given outcome constituted dōrodokia,
36 On which, see Todd (2000a), Lanni (2006, forthcoming), Papakonstantinou (2008) for the Athenian
context; Silbey (1992, 2005), Sarat and Austin (2001), Mezey (2003) for contemporary law.
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but even how the norms governing dōrodokia should be defined. Positing such a
legitimizing role for law helps explain the relationship between how dōrodokia was
defined in law and how this definition shaped the ways in which litigants framed the
offense.
We can test the value of the above framework by turning the rich yet tangled story
of what I argue is the first Athenian law concerning dōrodokia. As we will see,
uncovering the text of this law implicates a number of discrete legislative acts throughout
the democracy, including changes in the law’s substance, penalty and procedure. Only
by outlining this diachronic change will we be in a position to understand why the law
was drafted in the first place, and why it was drafted in the form that it was. After tracing
the history of this one law, we will then turn, in the next chapter, to the remaining formal
measures adopted during the democracy.
The Original Law against dōrodokia:
The first Athenian legislation on dōrodokia probably pre-dated the democracy by
nearly a century. Although we have no direct evidence that such a law existed—no
record of any sixth-century trials for dōrodokia, no ascription of any such law to an early
lawgiver—a few scattered clues alert us to the probability that in 594 the Athenian
lawgiver Solon drafted a law forbidding public officials, especially judges, from
committing dōrodokia. The text of the law comes down to us from a speech of
Demosthenes, who cites the law as evidence that his opponent had committed a grave
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offense in allegedly bribing the family of a recently deceased to claim that the man had
been murdered by Demosthenes 37 :
e0a/n tij 0Aqhnai/wn lamba/nh| para/ tinoj, h@ au0to\j didw| ~ e9te/rw|, h2
diafqei/rh| tina\j e0paggello/menoj, e0pi\ bla/bh| tou~ dh/mou h@ 38 tino\j
tw=n politw~n tro/pw| h@ mhxanh~ | h| )ntiniou~n, a1timoj e1stw kai\ pai=dej
kai\ ta\ e0kei/nou.
If any Athenian should receive from another, or himself should give to the other,
or should he corrupt a few men by freely making promises, to the harm of the
people or one of the citizens in any way whatsoever, let him and his children and
property be outlawed. (Dem. 21.113)
37
The law as we have it was not included in the speech first published by Demosthenes, but instead was
inserted later by a scholiast who conjectured which law Demosthenes had read out to the jury on the
occasion of his trial. As a result, doubts about the law’s authenticity have been echoed for at least a
century: Drerup (1897: 304-5), for example, assumes on Pollux’ authority that the graphē dōrōn covered
only taking bribes (Pollux 8.42). Pollux is contradicted by Lex. Seg. 237 s.v. dw/rwn grafh/, which
claims that the procedure could be used for both giving and taking bribes. In any case, Pollux’ neat
division of procedures for giving (dekasmou) and taking (dōrōn) bribes cannot be correct if [Dem.] 46.26—
which includes both—refers to the graphē dekasmou. Cf. Glotz (1904: 502-3) with refutation by Hansen
(1976: 88n.25). MacDowell (1990: 43-6) has compellingly argued in favor of the law’s authenticity.
38
h2: h2 i)di/a| Westermann; kai\ i)di/a|: Reiske; h2 dia\: Iurinus; kai\ dia\ S vulg. With the exception of this one
phrase the text of the law is otherwise certain in the manuscripts that do not omit the law. The manuscript
reading e)pi\ bla/bh| tou= dh/mou kai\ dia\ tino\j tw=n politw~n clearly has to be emended: why would
giving or receiving dōra “through one of the citizens” have been a necessary condition in addition to harm
to the dēmos? Iurinus’ emendation only creates an odd antithesis between giving/receiving bribes “to the
harm of the dēmos” and “through one of the citizens.” Reiske ingeniously suggested that dia/ conceals i)di/a|,
which Westermann further changed to h2 i)di/a| tino\j tw=n politw=n. Westermann’s reading has been
standard for over a century but, as I argue here, the use of the word i)di/a| creates nonsensical Greek.
On purely philological grounds, both Westermann’s and Reiske’s reading are untenable. If i)di/a| is
taken as an adjective modifying bla/bh|, we would need a definite article before the adjective; and to take it
as an adverb, as most scholars seem to do, significantly strains the sense of the words, for we would expect
that it would then modify the offense as done ‘privately’, not that it would redundantly clarify that an
individual’s harm was ‘in private’. On legal grounds, too, the word is problematic, for it is unclear why an
offense explicitly marked out as part of the ‘private’ sphere—as i)di/oj regularly connotes: cf. Pl. Euth. 2a;
Isoc. 11.28, 32, 35; AP 59.2-3, 67.1; Dem. 18.210, 24.192-3, [Dem.] 46.26—would actually be treated as a
public offense punishable under a graphē: see especially Drerup (1897: 304), who accordingly thinks the
law spurious.
For precisely this reason, in fact, the unparalleled phrase grafa\j i)di/aj is often excised from the
law against hybris, also cited in Demosthenes’ speech against Midias. For that law as well as for yet
another law cited in the same speech (cf. i)di/aj decia\j, Dem. 21.52), MacDowell (1990: 268 ad Dem.
21.47) shrewdly posits that the word i)di/a| had originally been written next to these quoted laws in order to
indicate that they were ‘separate’ from the rest of the speech; he posits that a later scribe incorporated the
annotation into the text of each law, thus inadvertently creating textual difficulties. By the same process
i)di/a| could have entered the general law against dōrodokia, as well. When combined with what came
before, this addition would have created HIDIA, later misread as AIDIA or KIDIA and emended to
KAIDIA, as per the manuscripts’ kai\ dia/. By excising i)di/a? |, Iurinus’emendation of kai\ to h@ is clearly
correct, and we are left with a much more straightforward reading that neatly balances harm done to the
dēmos and that done to individual citizens.
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Buried within the text of the Demosthenic law are indications that it could not
have been drafted at a single point in time; instead, various clauses point to distinct
periods in time when the law was modified. For instance, the third clause, “should he
corrupt a few men by freely making promises” (diafqei/rh| tina\j e0paggello/menoj),
likely was not drafted before the late fifth century when the verb diafqei/rein was first
used in conjunction with dōrodokia. 39 Similarly, as we saw in Chapter Two, actively
giving bribes was not condemned until about the same time. 40 By contrast, the final
clause on punishment, “let him and his children and property be outlawed” (a1timoj
e1stw kai\ pai=dej kai\ ta\ e0kei/nou), suggests a date prior to the first half of the fifth
century, for it was only during this time that atimia meant ‘outlawry’. Under the later
meaning of atimia as ‘disfranchisement’, the phrase referring to the offender’s property
(kai\ ta\ e0kei/nou) would have been meaningless, for only people, not property, can be
‘disfranchised’ in this way. 41 This clause suggests that a kernel of an earlier law, at least
as old as the first half of the fifth century, is concealed within the law transmitted by the
Demosthenic corpus. 42 Given the necessarily later context for giving bribes and
39 Hashiba (2006: 70n.31) following Harvey (1985: 86-7) suggests a mid-fifth-century date for this
meaning of diafqei/rein, but Harvey’s argument is based entirely on a purported play on words in
Herodotus 5.51, which is dated sometime between the 440’s and 420’s. In fact, this meaning of the verb is
not again attested until the fourth century (e.g. Lys. 2.29, 28.9; Xen. Hell. 7.3.8), and I have already argued
that the Herodotean passage need not connote bribery: see Chapter One above. Harvey (1985: 111)
rightly suggests, however, that the clause containing e0pi\ bla/bh| was added later: see page 124 below.
40 Cf. Kulesza (1995: 36), Hashiba (2006: 69).
41 On the meaning of atimia, see Harrison (1971: 169-76), Hansen (1976: 55-6), MacDowell (1978: 73-5;
1983: 74-6), Maffi (1979), Rhodes (1981: 222 ad AP 16.10), Vleminck (1981), Rainer (1986), Hall (1996:
79-80). Although Thonissen (1875: 214) argues that atimia in Dem. 21.113 could actually entail
confiscation, too, his interpretation has not been followed by others. In fact, Hansen (1976: 88-9) proposes
either to follow Drerup in deleting kai\ ta\ e)kei/nou or to change it to oi( e)c e)kei/nou; similarly, Lipsius (1905-
15: 2.401n.100) deletes the entire penalty clause. Hansen (1976: 55-6) rightly points out that the later
meaning of atimia was broader than ‘disfranchisement’, for atimoi lost all civil rights and all standing
under the law. Nevertheless, without any direct English translation, here and throughout I use the
translation ‘disfranchisement’ to describe the later meaning of atimia.
42 Cf. Hashiba (2006: 71).
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corrupting through promises, this earlier law probably outlawed only taking bribes;
effectively, it was a law against dōrodokia.
Just as important as what the law does say, what the law does not say tells us
much about its legislative import and history. One curious feature of the wording of the
law as we have it is that the verbs lack a direct object: the regulation forbids anyone from
‘taking’ (lamba/nh|) or ‘giving’ (didw| ~) or ‘freely promising’ (e0paggello/menoj) to the
detriment of the dēmos or any of the citizens, but it is unspecified what is given, taken, or
promised in each case. This is less of a problem for a verb like dido/nai (give), which can
be used absolutely without any expressed object, but for lamba/nein (take) and
e)pagge/llesqai (promise unasked) the lack of a direct object requires explanation. 43 We
might emend the text to include a direct object (e.g. ti or dw=ra), but it is not at all clear
how an entire word could have dropped out of the text, nor is it clear that an object would
regularly have been inferred from these verbs in context. 44 Why, then, would the
Athenians have omitted an object in the wording of this law?
This problem disappears if we remember that the law as we have it is actually a
redrafting—and, I argue, an explicit redefinition—of an earlier law which included the
older meaning of atimia. Keeping in mind that the original law would have been drafted
before the mid-fifth century, the verb used to describe the offense probably would have
been de/xesqai (“receive in exchange for something bad”), not lamba/nein (“take”). As
43
Didonai without a direct object: e.g. Hom. Il. 9.37, 24, 529, Od. 1.348, 7.35; Hes. WD 354-5. See LSJ
s.v. lamba/nw II.1a,h and e)pagge/llw A.4.
44
So MacDowell (1990: 337 ad Dem. 21.113) is rightly dubious. Of the two alternatives, dw=ra is the
more likely omission, as it was consistently used in public documents concerning dōrodokia: cf. Dem.
24.150, AP 55.5, IG ii² 1183.8. Further, it is more likely that dw=ra was understood from context than that
it dropped out of the text, as most critics tacitly accept in their alignment of the law against dōrodokia with
the graphē dōrōn process. These scholars do not offer why dw=ra was not expressed in the original law,
but see further below for reasons why the omission might make sense.
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we saw in Chapter One, in the archaic period it was the verb de/xesqai which was most
often used to describe illicit exchanges. Indeed, that verb lies semantically at the root of
dōrodokia and was the verb par excellence in Athenian regulations against dōrodokia: it
is used in the oath of the jurors, in the curse announced at the beginning of every meeting
of the Assembly and Council, as well as in a phrase from the law against bribing juries. 45
Significantly, in these other legal regulations and in a few scenes of archaic bribery, the
verb de/xesqai is combined with, specifically, the object dw=ra. 46 The frequent
conjunction of the two words meant that the omitted dw=ra could have been understood
from context. Accordingly, given its antiquity and the later omission of a direct object,
the original law probably read, “If someone is bribed by another...” (e0a/n tij 0Aqhnai/wn
de/xhtai para/ tinoj...), without an explicit mention of dw=ra. 47
If this wording is correct, the original law most likely did not include the clause
e)pi\ bla/bh| tou= dh/mou h@ tino\j tw=n politw=n (“to the harm of the people or one of the
citizens”), for this clause essentially repeats the meaning of de/xesqai, which already
implies that damage was done by the receipt of the dōra. 48 Incidentally, the clause is
necessary, and hence makes more sense, with lamba/nh| (and didw| ~); without it, the giving
and taking of all gifts would have been banned under the Demosthenic law. Because
45 Oath of the jurors: ou)de\ dw=ra de/comai th=j h(lia/sewj e#neka, Dem. 24.150. The public curse has not
been preserved, but a parody of the curse in Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazousae uses the same verb (cf.
de/xetai, Ar. Th. 346). Law against bribing juries: dexo/menoj, [Dem.] 46.26.
46 Cf. Hom. Il. 24.429, 24.434, Od. 2.186, 8.483, 9.353; Ar. Th. 346; Dem. 24.150.
47 For the sake of clarity, I use the passive voice in my English translation here—“If someone is bribed by
another...”—for what in Greek is properly a middle-voiced verb. A more precise translation, however,
would be much more cumbersome—“If someone receives from another in an illicit way...”—and in English
would seemingly require a direct object. For this meaning of de/xesqai, see Chapter One.
48 I find only one instance when the verb de/xesqai is explicitly reinforced with mention of the harm done:
a scholiast’s note on Demosthenes’ speech On the False Embassy. There, the scholiast explains
Demosthenes’ retort that his opponent had harmed the city by speaking to the Assembly after taking dōra
from the city’s enemies: a)ll’ e)ch=n soi (fhsi/) le/gein e)n a1lloij, a)ll’ ou)k e)n oi{j e1blaptej th\n po/lin
dw=ra deca/menoj (scholia 371c ad Dem. 19.184, Dilts). Even here, though, the supplementary aorist
participle deca/menoj suggests that the orator intended to underscore the already implicit harm of
dōrodokia: “you harmed the polis by taking dōra illicitly.”
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Chapter Five
these later additions to the law needed to be limited in some way in order to define when
‘receiving’ or ‘giving’ dōra was illicit, the e)pi\ bla/bh| clause—including explicit mention
of harm done to either the dēmos or to an individual—most likely entered the law only at
a later date.
I suggest, therefore, that the original law against dōrodokia read as follows:
e)a/n tij A)qhnai/wn de/xhtai para/ tinoj tro/pw| h@ mhxanh| = h| )ntiniou=n, a!timoj
e!stw kai\ pai=dej kai\ ta\ e)kei/nou.
If some Athenian 49 is bribed by another in any way or manner whatsoever, 50 let him and
his children and his property be outlawed.
Reconstructed so, this regulation was substantively vague: like a number of early
Athenian laws, it essentially outlawed an offense (de/xesqai) that was nowhere explicitly
defined. 51 Given that the law was probably modified at least once at a later time (to add
the didw|,~ diafqei/rh|, and probably e)pi\ bla/bh| clauses), it is possible that one impetus
49
All other instances of the subject “some Athenian” (ti/j 0Aqhnai/wn) imply a distinction either between
Athenians and foreigners or between Athenian citizens and non-citizens (metics, slaves): see, respectively,
Plut. Pel. 6.5, Dem. 35.50 with plausible restoration in IG i³57.11, 227.24, 228 fr.B.9, IG ii² 229.9; the laws
cited in Aeschin. 1.16, 1.19 need not imply a distinction, but their authenticity is not secure. It is this latter
distinction that I think is play here: if ‘some Athenian’ committed dōrodokia, he would no longer be an
Athenian. This interpretation thereby relieves of us of having to posit that a separate (unattested) law
applied to metics, slaves, or foreigners, as MacDowell (1983a: 74n.19) conjectures.
50
Given our limited evidence, the general clause “in any way or manner whatsoever” (tro/pw| h@ mhxanh= |
h) |ntiniou=n) cannot be more precisely dated, so I have tentatively included it in my reconstruction of the
original law against dōrodokia. Although this precise phrase is unparalleled in extant literature and
inscriptions, there are a number of similar phrases attested in the Classical period (usually in the negative,
“in no way or manner whatsoever”): mh/te te/xnh| mh/te mhxanh= | mhdemi/a| (Th. 5.18.4), ou!te te/xnei ou!te
mexanei= ou)demia=i (IG i³ 40.22-3), ou!te te/xnh| ou!te mhxanh| = ou)demia= | (Dem. 24.150), te/xnh| h@ mh/xanh| =
h( |ntiniou=n (Dem. 59.16). More relevant comparanda can be found in various judicial oaths: mhxanh=i h2
t]e/[xnh]i ou0demia=i (IG ii² 1183.8-9, dated after 340), [te/xnai h2 maxana=i ou)d]-/emia=i (IK Knidos
I.221A2.30-32, c.300), and, during the Hellenistic period, o[u1te t]e/xnhi ou1te pareure/sei ou)demia=i
(MDAI(I) 1979: 249-71: II side B 4.32). These last examples, all of which vow that a person will not take
dōra “by any way or contrivance whatsoever,” suggest that in the law against dōrodokia the same clause
limits the actual act of taking dōra, not the harm done to the dēmos: for text, see footnote 7 below. This
would suggest an earlier date for the phrase, before the e)pi\ bla/bh| clause was inserted into the law, but our
evidence is ultimately only suggestive and cannot be taken as conclusive either way.
51
Athenian laws, particularly in the archaic period, notoriously lacked rigorous legal definitions, as was
commonly pointed out in the democracy: AP 9.2, cf. AP 35.2; Arist. Rhet. 1.1354a27-30, b11-16, 1374a8;
Pl. Polit. 294a10-295a7; Rhodes (1981: 162 ad AP 9.1). So, for example, the law against hubris simply
states, “If anyone commits hubris against another (e)a/n tij u(bri/zh| ei1j tina, Dem. 21.47)...” a vagueness
considered problematic already in antiquity: Todd (2000a: 26-7), Lanni (2006: 67-8, 117-8).
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for this subsequent change was to specify the meaning of de/xesqai. In fact, by assuming
that the later law was an explicit redefinition of the verb de/xesqai, with only an implicit
direct object, we can make sense of the fact that the verb lamba/nein, though transitive,
also omitted the object when the law was redrafted. This one crucial omission thus
provides us with a skeleton for reconstructing the original law against dōrodokia and
some of its subsequent development.
Although the law lacks any mention of procedure, the omission of dōra as a direct
object also makes it likely that this original law was associated with the graphē dōrōn
procedure, under which anyone who wanted could come forth and publicly prosecute an
offender. 52 Given that the Athenians used the word dōra to mean only ‘gifts’—recall that
they distinguished ‘gifts’ from what we call ‘bribes’ by context or semantically by the
verb used (e.g. de/xesqai)—the graphē dōrōn properly regulated the receipt of gifts, not
necessarily bribes per se. In other words, the graphē dōrōn defined at what point, or in
what context, licit actions (the receipt of gifts even by a public official) became illicit
(when there was a bad outcome).
This is precisely the kind of regulation found in our original law. If that law
contained the verb de/xesqai—a fair assumption, as we have seen—then it was designed
to define the kinds of exchanges that were allowed in the community; that is to say, it was
52 The law’s association with the graphē dōrōn is commonly assumed but is based on scant evidence:
Lex.Seg. 237.3 says that the graphē dōrōn covered both active and passive bribery, as is suggested by
Demosthenes’ own commentary on the law (Dem. 21.104-7), but Pollux 8.60 claims that the graphē dōrōn
applied only to taking, not giving, bribes. The law itself gives no indication of procedure, and we have no
secure attestation of someone prosecuted under a graphē dōrōn, but see Ant. 6.50 with discussion further
below. Still, there does appear to be evidence that the law was tied to the graphē dōrōn, and precisely with
the subsequent changes envisioned here. Dinarchus 2.16-17 claims that “the first law givers” (oi( prw=toi
nomoqe/tai) created the graphē dōrōn with a penalty of a tenfold fine. The phrase is a hapax—usually
orators refer to the ‘first lawgiver’, i.e. Solon, on which see Hansen (1989: 80), Johnstone (1999: 25-33)—
but it can be explained by assuming that Dinarchus is combining two different legislative acts: the initial
creation of the graphē dōrōn by Solon and the subsequent addition of a monetary penalty by later
nomothetai. Cf. Hansen (1989: 91) and see below.
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a law designed to regulate dōra. 53 After all, de/xesqai is a marked verb which connotes
not a general kind of action (like ‘give’ or ‘take’ or ‘promise’), but a specific kind of
exchange (i.e. illicit). When it was combined with the noun dōra to form the offense
dōrodokia, it explicitly marked those dōra as illicit by indicating that their receipt
resulted in a bad outcome. It is important to note, moreover, that this meaning of
de/xesqai was never coupled with other nouns to form new compound words: for the
Athenians only dōra could be marked as received in an illicit way. 54 Insofar as the
original law against dōrodokia regulated exactly what we might expect was covered
under the graphē dōrōn, both the law and the graphē dōrōn process were probably
coupled from the law’s original drafting.
Thus far we have identified substantive changes in what the original law against
dōrodokia regulated, but linking the law to the graphē dōrōn in this way implicates still
further change with regard to the penalty and procedure mandated by the law. Here it
will be sufficient to identify that there was legal change; in the next chapter we will
examine the significance of these changes. The only penalty mentioned in the law is
atimia—‘outlawry’, later interpreted as disfranchisement—yet by the second half of the
fourth century, sources indicate that the penalty for dōrodokia under the graphē dōrōn
could be atimia or, as is more often cited, payment of a fine ten times the amount of the
bribe. 55 Some of these sources also mention that death, not atimia, was a possible
53 Although less straight-forward, this point holds for the later law, as well. The Demosthenic law defined
when dōra became illicit to take, give, or promise unasked; it was a law about gifts, not bribes per se.
54 dw=ra + de/xesqai as intended to change the mind of someone else: early examples in Hom. Il.24.434
with scholiast, Hom.Hym. Herm. 549, Sappho fr. 1.22 (Page), Ar. Av. 937; cf. Harvey (1985: 83). That
dōrodokia was the only noun formed from this meaning of the verb de/xesqai is illustrated by the peculiar
morphological classes of compounds ending in –dokia: see further Chapter One.
55 Only Aeschin. 3.232 explicitly confirms that atimia was a penalty in a graphē dōrōn. Note how in two
late-fifth-century sources, atimia qua disfranchisement is used with regard to those convicted of dōrodokia:
And. 1.74 (400, although the reference might refer to atimoi in 405, when the relevant decree was passed)
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punishment. 56 Despite such contemporary accounts, these additional penalties have no
clear place in the wording of the Demosthenic law. While it is certainly possible that the
scholiast lopped off these additional penalties when incorporating the law into
Demosthenes’ speech, we would still need to identify when they were added to the law.
After all, it does not seem likely that all three penalties were simultaneously included in
the initial drafting of the law.
Unlike most early Athenian laws, which tend to outline both an offense and a
legal process for prosecuting offenders, the Demosthenic law is silent on procedure. 57
We know from other sources, however, that the graphē dōrōn entailed bringing a graphē
before the thesmothetai, who comprised six of the nine archons, the most important non-
military magistrates in Athens (AP 54.2). In terms of procedure, therefore, we are left
with two questions: why is legal process omitted from the Demosthenic text, and was a
graphē before the thesmothetai the original procedure employed when the law was first
drafted?
It is possible that, when the Athenian law code was revised in 409-399, because
laws seemed to have been grouped together by procedure according to the magistrate
who presided over the trial, some laws may have been redrafted and displayed without
explicit mention of procedure in the law itself. 58 So, for instance, another speech of
and Lys. 21.11, 25 (403/2). This is good evidence that the atimia stipulated in the original law was
interpreted as disfranchisement by the end of the fifth century.
56 Din. 1.60, Hyp. 5.24 (conjectured).
57 On the procedural, as opposed to substantive, emphasis of (especially archaic) Athenian law, see Gagarin
(1986: 51-97), Todd (1993: 64-7). The locus classicus for this idea is the law governing the graphē
hubreōs, cited at Dem. 21.47: “If a man commits hubris (u(bri/zh|)…” and proceeds to lay out the procedure
for bringing him to justice without defining what actually constituted hubris.
58 Quoting the decree of Teisamenus, which ordered the revision of the laws, Andocides says that the laws
were to be drafted on tablets initially and handed over to the magistrates (Andoc. 1.83); Ostwald (1986:
515) plausibly takes this to mean that each magistrate received the laws that fell within his domain of
authority. In that case, although the decree omits this detail, it is likely that the final publication of the laws
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Demosthenes preserves a ‘law’ which, in fact, is a collocation of distinct laws with the
same procedure. 59 Conceivably, in the fourth century this summary grouping of laws,
together with a single procedure, was displayed next to the full text of each individual
law, each of which texts may not have duplicated the procedure involved. 60 In this way,
when the scholiast inserted the law against dōrodokia into the Demosthenic text, his
source might very well have lacked any mention of legal process.
I suggest that the graphē dōrōn underwent the same legal changes as some of the
other offenses collected in the ‘law’ cited at Demosthenes 46.26—all of which also called
for a graphē before the thesmothetai. Some of these offenses are found in the so-called
impeachment law (nomos eisangeltikos), which, though drafted around 411/0, actually
reflects a much older catalogue of public wrongs. 61 Originally, a number of offenses in
the nomos eisangeltikos may have been intended specifically for public officials, who
were subject to a written indictment, alternately called an eisangelia or graphē. 62 Only
also would have been grouped according to the presiding magistrate, although Gallia (2004: 455) rightly
stresses that in fact the anagrapheis would have had some latitude in how they gathered together the laws
for republication. For further background on the revision of Athenian laws at the end of the fifth century,
see Hansen (1990a; 1991: 162-5), Rhodes (1991), Gallia (2004), Lanni (2006: 142-8). Papakonstantinou
(2008: 61-2) points to precisely the same kind of ‘dialogue’ between statutes in the archaic law code of the
Cretan city of Gortyn.
59 [Dem.] 46.26, discussed in further detail below. The ‘law’ transmitted in the text combines various laws
against conspiracy, bribing juries, and forming a hetaireia, each of which offenses was prosecutable by a
graphē before the thesmothetai, brought by anyone who wanted. See Lavency (1964: 91ff.) on the law’s
authenticity. For further compilations of this sort, see IG i 3 105, 236-41, Gallia (2004: 454-5).
60 The procedure and penalty for overthrowing the dēmos, for example, were listed separately: see
respectively [Dem.] 46.26 and And. 1.96.
61 Note how both contain provisions against forming a hetaireia or overthrowing the dēmos: [Dem.] 46.26,
Hyp. 4.8.
62 The entire second clause of the nomos eisangeltikos, on treason, seems to have applied primarily to
stratēgoi. Similarly, conspiring to overthrow the dēmos and trying to set up a tyranny were essentially one
and the same—Demophantus’ law against tyranny contains both, after all (And. 1.96-8)—yet the real
concern with tyrants was that a prominent official might try to appropriate too much power, as feared with
Cylon, Solon, Pesistratus and Isagoras. I follow Ruschenbush (1968: 73-4), Carawan (1985: 117) in
positing that the verb ei)sagge/llein may originally have applied to any public indictment against a
magistrate, whether in office or having just completed his term: cf. AP 4.4. Because these indictments
could have been presented in written form (a graphē), it is understandable that later sources use the words
eisangelia and graphē interchangeably to describe denouncements of public officials.
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later was this general list of offenses by magistrates compiled in the form of the nomos
eisangeltikos and, crucially, turned into a series of offenses by private individuals, too,
who could then be prosecuted under a graphē to the thesmothetai. 63
We have only one tantalizing bit of evidence, but it suggests that the graphē
dōrōn went through the same changes. In the collection of laws from Demosthenes
46.26, the manuscripts read, “If anyone bribes (sundeka/zh|)...whether giving or illicitly
receiving money for the purpose of dōrodokia (e)pi\ dwrodoki/a| xrh/mata didou\j h2
dexo/menoj)...” The grammar is strained here, for it is untenable that the person illicitly
giving money (sundeka/zh|) also illicitly received it (dexo/menoj). Possibly, though, our
text conceals a reference to the original law against dōrodokia; if so, and even if not, then
that law, like others collected in the same group, might have originally applied only to
public officials. 64 On this view, the original procedure for the graphē dōrōn would have
been a simple ‘indictment’ (whether called an eisangelia or a graphē) of a public official.
At a later time, perhaps when changes to the law’s wording were made, it was turned into
63 On this later compilation, see Calhoun (1913: 67-8 n.6). The thrust of my argument holds even if the
original offenses governed by an eisangelia (public denouncement) were, technically, applicable to any
citizen; in other words, even if the original nomoi were nowhere restricted to public officials, per se, I
suggest that in actuality the motivation behind and application of them concerned only public officials until
the formal codification of graphai at the end of the fifth century. Note how with Demophantus’ law in
409/8 the Athenians essentially redrafted the law against overthrowing the dēmos so that it applied to
anyone (cf. e)a/n tij dhmokrati/an katalu/h| th\n 0Aqh/nhsin, And. 1.96).
64 Plausible restoration is impossible given the strength of the manuscript tradition, but it should be noted
that the clauses about illicitly giving and receiving money only repeat the force of sundika/zh|. More telling
is Pollux’ testimony that the graphē dekasmou concerned only active bribery, as the name suggests (Pollux
8.42); after all, despite this testimony that a bribed juror could be prosecuted by a graphē dōrōn, we never
hear of jurors, Assembly members, or Council members on trial for committing dōrodokia (pace Aeschin.
1.86-7: see below). Thus, I suggest, h2 dexo/menoj could have been later added, presumably because a
scholiast was thinking of the law against dōrodokia; an h1 dropped out between th\n boulh/n and e)pi\
dwrodoki/a|; or the participles either in the dexo/menoj clause or in both clauses should be emended to finite
verbs, e.g. di/dw|...h2 de/xhtai.
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a regular graphē before the thesmothetai, by which procedure any citizen could be
prosecuted. 65
Having outlined all of the above changes to the law’s substantive meaning,
punishment and procedure, we can finally turn to establishing its date and significance.
Although we lack positive evidence either way, two aspects of the graphē dōrōn suggest
that it dates back to Solon’s laws, instituted in 594/3 nearly one century before the
democracy. Inasmuch as the original graphē dōron appears to have been a general
regulation demarcating the illicit receipt of gifts only in broad terms, it is not likely to
have been drafted in response to a specific new phenomenon, say, taking dōra from the
Persians during the Persian wars. 66 Instead, it appears to have been an innovation which
65 Ant. 6.49-50, dating to 419/8, may be evidence that the graphē dōrōn already existed by this time: see
note 58 below. Note how, when AP 59.2 lists the graphē dōrōn among the list of graphai before the
thesmothetai, there is no hint that these laws were archaic: see Rhodes (2006: 258). At any rate, it is
unlikely that the original graphē dōrōn, which effectively established the accountability of magistrates,
would have entailed a graphē before the thesmothetai. All other public indictments of officials came
before the Areopagus, and there is no reason to think that dōrodokia would have been singled out as an
exception to this rule, particularly given the fact that the thesmothetai were, themselves, prime magistrates
who might be suspected of dōrodokia. On the institution of public accountability, see further below.
66 As recently conjectured by Hashiba (2006: 72-3), who is forced to posit a date for the graphē dōrōn only
after the 480’s based on the (erroneous) assumption that such legislation was forged from “a strict attitude
towards bribery” (2006: 72) and constituted “a condemnation of bribery from a standpoint representing the
public interests of the polis” (2006: 72n.42). As we have seen, however, Athenian condemnations of
dōrodokia need not entail a “strict attitude” towards taking dōra in office, and it only begs the question to
claim that legislation on dōrodokia represented the public interests of the polis. Even if we do follow
Hashiba’s dating, however, his (admittedly conjectural) argument on the contents of the first law on
dōrodokia is nonetheless purely associative. Precisely because our sources on dōrodokia in the first half of
the fifth century happen to refer to taking dōra from the Persians and ‘Medizing’, he argues that the
original law against dōrodokia outlawed taking dōra from the Mede (2006: 73). As David Lewis (1979)
points out, however, this fear of bribe-induced Medizing probably reflects late—not early—fifth-century
bias, for there is no secure evidence of Persian gold actually entering into Greek relations until the second
half the fifth century.
Even so, to make his case, Hashiba adduces two examples: in 480, Lycides and his family were
stoned to death because Lycides had proposed that the Athenians vote on surrendering to the Persian King
(Hdt. 9.5), and perhaps in 461 Arthmius of Zelea was decreed an enemy of the people for allegedly
conveying gold from the Persian King to Sparta (Aeschin. 3.258; Dem. 9.42, 19.271; Din. 2.24-5; Aristides
1.310 Dindorff; cf. Thuc. 1.109; Diod. 11.74.5). While these examples “support the proposition that in the
470s and 460s the Athenians believed that bribery associated with Medism should be punished by
outlawry”(72), they also suggest that at this time the Athenians were content to employ informal, extrajudicial
means to do so. In other words, we need not posit the creation of a formal, legal sanction in
response to dōrodokia associated with Medism.
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fits better in the context of a series of large-scale reforms that essentially mapped out the
entire terrain of licit and illicit actions within the community. Indeed, precisely this kind
of legislation was common in the archaic period, when poleis frequently defined in law
under what conditions an otherwise regular action became illicit. Solon’s regulations on
who could or could not marry (F47, F48) or adopt (F49, F58) are typical in this regard.
Similarly, archaic prohibitions on enslaving or hitting citizens, on killing—licit in war,
illicit otherwise—as well as regulations on various kinds of property transfers, including
sale, inheritance, and theft all divided basic social interactions into licit and illicit
classes. 67 In Athens, at least, many of these laws date back to Solon’s extensive reforms
and cohere with each other as a broad-based reorganization of social and political space
within the law.
The graphē dōrōn seems likely an innovation of the archaic period also because it
established mere accountability, not accountability to the people, specifically. Were we
to posit that the process was first implemented in the early decades of the fifth century, in
those cases where it would have been applied the suit would have been heard by the elite
Areopagus Council, not by the Assembly or a popular jury. 68 In this respect, the graphē
dōrōn would have stood counter the trend in the early democracy of establishing the
dēmos’ control over magistrates and citizens, alike. By contrast, if we look to when
accountability, not public accountability, was first established, tradition holds that it was
first institutionalized by the lawgiver Solon (Arist. Pol. 2.1274a15-18, 3.1281b31-4; AP
9.1).
67
On the range of archaic Greek law, see especially Gagarin (1986: 63-77) and Papakonstantinou (2008:
51-63).
68
Assembly and treason trials: Carawan (1987: 168-91). Properly, the Areopagus Council was a standing
body of all previous archons. Prior to 487, and perhaps prior to 457, however, the only citizens eligible for
the archonship were those from the highest census classes.
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For these reasons, the original law against dōrodokia and the graphē dōrōn were
most likely implemented by Solon, when he drafted a series of reforms in 594/3. We can
hypothesize that, as a general regulation, the law might have been part of Solon’s broader
plan of re-mapping the legal contours of the polis; it is significant, in this regard, that the
measure fits in with a number of the lawgiver’s other legislative reforms, many of which
were aimed at curbing elite abuses of power. 69 In archaic Athens, there were few public
officials, and the chief magistrates, the nine archons, had both executive and judicial
duties. One of Solon’s concerns, a sentiment common in archaic Greece, was that public
officials were giving ‘crooked judgments’ when deciding disputes: in effect, they were
being bribed to favor one party of the dispute. 70 In his poetry, Solon recognizes that
judges gave both just and unjust decisions (cf. a)rxw=n a!koue kai\ di/kaia ka!dika, fr. 30
West), and he subtly encourages them to change their ways from bad order (dusnomia) to
goodly order (eunomia), which would “straighten out [their] crooked judgments”
(eu)qu/nei de\ di/kaj skolia/j, fr. 4a.35 West). Due in no small part to dōrodokia, these
actions were considered tremendously harmful to the community. As Solon laments, the
city itself was being destroyed by elite citizens who were “persuaded by material goods”
(xrh/masi peiqo/menoi, fr. 4a.6 West); that is to say, dōrodokia was ruining the city. 71
69 Based on Solon’s introduction of the graphē (AP 9.1), ephesis (AP 9.1), eisangelia (AP 8.4) and euthyna
(Arist. Pol. 1274a15-17, 1281b32-4) processes and the introduction of property qualifications for holding
office (AP 7.3-4; Plut. Sol. 18). On Solon’s restraints on magistrates’ powers, see especially Humphreys
(1983: 237-9; 1988: 469-70). Note how Solon claimed to have provided a proper ‘prize’ or ‘honor’ for
the dēmos (ge/raj, timh=j, Sol. fr. 5.1, 5.2W).
70 For the complaint of crooked judgments (sxolia\i di/kai), see also Hom. Il. 16.387, Hes. WD 219, 263-4,
Theog. 45-6 and perhaps ML 8A; Gagarin (1974; 1986: 81-97), Papakonstantinou (2008: 107-12).
71 Solon’s complaint is strikingly similar to Theognis’ description of how kakoi were destroying the dēmos
(fqei/rousi, Theog. 45). For Theognis, this destruction was caused by judicial bribery: “[sc. the kakoi]
provide unjust judgments for the sake of gain and power” (di/kaj t’ a)di/koisi didw=sin/ oi)kei/wn kerde/wn
ei3neka kai\ kra/teoj, Theog. 45-6). Cf. Mülke (2002: 110), Papakonstantinou (2008: 111-12).
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One of Solon’s major reforms, therefore, was to establish greater control over the
judicial process and the magistrates who administered it. The lawgiver created the legal
process of appeal (ephesis) to the Heliaia, which was the Assembly seated as a jury: in
case a magistrate had given a seemingly unjust judgment, a citizen could appeal that
decision to the popular court. Although in practice the appeals process was rarely used, it
at least gave a citizen some control over the judicial process. 72 While the ephesis
procedure has thus rightly been taken as a significant, if fledgling, step towards citizen
control of the courts (i.e. the creation of popular juries), effectively it only corrected an
abuse of power. Holding accountable the magistrates who had intentionally given
crooked judgments or otherwise overstepped their bounds was a different matter
altogether. Although in the fourth century Solon was perhaps erroneously credited with
instituting a range of accountability procedures, it is generally assumed that the lawgiver
did institute some kind of oversight for public officials, most likely scrutiny by the
Areopagus Council. 73 For a process like the graphē dōrōn, the Areopagus could
prosecute an official on its own undertaking or it could first assess the complaint of any
willing citizen who lodged an indictment before it and then conduct the trial as needed. 74
The graphē dōrōn thus complemented both the ephesis procedure and the
lawgiver’s other attempts to hold magistrates accountable for misconduct in office; it
72
AP 9.2, Arist. Pol 2.1273b35-1274a5, 2.1274a15-18. Cf. Pl. Sol. 18.2-3. ephesis: Wilamowitz (1892:
1.60), Lipsius (1905-15: 28, 954 n.2), Ruschenbusch (1965: 381-4), Harrison (1971: 72-3), Rhodes
(1981: 160-2 ad AP 9.1; 2006: 255-6), Ostwald (1986: 9-12). The derivation and significance of the
Heliaia are still controversial. Largely on the testimony of AP 9.1, Hansen (1975: 51-2) says that the
Heliaia was a court of sworn jurors, but it was probably only a judicial session of the Assembly: Rhodes
(1981: 160 ad AP 9.1), Ostwald (1986: 10-11n.29); cf. Rhodes (1979: 103-6). Rhodes (1981: 162 ad AP
9.1) and Ostwald (1986: 12) rightly emphasize that we have no attestation that the ephesis was actually
used in the archaic period.
73
See note 69 above for references. Cf. Aesch. Eum. 704-6; Isoc. 7.36-55; AP 8.4, 25.2. Areopagus and
nomophylakia: Rhodes (1981: 315-17 ad AP 25.2), Ostwald (1986: 8-13), and Cawkwell (1988).
74
See especially AP 4.4: e)ch=n de\ tw= | a)dikoume/nw| pro\j th\n tw=n 0Areopagitw=n boulh\n ei)sagge/llein
a)pofai/nonti par’ o4n a)dikei=tai no/mon. Cf. Ostwald (1986: 12-14), Carawan (1987: 188)
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introduced a kind of control over an official’s judgments. 75 Because at this time
magistrates like the archons regularly received dōra—court fees of a sort—for their
service as adjudicators, the graphē dōrōn straightforwardly regulated the receipt of these
dōra. 76 If an official had been suspected of giving a crooked judgment because of the
dōra he had taken, any citizen could have lodged an indictment before the Areopagus
Council. If this reconstruction is correct, then the original law against dōrodokia and the
graphē dōrōn procedure were drafted by Solon primarily as recourse to the crooked
judgments of corrupt magistrates.
I would like to underscore two important details in this reconstruction. If we can
push back the Athenian conception of the dōrodokos as a disobedient citizen to the
archaic period, it is striking how readily this figure seems to have been translated into the
Solonian regulation. After all, Solon’s attempt to institute some kind of check on the
judicial process, whether through ephesis or the graphē dōrōn, was analogous to the ways
in which the dēmos would later try to control the disobedient dōrodokos. 77 The penalty
of atimia, in particular, might have implied a kind of disobedience. Frequently atimia
was used as a penalty for magistrates (and citizens) who had failed to perform their civic
duties satisfactorily. 78 One reason why, I suggest, is that precisely because disobedient
officials could not effectively be controlled, they needed to be cast outside the moral
community of the polis. Like the fifth-century dōrodokos, they were essentially insiders
who were forced to become moral outsiders vis-à-vis the rest of the community.
75 On this point, Humphreys (1988: 469-70) is particularly helpful.
76 Archaic Greek law: Hom. Il. 18.507-8 with Gagarin (1975: 105, 109-10); Hom. h. Herm. 324; so, the
judge Deioces claims that he received no profit from his judgments, implying that other judges did profit
(Hdt. 1.97). In Classical Athens, certain kinds of cases regularly required court fees: Dem. 47.64, AP 59.3,
Poll. 8.127; Harrison (1971: 92-4), Hansen (1991: 261).
77 See above Chapter Two and especially below Chapter Six.
78 Hansen (1976: 72-4) surveys the sources.
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Although this point must remain mere conjecture, we can see how thinking about the law
as a translation of the dōrodokos from social type to legal entity actually reveals critical
nuance in the law’s broader social meaning.
In terms of legal process, Solon’s choice of matching the law against dōrodokia
with the graphē dōrōn process may seem counterintuitive at first glance, but it makes
good sense if we think in terms of domains of authority. If the lawgiver so loathed
corruption among a small group of elite citizens, why, in order to address this corruption,
would he institute an indictment of elite archons before a standing body of elite former
archons (the Areopagus) who may have been opposed to the interests of the people? This
question is easier to answer when we note that, as Danielle Allen has perceptively
illuminated, a punishment like atimia was akin to religious purification. 79 Those who had
taken dōra illicitly were thought to have violated the sanctity of their office and aligned
themselves against the community’s interests. By acting against the community’s
interests, the dōrodokos failed to provide a proper return, in essence contaminating his
civic friendship with the community. Solon’s response was to purify the community by
casting the offender outside its boundaries—precisely the kind of transformation of
insider into outsider as was noted above.
Crucially, the body that was to judge this offense was the most hallowed political
body in the archaic polis: the Areopagus Council. Throughout the archaic and classical
periods the Areopagus heard cases incurring the greatest religious pollution—murder,
intentional wounding, cutting down Athens’ sacred olive trees, and serious political
crimes in the first part of the democracy—meaning the pollution caused by bribery fell
79 Allen (2000: 209-11). On the similarities between religious purification and punishment in the Greek
polis, see also Gernet (1981: 240-251, 265-7), Cantarella (1988).
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under their domain of authority. 80 Inasmuch as any derelict official had offended both
the gods and the community at large, it was the Areopagus that properly assessed this
offense and determined the proper recompense. 81 Although the people themselves would
judge the justice of a magistrate’s specific judgment in an ephesis, the Areopagus was the
natural choice to restore the larger relationship of reciprocity between official and
community. Thinking in terms of domains of authority, therefore, allows us to make
better sense of the Solonian law in action.
By probing changes in the substance, punishment, and procedure entailed in the
original law on dōrodokia, we have been able to reconstruct a much richer context for the
original Solonian legislation. Although a functionalist approach might explain why
Solon created some legislation on dōrodokia, the significance of this legislation,
including its penalty and process, has been gleaned only by uncovering the process of
‘translating’ the dōrodokos into a legal entity. As we extend this legal history in the
following chapter, we will find that a number of hallmarks of the democracy—including
standardized public accountability and institutional bulwarks for collective action—were
articulated in opposition to dōrodokia. By carving out a legal space for the dōrodokos,
the Athenians established firm legal grounding for democratic politics.
A number of key issues that surfaced within the Demosthenic law will be raised
again in the next chapter. Solon’s concern that a single official or board might
subordinate the community’s interests would trouble the Athenians for at least another
80 The Areopagus’ role as protector of the laws can be understood, in part, as an outgrowth of its role in
policing religious pollution. After all, the Areopagus was renowned as a hallowed body: Dem. 59.80, IG
ii² 204.16-33 (decree granting Areopagus authority over certain religious sanctuaries, 352/1). Note how the
penalty for most of these crimes was exile, a purging of the offender from the community: so Allen (2000:
210-11).
81 Archaic literature depicts corrupt judges as offensive to especially Zeus and the goddess Dikē (Justice):
Hom. Il. 16.386-8, Hes. WD 250-1, 256-62, Theog. 330.
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two centuries, yet how this offense would be judged, including under whose domain it
fell, would only change as the democracy progressed. Indeed, as the dōrodokos was
continually translated into the law, the original law itself would subsequently be revised,
redefined, and reconceived.
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Legal Innovation and the dōrodokos
The Solonian graphē dōrōn examined in the previous chapter evinces the
interrelationship between political ideas and the creation of new legal and political
institutions. As we saw, Solon’s anxieties about the polity focused on the purportedly
corrupt judgments that elite officials were making. The specter of the dōrodokos thus
seems to have lurked beneath not just the creation of the graphē dōrōn, which explicitly
dealt with dōrodokia, but other related hallmarks of his reforms, including the ephesis
and eisangelia procedures, as well. This chapter extends that narrative through the
democracy by tracing how the creation of legal institutions to address dōrodokia was
intimately connected to broader reforms that shaped and reshaped the democracy. In
short, this chapter reveals, the very institutions by which democratic values were
articulated were themselves forged in opposition to dōrodokia. Just as the dōrodokos as a
social type was used to think through democratic principles, the Athenians created a
space for the dōrodokos qua a legal entity in order to think through democratic
institutions.
Decades of civil war followed Solon’s reforms until the Peisistratid tyranny took
over in the mid-sixth century. Although the Peisistratids essentially retained the laws and
institutions created by Solon—including the authority granted the archons and the
Areopagus Council—the last years under the tyrant Hippias were particularly harsh. The
Athenian people responded by driving out the Peisistratid family with Sparta’s help and,
in 507, passing Cleisthenes’ reforms, thereby formally establishing rule of the dēmos, or
democracy. In part as a reaction to the autocratic rule of the tyrants, two significant ideas
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underpinning the democracy were that the dēmos should have power and, consequently,
that no single individual should have too much power. Indeed, the previous chapter
revealed how this same anxiety over a public official’s authority to make judgments
binding on the community was already nascent in Solon’s reforms and the creation of the
graphē dōrōn procedure.
Beginning with Cleisthenes, the dēmos thus defined its authority within an
increasingly broad range of political bodies and processes. All new administrative
offices were part of boards of multiples of ten (at least one official from each tribe); as
detailed in Chapter Two, the dēmos increasingly controlled political rewards in the city;
eventually the Areopagus would be stripped of its oversight abilities; and the judgment of
the people, not of some official, would be made final and authoritative in the most serious
court cases. 1 Within the newly established democracy, however, there was increasing
concern that officials might disregard their public charge or might act against the dēmos’
interests. In effect, as the democracy progressed, there was a greater anxiety that the
dōra often regularly received by officials might render them disobedient dōrodokoi.
Amid these broader institutional changes, though, it would be a long time before
the original law against dōrodokia was changed or before the dōrodokos would again
crop up in the law. Over the course of the next century, up through the first few decades
of the democracy, the Athenians instead created a series of informal, extra-legal measures
concerning dōrodokia. At the same time as the dēmos was defining its own political
authority within various institutional bodies, clauses on the illicit receipt of dōra were
added to a variety of public oaths and curses in conjunction with the performance of
1 For an overview of those institutional changes, see especially Ostwald (1986: esp. 77-83), Ober (1989:
68-82), Hansen (1991: 34-6), and Chapter Two.
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political duties. Taken as a whole, these informal measures reflect a clear anxiety over
the role of the individual in the polity, and they sought to define that role clearly within a
specific political domain.
When Solon instituted his reforms, he made the archons swear an oath to the gods
that they would perform their public duties “according to the laws” (kata\ tou/j no/mouj),
that is, the new laws enacted by the lawgiver; if they did break one of his laws, they
swore to set up a golden statue. 2 The phrase “according to the laws” recurs in a variety of
public oaths that were created over the course of the next century, including the bouleutic
and heliastic oaths for the Council and jurors, respectively. In these latter two cases, at
least, the punishment for counseling or judging contrary to the law was more severe:
destruction to an offender, his family and home. 3 Similarly, the Athenians enacted a
public curse, to be pronounced before every session of the Assembly and Council, which
vowed the same destruction on all traitors and enemies of the state. 4 Although the dating
of these oaths and curses is controversial, the archon’s oath is certainly Solonian, the
2 AP 7.1, 55.5, Plat. Phaedr. 235d8-e1, Plut. Sol. 25.2, Pollux 8.86, Suida s.v. xrush= ei)kw/n on the archons’
oath. There is some discrepancy in our sources as to whether or not this was to be a golden statue in
Athens (AP 7.1, 55.5; Pollux 8.86) or a life-size golden statue in Delphi (Plut. Sol. 25.2), or a statue in each
of Athens, Delphi, and Olympia (Suida). Yet it seems clear enough that Plutarch’s account has been
marred by confusion over Socrates’ comment in the Phaedrus, that he would, like the archons, set up a lifesize
golden statue in Delphi. As Sandys (1912: 25 ad AP 7.1) rightly argues, the account of the Athenaiōn
Politeia is preferable here. It is, after all, highly unlikely that an offender would be granted what was an
exceptional honor of setting up a (life-size!) statue of himself, an honor usually granted only to athletes and
other benefactors: see Doming Gygax (forthcoming, esp. 161-2). Conceivably, the statue would have been
a small representation of an offended deity, like the bronze Zanes of Zeus set up at Olympia by athletes
who had been bribed (cf. Paus. 5.21.3-17); but this interpretation cannot be pressed given the strength of
AP’s testimony that the statue be of a man (a)ndria/nta, AP 7.1, 55.5). Still, assuming an affinity to the
Zanes at Olympia might explain why the Suida remarks that offending archons set up a statue at Olympia
too.
3 Oath of the Council (bouleutic oath): cf. Lys. 31.1, [Dem.] 59.4, with kata\ tou/j no/mouj at Xen. Mem.
1.1.18; Rhodes (2007: 12-13). Oath of the jurors (heliastic oath): see Dem. 24.149-51, with kata\ tou/j
no/mouj explicitly attributed to ‘the lawgiver’ (i.e. Solon) at Aeschin. 3.6; for further discussion, see
especially Fränkel (1878: 453-4). Punishment: Andoc. 1.31, Dem. 24.151, Connor (1985).
4 Andoc. 1.31, Dem. 19.70-71, 20.107, 23.97, Lyc. 1.31; cf. Din. 2.16. Although the text of the curse has
not been preserved, it is thought to have been closely parodied in Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazousae (331-
51). For a reconstruction of the curse, see Rhodes (1972: 36-7).
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heliastic oath and curse in the Assembly probably so, while the bouleutic oath seems to
date to 502/1 in the beginning of the democracy. What is clear is that these public
declarations were enacted in the sixth century and continued to be modified through at
least the fifth century. 5
Significantly for our purposes, by the middle of the fifth century these oaths and
curses came to include clauses outlawing dōrodokia, as well. Again, more precise dating
is impossible, but the following additions seem to have been made. The archon’s oath
definitely incorporated a clause “not to take dōra for the sake of one’s office” (dw=ra mh\
lh/yesqai th=j a)rxh=j e3neka, AP 55.5, cf. Pollux 8.86), probably sometime between the
founding of the democracy and the establishment of the people’s courts by the mid-fifth
century. 6 We find similar language attested for the heliastic oath: “I will not take dōra
illicitly in exchange for my vote in the Heliaia” (ou)de\ dw=ra de/comai th=j h(lia/sewj
e#neka, Dem. 24.150). 7 Further, the public curse at meetings of the Assembly and Council
5 Archon’s oath: AP 7.1 is explicit that the oath first sworn by the archons after Solon was the same oath
sworn in his own time in the latter part of the fourth century, but this cannot be, given that still different
oaths are recorded in AP 55.5 (cf. Pollux 8.86) and AP 56.2. Public curse: see Rhodes (1972: 36-7) for
discussion. Bouleutic oath: Rhodes (2007: 13); one notable change was the addition of a clause referring
to the amnesty of 403/2 (Andoc. 1.91).
6 That this clause is an addition to the archon’s oath is clear from the fact that both Aristotle and Plutarch
attest that the original Solonian oath forbad simply breaking his laws: AP 7.1, Plut. Sol. 25.2; cf. Bonner
and Smith (1930: 1.169) and contra Rhodes (1981: 621 ad AP 55.5), who feels compelled to choose
between the two versions cited in AP. Hashiba (2006: 76) suggests that the addition could have been made
at the time of Solon, but when? Solon left Athens shortly after enacting his reforms (AP 11.1, Plut. Sol.
25.4, cf. Hdt. 1.29.2), and our sources insist that he made no changes after his laws had been passed (AP
11.1, Plut. Sol. 25.4). Similarly, the Peisistratids were not known as legal innovators, so it unlikely that
they would have modified the oath. This makes the addition a product of the democracy. The terminus
ante quem is when the authority of the archons was significantly reduced during the democracy. This
would have come not with the establishment of the selection of archons by lot in 487—as most scholars
assume—but with the creation of the people’s courts around the time of Ephialtes’ reforms. As Badian
(1971: 9-17) reminds, the “quality” of the archons was not affected by the institution of the lot; by contrast,
after the creation of the people’s courts, the archons lost much of their authority in judging cases.
7 This clause is preserved only in a version of the heliastic oath which was inserted by a scholiast into a
speech of Demosthenes (24.149-51): on this oath, see Fränkel (1878), Drerup (1897: 256-64), Bonner and
Smith (1938: 152-6), Hansen (1991: 182-3), Mirhady (2007). A number of the clauses in that speech have
been considered spurious—so Fränkel (1878: 465-6), Lipsius (1905-15: 1.151-2)—and the authenticity of
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appears to have condemned a long list of impeachable offenses, including committing
dōrodokia and then speaking in public, and this list of offenses was incorporated into the
curse as early as 480. 8 Although no source explicitly attests to a clause against dōrodokia
in the bouleutic oath, such a clause is likely, if only based on analogy to other oaths and
to the curse at the beginning of meetings of the Council. 9
There is no reason to assume that these clauses were added simultaneously; nor
should we assume that these extra-legal measures are straightforward indications either
the clause on dōrodokia was not accepted by Westermann (1858-9), Fränkel (1878: 465-6) and subsequent
critics: recently, Hansen (1991: 182), Mirhady (2007).
Although I disagree with complete authenticity of the oath presented in Demosthenes, as argued
by Drerup (1897: 256-64), I concur with Drerup (1897: 257) and Harrison (1971: 48), contra the
orthodox view taken by Fränkel and his followers, that the clause on dōrodokia is authentic. As Fränkel
(1878: 457, 465-6) admits, this is precisely the kind of clause we would expect to find in the heliastic
oath—one reason that he inserts into the oath that jurors would vote “with neither malice nor favor” (ou1te
xari/tou e3nek’ ou1t’ e2xqraj), borrowed from an oath taken by members of the deme of Halimus as they
voted on the citizenship of members of the deme (Dem. 57.63). Yet, as Drerup (1897: 257) rightly points
out, we need not import a new phrase, particularly when we have striking comparanda for the language
used. Drerup (1897: 257) adduces two examples: an oath taken by the euthynoi of the deme Myrrhinus—
ou)de\ dw=ra de/comai ou1t’ au)to\j e)gw\] ou1t[e] a1[l]loj v e)moi\ ou)-/[de\ a1]ll ?e ? ei)do/toj e) ?mo[u= mhxanh=i
h2 t]e/[xnh]i ou0demia=i (IG ii² 1183.8-9, dated after 340)—and a judicial oath from Kalymnos—ou)de\ dw=ra
e1labon ta=j di/kaj tau/taj e3[neken par’ ou)deno\j]/[o]u1te au)to\j e)gw\ ou1te a2loj ou1te a1lla e)mi\n
[te/xnai h2 maxana=i ou)d]-/emia=i (IK Knidos I.221A2.30-32, around 300). To these we can add another
judicial oath, from Klazomenae: kai\ dw=ra ou)k e1-/labon ou)de\ lh/yomai tw=[n d]ikw=n e3neken ou1te au)to\j
e)gw\ ou1te a1l-/loj e)moi\ ou1te a!llh{i} o[u1te t]e/xnhi ou1te pareure/sei ou)demia=i (MDAI(I) 1979: 249-71:
II side B 4.32); the same phrase is repeated later in the inscription from Klazomenae in regard to giving
dōra as well (4.49-51). On the strength of these comparanda, the oath of the Amphictyonian Council has
plausibly been restored as follows: ou)de\ dw=ra de/comai ou1te auto\j e)gw/, ou1te]/ a1lloj e)moi (FD iii
4.278 col B12). Cf. IG xii² 207.9-10.
What is puzzling about the wording of the clause on dōrodokia is that it seems to conflate two
phrases which are normally not found together. ou)de\ dw=ra de/comai th=j h(lia/sewj e#neka contains both
ou)de\ dw=ra de/comai—a straightforward phrase found also in the Myrrhinus oath, the Amphictyonic oath,
and elsewhere (cf. mhde\ dw=ra decei=sqai mhde/poka, IG ii² 1126.11)—and e#neka plus a noun, a phrase
which repeats the force of dw=ra de/xesqai and is thus otherwise used only in conjunction with the verb
lamba/nein, not de/xesqai, as in the archon’s oath and the oaths from Kalymnos and Klazomenae. Perhaps
in a redrafting like the one proposed above for the original law against dōrodokia, the oath itself was
modified, without changing the verb, to specify the meaning of de/comai.
8 The reconstruction of the curse at Rhodes (1972: 37) accurately records the sense of this clause as “takes
bribes to speak against the interests of Athens.” But it should be noted that the phrase, “against the
interests of Athens,” taken from Dinarchus (1.47, 2.16), was most likely a product of the fourth century, as
we saw in Chapter Four. Indeed, the actual curse appears to have included the verb de/xesqai, as suggested
by Aristophanes’ parody of the curse in the Thesmophoriazousae (cf. de/xetai, Ar. Th. 346). If so, the
clause seems clearly modeled off the original law against dōrodokia. We cannot know when the addition
was added, except that it pre-dates Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazousae (411/0).
9 Rhodes (1972: 12-13).
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that dōrodokia was prevalent in the early democracy or that informal measures were
required because of the Athenians’ inability to regulate political agents through more
formal means. 10 Yet a common impulse might nevertheless lie behind the emendations to
these oaths and curses, all of which were adopted possibly within as narrow a timeframe
as the first few decades of the democracy. Indeed, the clauses on dōrodokia might very
well have been the means by which the dēmos transformed its political bodies into
institutions of, explicitly, a democracy. As I argue, these clauses are illuminated when
taken as a whole and placed in conjunction with the clauses on following the city’s laws,
for both clauses indicate a desire to mark out the kinds of behaviors that the community
expected of its political agents. In this sense, they simultaneously define a political
space—a domain of authority—and located individuals’ actions within that
depersonalized space.
The inclusion of clauses on acting lawfully signaled that political agents in a
variety of political bodies were bound by the laws in what they could or could not do.
Archons, for example, had specific jurisdictions based on areas of substantive law and
were not allowed to prosecute citizens or, later, to conduct trials outside these limits. The
clause in the archons’ oath on performing the duties of office “in accordance with the
laws” (kata\ tou\j no/mouj) defined the boundaries of a space in which their actions were
expressly legal and hence in accordance with the good ordering of the city’s laws.
10 The conclusions reached by Kahrstedt (1936: 64) and Hashiba (2006: 75), respectively. Hashiba (2006:
75) concludes that the creation of an extra-legal measure like the archon’s oath is an indication that a
formal, legal measure would have been ineffective. Cf. Faraone (2002: 84-5). That the Athenians did not
enact any formal measures, however, only begs the question that dōrodokia was a tremendous problem.
Hashiba’s interpretation presumes, moreover, that in the face of such a problem, the Athenians simply
would have assumed that no formal resolution could be attained and left the matter at that. Yet the
Athenians did make a number of similar institutional changes within a short time of when Hashiba claims
they were unable to: notably, Ephialtes’ reforms, on which see below.
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This legally defined space, i.e. one marked out by ‘the laws’ constituted what I
am calling a domain of authority. In analogous fashion, the inclusion of clauses on
dōrodokia in public pronouncements like the archons’ oath signaled that, while
performing their duties within their proper domain of authority, magistrates were not to
act contrary to the community’s interests. Even if an archon had prosecuted someone
within his own domain, it would have been untenable if his actions in prosecuting or
judging the case conflicted with the community’s interests, especially if these actions had
been motivated by dōra illicitly received. The oath sworn thus promised that a public
official would act only within that political space.
Moreover, because this was a legally not socially defined space, the oath signaled
an early step towards removing the official’s actions from the world of social exchange
relationships. Instead, with the oaths, officials like the archons grounded their actions in
some de-personalized externality: the laws of the community. So these oaths both
defined domains of authority and thereby indicated that magistrates’ actions should be
grounded in those de-personalized domains. The de-personalized externality on which
political actions were based was itself defined by the community’s interests. It was de-
personalized precisely because it privileged civic relations with the community over
social relations with individuals.
We find one of these oaths in play during the Persian Wars, when in 480 the
Persian general Mardonius sent a herald to Salamis to address the Athenian Council and
encourage them to make peace with the King after the battle of Salamis (Hdt. 9.3-5).
After listening to the herald, one Lycides suggested that Mardonius’ offer be put before
the Assembly. Those at the Council meeting, and even those who later heard about it,
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were so enraged by Lycides’ recommendation that they stoned him to death; when the
Athenian women heard what had happened, they went on their own bidding to Lycides’
home and stoned to death his wife and children (Hdt. 9.5). 11 It is likely that Lycides’
contemporaries suspected him of dōrodokia, as Herodotus’ account suggests (cf.
dedegme/noj xrh/mata, Hdt. 9.5). 12 Certainly Lycides acted legally in offering his
counsel, but the very idea of considering surrender to the King was manifestly against the
community’s interests. As per the curse pronounced before every meeting of the
Council, the Athenians responded by bringing destruction upon both Lycides and his
family.
Our main source for this episode presents the Athenians’ reaction—spontaneous,
collective action—as an essentially informal, extra-legal response to Lycides’ purportedly
corrupt counsel, just the sort of response we might expect was demanded by the public
curse. 13 Herodotus’ narrative emphasizes, in particular, the role of hearsay as a preface to
action. It was hearsay and gossip that gathered together community members so that they
could act as a collective whole in combating and controlling the threat posed by Lycides
11 On this episode, see Asheri (1977: 176-9 ad Hdt. 9.5) and Flower and Marincola (2002: 107-8 ad Hdt.
9.5). The story of Lycides is also preserved in Demosthenes, although that passing mention speaks of a
certain Cyrsilus, who before the battle of Salamis (not afterwards, as in Herodotus) suggested that the
Athenians submit to the Persian King. He was subsequently stoned to death for his recommendation. Cf.
Lyc. 1.122, Cic. Off. 3.48 with Verrall (1909) and Allen (2000: 143-5) for further discussion.
12 Ultimately, Herodotus professes ignorance over the real reasons for Lycides’ actions. He presents the
two options using ei)/te dh\...ei)/te kai\...., a phrase which elsewhere in the Histories expresses a difference in
motivation, whether external (ei)/te dh\...) or internal (ei)/te kai\...): Hdt. 1.19, 1.191, 8.54. In all three
examples, both options appear to be equally likely. That said, Herodotus’ conjunction of this episode with
the Thebans’ advice to Mardonius that he bribe the leaders of various Greek poleis was probably not his
own invention, for he himself records that Mardonius did not listen to the Thebans’ suggestion (Hdt. 9.3).
Instead, both Lycides’ purported bribe and the purported conversation between the Thebans and Mardonius
seem to rflect contemporary perceptions of what had happened: cf. Verrall (1909), Hohti (1976: 71),
Nouhaud (1982: 167).
13 In fact, Lycurgus’ version of the story has the Council members explicitly remove their crowns—
thereby acting as citizens, not magistrates—before stoning Lycides (Lyc. 1.122). Allen (2000: 144-5)
notes the ways in which Lycides’ stoning inverted standard procedures for punishment, but these inversions
are perhaps better understood not simply as exceptions made during wartime, but as informal actions by the
dēmos as a whole which need not have followed more formal procedures.
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and his counsel. The Athenians outside the Council meeting eventually “got wind of”
Lycides’ recommendation and immediately stoned him to death (cf. w(j e)pu/qonto, Hdt.
9.5), and there was such an uproar (qoru/bou) in Salamis over Lycides that, after the
women finally heard about what had happened (punqa/nontai to\ gino/menon, Hdt. 9.5),
they too took action, marching to Lycides’ home and stoning his wife and children to
death.
Significantly, Herodotus uses military metaphors to describe the women’s actions,
as each woman “ordered on” the next (diakeleusame/nh, Hdt. 9.5), and they approached
the home “at their own command” (au)tokele/ej, Hdt. 9.5). As subtly conveyed by these
metaphors, the stoning of Lycides and his family was a concerted, informal response by
the entire community, a response which, like an army marching against an enemy, aimed
to contain a threat to the city. As with a formal trial or decree of the Assembly, the
community came together, heard a report, and collectively pronounced judgment on the
offender. 14 In this way, Lycides’ apparently untenable counsel was replaced by public
speech, then collective action by the people as a whole; in casting Lycides’ actions as
outside the Council’s domain of authority, the people effectively replicated the kinds of
action permissible within that domain. It is worth pointing out that such permissible
actions were manifestly democratic modes of politics.
14 Note how, in Lycurgus’ account, the Assembly was thought to have taken the formal step of passing a
public decree about Lycides (Lyc. 1.122). But such a decree, if in fact it existed—cf. Habicht (1961: 21-
2)—would have been drafted only after the fact, as even Lycurgus’ account suggests: Flower and
Marincola (2002: 108 ad Hdt. 9.5.2). Herodotus might preserve an oblique hint of this mirroring of formal
action in his report that, when the Athenians heard about Lycides’ proposal, they “stood around” him and
stoned him to death (perista/ntej, Hdt. 9.5). Such a scene certainly recalls the public nature of archaic
court trials, like that represented on the shield of Achilles, where crowds stood around the litigants and
judges: Hom. Il. 18.502-3, Hes. WD 29. But, as Asheri (1977: 177 ad Hdt. 9.5.6-9) notes, Herodotus’
precise wording might be a reference to trials in Classical Athens, as well, where at least in the fourth
century “those standing around” a trial (oi( periesthko/tej) were frequently invoked by litigants as a
critical part of the trial itself: Lanni (1997). Likewise, the qo/ruboj that rose up in the city might suggest
the “din” of the crowd often invoked by speakers in court, on which see especially Bers (1985).
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Tellingly, the punishment established by these public oaths and curses resembled
the penalty of outlawry set up by the original law against dōrodokia. The destruction
called for in public pronouncements was a licit form of community violence against an
offender and his home, just as any violence against someone who was ‘outlawed’ was an
explicitly sanctioned response without consequence or pollution. 15 Like atimia, to curse
and stone an offender was a way to remove a pollution threatening the city like a foreign
enemy. 16 By removing that enemy ‘outsider’, the community reasserted the physical and
symbolic boundaries of the Council’s domain. Yet unlike atimia, a kind of expulsion
which essentially admitted the community’s inability to control a pollution, stoning was a
way to contain a threat; it proved that the dēmos could control an offender. 17 Whereas
outlawry left the offender’s fate in his own hands, stoning took control of the offender’s
life. Both processes thus functioned analogously, but in the newly established democracy
it was political oaths and curses that symbolically heralded the dēmos’ authority to
control its public officials, the dōrodokos in particular.
Even though a citizen like Lycides may have been suspected of dōrodokia, we
need not assume that clauses on dōrodokia were added to public oaths specifically
because dōrodokia was prevalent or because the Athenians were actually concerned that
each and every one of these political bodies was in danger of being corrupted through
15 Asheri’s (1977: 176-9 ad Hdt. 9.5) discussion is particularly insightful on this point; see also Cantarella
(1988). Similarly, that contemporary archons swore to set up a gold statue if they took bribes was also a
way to mitigate pollution. Note how Olympic athletes and judges, too, swore an oath to Zeus Horkios that
they would not do any wrong: Paus. 5.24.4 with Perry (2007). An offender set up a golden statute of Zeus
as a votive offering in honor of the offended deity (Paus. 5.21).
16 As suggested by Herodotus’ military metaphors, which paint a picture of the Athenian women marching
against an enemy. Note how, according to Lycurgus, Lycides’ recommendation was tantamount to
betraying the city (prodido/nai th\n po/lin, Lyc. 1.122). Cantarella (1991: 84-7) helpfully underscores
how the act of stoning reinforced the boundaries of the community while configuring an offender as an
outsider. For the contiguities between stoning and religious purification, see further Gernet (1981: 265-6),
Allen (2000: 205-6) and especially Cantarella (1988; 1991: 80-4).
17 On this crucial difference, Allen (2000: 209-11) is foundational. Cf. Gernet (1981: esp. 265-7)
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dōrodokia. Instead, we can see how clauses on dōrodokia functioned as a broad means
for the dēmos to regulate the actions of individuals in the public realm. As specific
political bodies like the Council of 500, the Assembly, and the Heliaia were created or
became newly significant, their proper domain of authority was defined through a
political oath, and the contours of the domain were asserted whenever the community
took action against someone who had broken the oath. Through configuring a legal space
for the dōrodokos, the Athenians thereby articulated the political space of the democracy.
Crucially, as suggested by the addition of clauses on dōrodokia, their members
effectively swore that that space would be inherently de-personalized to a degree: it
would be grounded in the community’s, not some individual’s interests. Inasmuch as
dōrodokia was a ready explanation for how an individual like Lycides could have
misjudged these interests, such clauses were also a powerful way for the dēmos to assert
control over its political agents. In this respect, the addition of these clauses fits in well
with other measures in the early democracy which aimed to assert and enforce the
political authority of the dēmos.
The clauses on dōrodokia in public oaths and curses were thus an extension of
Solon’s earlier legislative efforts to make public officials more accountable. Both sets of
measures stipulated that the judgments of individual political agents on the greater good
of the community could be subjected to re-evaluation by a political body with authority
within that particular domain. In the case of the graphē dōrōn, whether or not a
magistrate was deemed to have taken dōra illicitly depended in large part on how the
Areopagus Council assessed the final outcome of his actions; in the case of public oaths
and curses, it was the community as a whole that evaluated the judgments of individual
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political agents. These clauses shifted the focus from accountability in general to
accountability to the dēmos as a whole. As such, they indicate that the Athenians were
especially concerned about actively enforcing their political authority so that officials
consistently complied and acted not simply for themselves, but especially for some
greater good. Further, both measures seem to have configured the dōrodokos in the same
way as an insider who must be cast out of the moral community of the polis. In short,
these early attempts at implementing the democratic hallmark of public accountability
were forged through a desire to rectify the disobedience of the dōrodokos.
This shift from general accountability to informal public accountability was
formalized with Ephialtes’ reforms in 462/1. Although the substance of these reforms is
still a bit murky, Ephialtes almost surely transferred the procedures for holding officials
accountable—the euthyna and probably the eisangelia process as well—from the
Areopagus to the Council of 500 and the jury courts for the former, the Assembly for the
latter. 18 To be sure, these reforms do not seem to have been ‘about’ dōrodokia per se.
Still, the next chapter will illuminate the important role dōrodokia did play in
contemporary public debates about the substance of the reforms. We can note here that
with the reforms the jury courts and Assembly became the new authoritative domains for
judging dōrodokia by public officials. Yet it would take a while before such public
accountability became standardized; as we will now see, the standardization of
institutions for public accountability emerged from the very ways in which the Athenians
articulated a space for addressing new kind of dōrodokia.
18 For an overview of Ephialtes’ reforms, see especially Humphreys (1983: 242-7), Ober (1989: 77-8),
Hansen (1991: 36-7), and see Chapter Seven below. More detailed examinations can be found in Hignett
(1952: 193-213), Wallace (1974; 1985: 83-7), Ostwald (1986: 30-42), Carawan (1987), Raaflaub (2007).
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So it was that in the years after Ephialtes’ reforms, the euthyna process was
adapted to address fears about a new kind of dōrodokia involving tribute payments which
had recently been transferred to the Treasury of Athena at Athens. 19 This new kind of
dōrodokia came to be framed in the law not just as an act of bad decision-making, but
especially as a kind of financial mismanagement. Within the context of this shift in
practices, the Athenians modified the penalties, not the formal processes, concerning
dōrodokia. Indeed, the last chapter noted that by the fourth century the graphē dōrōn
procedure had three penalties: the original Solonian punishment of atimia (though by
then envisioned as ‘disfranchisement’, not ‘outlawry’), death, and a fine of ten times the
amount of dōra received. Yet these last two penalties are securely attested only long
after Ephialtes’ reforms: respectively, in 424 when Eurymedon was fined (Thuc. 4.56.3)
and in either 394/3 or 393/2, when Onomasas and perhaps other members of Epicrates’
embassy to the Persian King were condemned to death (Lys. 27.3). 20 As will be clear,
these penalties actually suggest divergent approaches to dealing with the dōrodokos:
whereas the law was ‘updated’ to address new concerns, the resultant legal and
institutional changes forced the Athenians to rethink how they conceptualized dōrodokia.
19
Ar. Eq. 66, 69, 403, 802, 830-5, 996, V. 669-77, Nu. 591; [And.] 4.30-1; Lys. 19.52 with Thuc. 6.12.2,
6.15.2.
20
The use of the death penalty or some monetary fine is attested for some dōrodokia trials prior to the
420’s, but not securely. Following Herodotus, Miltiades had to pay a fine probably for a charge of apatē,
not dōrodokia (Hdt. 6.136). Aristides was reportedly convicted of dōrodokia and fined, but already in
antiquity Plutarch doubted the story on the basis that only Craterus mentions the trial yet provides no
evidence for it (Plut. Arist. 26.2-5). The anticipated penalty for Cimon’s trial was apparently death (cf.
qanatikh\n di/khn, Plut. Per. 10.6), but see further Chapter Seven below. Callias’ purported conviction and
fine at a euthyna for taking dōra from the Persian King (449/8) have long been thought spurious: debated
in AE 129-51, 487-95, Robertson (1980: 77-8), Meister (1982), Badian (1987), Piccirilli (1989). The
hellēnotamiai were probably tried for embezzlement, not dōrodokia—the word xrhma/twn, not dw/rwn, is
used to describe the offense (Ant. 5.69)—when nine of them were put to death sometime in the 450’s or
440’s (Ant. 5.69-71). Pericles was fined and deposed on the Argolid expedition in 430, but his case also
included charges of embezzlement: Thuc. 2.65.3, Plat. Gorg. 516A.
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We can trace the origin of a monetary fine for dōrodokia in the development of
institutions for public accountability in the half-century after Ephialtes’ reforms.
Specifically, two different authorities—the boards for examining the conduct (euthynoi)
and accounting (logistai) of officials—were combined with increasing regularity through
the end of the century. After the transfer of the Delian League treasury from Delos to
Athens in 454/3, we find a range of institutional changes that reflect the Athenians’ new
concern that the influx of tribute payment to Athens needed to be monitored closely.
Probably in 454/3 the board of thirty logistai, or accountants, was created to oversee the
finances of the imperial tribute. 21 So, from 454/3 we find the logistai, selected by lot
from the Athenian citizen body, examining the accounts of the hellēnotamiai in charge of
collecting the tribute for the treasury of Athena. Yet the jurisdiction of these logistai only
grew in subsequent decades. By the 430’s, we find them calculating monies due to other
treasuries, as well as examining the accounts of generals and of the sacred treasurers of
Athena and other gods. 22 Already in the 420’s, the auditing duties of the logistai were
synonymous with the euthyna process. 23
21 Cf. IG i³ 259=ATL i.1.1-4, IG i³ 260=ATL i.2.1, IG i³ 261=ATL i.3.1, all dated between 454/3 and 452/1.
Certainty is impossible in dating the institution of the logistai, but our epigraphic sources seem to suggest
454/3, with the transfer of the Delian League treasury. As recent scholars rightly emphasize, logistai are
not attested prior to this time, and for a few decades thereafter they are found only in conjunction with
imperial revenues: cf. Piérart (1971: 564-5), Hashiba (2006: 66n.19-20). Other scholars have assumed,
largely based on the later collaboration of euthynoi and logistai, that logistai of some sort were created with
Ephialtes’ reforms as part of the euthyna process: see, for example, Hignett (1952: 204), Carawan (1987:
190). But what would have prompted Ephialtes to create financial accountants for euthynai? No such
financial overseers had existed prior to his reforms, and the financial accounts of Cimon (and others) never
even seemed to be at issue. Moreover, the assumed pairing of euthynoi and logistai overlooks the ad hoc
nature of both boards prior to the 430’s: see above for euthynoi and below for logistai.
22 Hellēnotamiai: IG i³ 52=ML 58.A6; IG i³ 369=ML 72.2. Treasuries of other gods: IG i³ 52=ML 58.A7-
9. Other officials: IG i³ 52=ML 58.A24-9; IG i³ 369=ML 72 (passim). These inscriptions are all dated to
433/2.
23 Cf. Ar. V. 553-7, 570-1 (422BCE); Eupolis, Poleis fr. 223K (c. 420BCE). Hashiba (2006: 66) for
discussion. This merging may have occurred already by the 430’s, when Pericles was charged at his
euthyna with a series of crimes—embezzlement (klopē), bribery (dōra), and maladministration (adikion)—
which would have entailed auditing his financial accounts: Plut. Per. 32.2 with Hashiba (2006: 66). Date:
438/7, following Frost (1964); Hansen (1975) suggests 430/29.
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The collaboration of logistai and euthynoi was complete as late as 410/9, when it
is suggested that any willing citizen could lodge an indictment against an official (i.e. at a
euthyna) in the logisth/rion or ‘workplace of the logistai’. 24 By the end of the fifth
century, all public officials were subject to both financial auditing and a euthyna. 25 In
other words, what began as an ad hoc board of auditors to monitor the collection of the
tribute developed into a board which oversaw the conduct of the majority of public
officials, its very domain of authority thus dramatically expanded.
The regulation of dōrodokia seems to have played an integral role in this gradual
combination of the logistai’s with the euthynoi’s domain; in other words, thinking about
dōrodokia enabled the Athenians to standardize the processes of public accountability.
Given that corruption involving the tribute seemed to entail both misconduct, which was
usually prosecuted by euthynoi, and mismanagement of the tribute, which would have
fallen under the jurisdiction of the logistai, it is worth pausing to consider how the
Athenians would have incorporated into the law dōrodokia involving the tribute. As
contemporary inscriptions suggest, the Athenians treated this new kind of dōrodokia as a
kind of hybrid: misconduct, yet of a financial nature. So, the Clinias decree, alternately
dated to 448/7 or 425/4, mandates that any Athenian or ally who “does injustice to the
tribute” ([...a)dike=i peri\ to\]-n fo/ron) either should be indicted by a graphē brought
before the Council, or, crucially, should be charged at a euthyna with taking dōra, with
24 Lys. 20.10. Similarly, in 405, the euthynoi were said to conduct their work in the logisth/ria (And.
1.78). Whether there was just one such workplace or many (as suggested by Andocides) is perhaps solved
by following Wilamowitz (1893: 2.235) and Piérart (1971: 572) in assuming that there were ten logistēria,
one for each tribe’s logistai. Cf. AP 48.4-5, 54.2
25 As suggested by Lysias 30.4-5 (c. 400BCE). This process is described in Andoc. 1.78, AP 48.3-5. See
further Carawan (1987: 207-8), Efstathiou (2007).
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an expressed penalty of 10,000 drachmas. 26 What the decree omits is that it surely would
have been the logistai who originally determined that ‘injustice’ had been done. In order
to regulate new challenges posed by changes in Athens’ political economy, therefore, the
domains of the logistai and euthynoi may have been combined—at first on an ad hoc
basis, as the Clinias decree suggests, but presumably on an increasingly regular basis.
Only with the combination of these two domains is it intelligible that the Clinias
decree calls for a monetary penalty instead of the punishment of atimia we might expect
from the original law against dōrodokia. Around the same time, in fact, we find another
fine of 10,000 drachmas for the stratēgos Phormio, prosecuted in 428 likely for
dōrodokia; in 424 the stratēgos Eurymedon was similarly fined for committing
dōrodokia. 27 Monetary penalties like these were frequently employed at Athens for not
fulfilling contractual, usually financial, obligations. 28 Within the context of tribute
collection, the use of a monetary fine thus followed straightforwardly as a way of first
assessing the damage done to the tribute and then exacting reciprocal payment in return,
as penalty. 29 The sum of 10,000 drachmas, or 1 2/3 talents, was considerable, equivalent
26
[...hoi( de\ pruta/]nej e)sag[o/nton]/ e)j te\m bole\n [te\n grafe\n he/n ti]j a2g grafeta[i e2 eu)q]-/une/sqo
do/ro[n muri/aisi draxm]e? =s[i h]e/kastoj (IG i³ 34=ML 46.35-7). Similarly, although the Assessment
Decree (425/4) omits any mention of dōra, it also lays out a euthyna for officials, with a penalty of 10,000
drachmas, in case the tribute is not paid (IG i³ 71.36-7). The dating of the Clinias decree is controversial:
the discussion at ML 46 and Meritt and Wade-Gery (1962) suggest 448/7, while Mattingly (1961: 150-69)
reasserts the formerly orthodox view of 425/4 or later: see AE 165-73 for discussion. Although it does not
affect my argument, I follow the earlier dating of 448/7.
27
Thuc. 4.65.3 and Philochorus FGrH 328 F127, as recorded by schol. V ad Ar. Vesp. 240, which is itself
derived from Thucydides’ account, are our only sources for Phormio’s trial; see also Roberts (1982: 115-
17). It is unclear whether Eurymedon and his fellow stratēgoi were convicted at a euthyna or at an
eisangelia: Philochorus is silent on the matter, and Thucydides’ testimony records only that “the Athenians
in the city” (oi( e)n th| = po/lei 0Aqhnai/oi, Thuc. 4.65.3) heard the trial, a phrase which could refer to either
kind of process.
28
Böckh (1886: 439-54), Lipsius (1905-15: 688ff.), Hall (1996: 73-8). In part, financial penalties were a
way to restore and uphold reciprocity in the city—so Allen (2000: 225)—but large fines could certainly
also signal the gravity of an offense: Humphreys (1988: 471).
29
Dinarchus is explicit on this point: the creation of a tenfold fine prevented politicians from profiting
from dōrodokia (Din. 1.60).
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to roughly 30 years of pay for public office: enough to be a strong deterrent to any
official who might tamper with the tribute, yet probably also enough to repay, and then
some, whatever sum had gone missing in the first place. 30 Accordingly, in a period when
the Athenians were anxious over suspected dōrodokia involving the tribute, the
employment of a monetary fine signaled that within the law the Athenians were framing
this new type of dōrodokia as both misconduct and mismanagement of funds.
This reconstruction must remain speculative, but it seems warranted by the actual
monetary fines which were meted out in the fifth and fourth centuries. We do not know
for how much Eurymedon was fined—nor do we know whether his fellow stratēgoi
Sophocles and Pythodorus were likewise fined 31 —but it is significant that the fines for
Phormio, the Clinias decree, the Assessment decree, and perhaps Eurymedon were for a
fixed amount: 10,000 drachmas. 32 By contrast, fourth-century sources describe the
30
In the fifth century, Councilors were normally paid 5 obols per day (6 obols=1 drachma; 6000
drachmas=1 talent). By comparison, in a public works project from the late fifth century, unskilled workers
were paid 3 obols a day, skilled workers 1 drachma (cf. IG i² 373-4).
31
Most likely they were sentenced to death: Hansen (1975: 36 and numbers 7-9), Hamel (1998: 144)
contra the standard account, which follows our sources in saying that Sophocles and Pythodorus were
given the explicit punishment of exile. Thucydides’ account of the trial, followed verbatim in only this
respect by Philochorus, says that Sophocles and Pythodorus were ‘punished with exile’ (fugh= | e)zhmi/wsan,
Thuc. 4.65.3; cf. fugh= | zhmiwqh=nai, Philochorus FGrH 328 F127). Yet, as MacDowell (1978: 255)
reminds, the Athenians used exile as an explicit punishment only for unintentional homicides and
sometimes for treason trials; the majority of ‘exiles’, like those implicated in the mutilation of the Herms,
were actually self-imposed, when a citizen refused to stand trial and was convicted (and often sentenced to
death) in absentia.
In fact, nowhere else is exile—instead of atimia—attested as a punishment for dōrodokia. When
we do find ‘exile’ cropping up in dōrodokia trials, it is because a citizen voluntarily went into exile rather
than stood trial. As Hansen (1975: 36) documents, sources indicate that the accused in an eisangelia was
‘exiled’ when actually a capital punishment had been commuted to exile. So, for instance, although the
ambassadors Andocides, Epicrates, Eubulides, and Cratinus were condemned to death in absentia (Dem.
19.277-80), Philochorus says that they were punished with exile (e)fuga/deusan, Philochorus FGrH 328
F149); Philocrates, too, was condemned to death in absentia (Aeschin. 2.6, cf. fuga/j, Aeschin. 3.79). Cf.
Isoc. 16.45, Xen. Hell. 5.4.19, Aeschin. 3.171, Lyc. 1.93. It should be noted that Thucydides may have
intentionally masked the agency involved in the exile of Sophocles and Pythodorus in order to reinforce his
point that the arrogance of the dēmos was once again at fault (cf. Thuc. 4.65.4).
32
Phormio’s fine is reported as 100 mnae, which is equivalent to 10,000 drachmas. Although it does not
significantly affect my argument, I suspect that, given the identical fines of the Clinias and Assessment
decrees, Phormio’s penalty was a fixed amount, not a tenfold fine. Androtion writes simply that Phormio
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penalty in a euthyna not as a fixed amount, but as a variable amount equal to ten times
the dōra received. 33 This discrepancy can be explained if we posit that, as monetary fines
shifted from being laid down in an ad hoc manner, as in the Clinias and Assessment
decrees, to being more regular, the amount of the penalty also became standardized as a
tenfold fine.
Such standardization may have arisen through the regularity of procedure
characteristic of euthynai at the end of the fifth century; in other words, formal changes in
the euthyna process may have led to the fixed penalty of a tenfold fine for dōrodokia. 34
Like the ad hoc use of monetary penalties for dōra suits, even after Ephialtes’ reforms, an
official underwent a euthyna only if a formal indictment had been lodged against him,
whether by a willing citizen or by a euthynos. 35 By the turn of the century, however, all
magistrates had to undergo a euthyna, whether or not they had been suspected of any
owed 100 mnae from his euthyna (FGrH 324 F8), but it is unknown for what reason he was fined: cf.
Jacoby ad loc.
33 When later sources indicate a monetary penalty for dōrodokia, they seem to refer to a euthyna process, in
which a tenfold fine was used exclusively for the charges of dōrodokia and, crucially, embezzlement
(klopē): AP 54.2; Din. 1.60, Hyp. 5.24 with MacDowell (1990: 337 ad Dem. 21.113). Din. 2.16 and Hyp.
5.24 juxtapose a tenfold fine for bribery and a simple fine for other a)dikh/mata; Din. 1.60 erroneously calls
the simple fine a twofold fine but likewise singles out the punishment for bribery as a tenfold fine or death.
Two clues indicate that this juxtaposition signaled a euthyna in particular. First, all three sources mention
a)dikh/mata, which might refer to the obscure a)diki/ou for which logistai could convict an official and
punish him with a simple fine (AP 54.2); indeed, juxtaposing the penalty for dōrodokia with other ‘crimes’
makes little sense outside the context of other crimes prosecuted at a euthyna. Second, that these
a)dikh/mata refer to the logistai is itself clear from Dinarchus’ calling them “the other crimes concerning
the lo/goj of money” (Din. 1.60). My view is not affected by the fact that Hyperides distinguishes
between dōrodokia by private individuals and that by public officials; this distinction need not imply that
his subsequent contrast of punishments is for the same two categories. As I read the passage, he merely
sets up two different contrasts (private individuals/public individuals; dōrodokia/other crimes at a euthyna),
albeit confusingly, by using the same verb (a)dike/w).
34 Dinarchus 2.16 writes that the “first lawgivers” (prw=toi nomoqe/tai) created a tenfold fine when the
graphē dōrōn was first created. As noted above, the phrase is a hapax, so it is likely that Dinarchus refers
here to two different phases in the history of the graphē dōrōn: creation by the ‘first lawgiver’ (Solon), and
creation of a tenfold fine by the ‘first lawgivers’ (i.e. the first nomothetai in 403/2 or perhaps in 399 with
the completion of the codification of the laws).
35 Note how in public inscriptions the verb eu)qu/nesqai (‘to undergo a euthyna’, lit. ‘to correct’) continued
to imply some kind of accusation until the end of the fifth century. Only in the beginning of the fourth
century did it cease to be used this way: Piérart (1971: 548-9, 558).
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wrong. Initially, this regularization of euthynai was due most likely to the influence of the
logistai, whose auditing process had been automatic from the beginning. As the
logistai’s domain increased, more magistrates would have had to submit their accounts at
the end of their term; greater collaboration of logistai and euthynoi would have increased
the number of officials subject to an automatic euthyna. In 403/2, this combination of
domains was formally instituted, as all officials were to undergo both financial
accounting and a euthyna. 36
With regular euthynai, there would have been no need for a decree, like the
Clinias or Assessment decree, to spell out that an official needed to be prosecuted and
fined at his euthyna for corruption involving the tribute. Indeed, with regular euthynai, a
single fine of 10,000 drachmas would no longer have been a suitable punishment for all
cases of dōrodokia—what if an official had committed dōrodokia of a financial nature,
yet not involving the collection of the tribute?—in which case we might expect to find a
switch to a tenfold fine. 37
Because Eurymedon was merely fined, he could later serve as stratēgos in the
Decelean War (Thuc. 7.16.2); Phormio, too, was allowed to serve as stratēgos again after
his fine had been absolved. 38 By contrast, we do not hear of Sophocles and Pythodorus
again. In this way, the creation of a monetary penalty forced a critical issue upon the
36 At the same time, the Athenians created an official period of three days after the examining of an
official’s financial accounts, during which time a citizen could register a complaint to be taken up by the
euthynoi: AP 48.4. This time-period, calibrated to the logistai’s duties, served as an official space during
which accusations of misconduct could be heard by the euthynoi. As such, it marked the formal
combination of authoritative domains.
37 This reconstruction need not conflict with the testimony of Dinarchus, who remarks that the ‘first
lawgivers’ established the graphē dōrōn with a tenfold fine (2.16). After all, Solon, who is usually called
the ‘first lawgiver’ could have created the graphē dōrōn, while later nomothetai could have added a tenfold
fine. Cf. Hansen (1989: 91n.90).
38 Androtion FGrH 324 F8; cf. Paus. 1.23.10. Androtion records that the dēmos paid Phormio’s fine for
him so that he would be eligible to serve as stratēgos again, but for whatever reason (perhaps death) he
never actually became stratēgos afterwards.
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Athenians about what to do with the dōrodokos man. Should they make him atimos, in
effect casting him out of the community in self-imposed exile like Sophocles and
Pythodorus? Or should they fine him and allow him to be reintegrated into the
community, like Eurymedon or Phormio before him? The divergent penalties for the four
stratēgoi reveal a deep rift in how Athenians were conceptualizing and regulating
dōrodokia at the start of the Peloponnesian War. In effect, disobedient officials who
disregarded the political authority of the dēmos might still be cast out of the community,
their pollution cleansed through expulsion; but a new kind of corrupt official, one who
had committed what amounted to a financial crime, was allowed to stay if he could pay
his fine and thereby mend his damaged relationship with the community.
It is attractive to align this legal conception of the dōrodokos with the incipient
conceptualization of the dōrodokos as a thief, traced in Chapter Three above. After all,
the thieving dōrodokos was somebody who began inside the city’s moral community but
wished to move outside of it by stealing and thereby harming the community. If such a
thief could be punished, might his desire to leave the moral community be corrected?
Ultimately, we have no evidence either way on how, if at all, the social conceptions and
legal expressions of the dōrodokos were connected in this period. But if my suggestion is
correct, one reason why the dōrodokos might have been allowed to stay in the community
via a monetary penalty instead of atimia was that he was defined by a new emergent
conception of dōrodokia.
Certainly, these divergent approaches to accountability—expulsion versus
reintegration—had already characterized the eisangelia procedure for prosecuting
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officials guilty of the most serious offenses. 39 But if the Athenians had long since
recognized that, while some such public officials were best cast out of the community,
others were best left in it, in the last quarter of the fifth century only specific kinds of
dōrodokia became, in the same way, redeemable offenses. Dōrodokia was a relatively
late addition to the nomos eisangeltikos: the two clauses prohibiting stratēgoi from
taking dōra and rhētores from taking money and speaking against the people’s interests
both date to the late fifth century. 40 As far as we can tell, prior to this time the only
penalty for dōrodokia was atimia under the Solonian law against dōrodokia. In the next
section we will examine the significance of including these particular offenses in the
codification of the nomos eisangeltikos in 411/10. For now, it is enough to note that
around the same time that the Clinias and Assessment decrees first called for a monetary
fine, the Athenians modified which offenses were prosecutable under an eisangelia so
that dōrodokia, too, might receive a monetary penalty under an eisangelia procedure.
Crucially, the kinds of dōrodokia that received a monetary fine in this way were those
committed by the most vital political agents in Athens: generals and public speakers.
The development of a monetary fine for dōrodokia—first an ad hoc penalty, but
later a standardized tenfold fine—signaled how, amid the exigencies of the
Peloponnesian War, the Athenians were reluctant to expel certain corrupt magistrates,
39
Fines are attested for early major public trials—e.g. Phrynichus (Hdt. 6.21.2) and Miltiades (Hdt.
6.136.1)—but there is still debate on whether or not these were eisangeliai. No procedural details are
mentioned for Phrynichus’ trial, although Herodotus does say that ‘the Athenians’ were the who ones who
fined him. Likewise, I side with Hansen (1975: 69) in thinking Miltiades’ trial an eisangelia, but see
Rhodes (1979: 104-5).
40
Respectively, dw=ra lamba/nh|, Lex. Cant. s.v. ei)saggeli/a and r(h/twr w2n mh\ le/gh| ta\ a1rista tw| =
dh/mw| tw= | 0Aqhnai/wn xrh/mata lamba/nwn, Hyp. 4.8. The clause on stratēgoi is part of a longer list of
crimes including betray an allied city (e)a/n ti/j po/lin tina\ prodw= |, Hyp. 4.8), which could have been
added only after Athens acquired an empire: Hansen (1975: 17). We can thus plausibly date the clause on
dōrodokia to the last quarter of the fifth century: Carawan (1987: 173-6). Similarly, the word rhētor, as
used to describe public speakers, came into use only in the mid-fifth century.
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though they had done so since the original Solonian law against dōrodokia. Yet the
debate on what to do with the dōrodokos seems to have cut both ways, for the opposite
concern, to ensure that other corrupt officials were really expelled forever, seems to have
led to the creation of the death penalty for dōrodokia at a euthyna. 41 We can date this
change to after 403, and it is tempting to place it during the revision of the laws
completed in 399. 42 By this time atimia had developed into a different kind of penalty—
one that less directly expelled a threat from the community (he was disfranchised, not
necessarily exiled). Capital punishment, by contrast, would have secured the expulsion of
the dōrodokos from the community, whether through outright death or voluntary lifelong
exile. 43
In sum, the emergence of a new kind of dōrodokia involving tribute collection
resulted in a new penalty—a monetary fine—which gradually became a standard,
alternate penalty for any case of dōrodokia. The penalty of expulsion, whether outlawry
or later death, continued to be used as a penalty for public officials. As practice clearly
indicated, however, there were considerable implications for these divergent penalties.
The Athenians were no longer judging whether the reciprocal relationship between an
official and the community had been severed; they were judging whether it had been
41 So, Din. 1.60 explicitly differentiates between the rationales behind the two penalties. On his view, the
death penalty was intended to make an example out of an offender. I would underscore that the example
being made was that the dōrodokos should be cast out of the community, in effect, that his actions
constituted those that belonged ‘outside’ the community.
42 The defendant of Lysias 21, dated to 403, in a dōrodokia trial at a euthyna, asks simply that he not be
disfranchised or pay a fine, without any mention of death (e.g. Lys. 21.25). In the fourth century, a series
of dōrodokia trials resulted in capital punishment, but these were all at eisangeliai, so they are
inconclusive, though perhaps suggestive, of the penalty at a euthyna: see further below, n. 70. Note how
Plato groups together dōrodokia with a standard list of other crimes for which the Thirty had been wellknown
(Rep. 9.575b), and which in the fourth century took the death penalty (so Xen. Mem. 1.2.62; cf. Plat.
Gorg. 508e).
43 In this respect, the development of capital punishment for dōrodokia, which often resulted in voluntary
lifelong exile, could have been loosely intended to replicate what atimia qua outlawry had accomplished.
The ‘harshness’ of the penalty need not have been at issue, pace MacDowell (1983a: 75-6; 1990: 337)
though see Xen. Mem. 1.2.62.
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severed beyond repair. Although the dōrodokos had misjudged and acted against the
greater good, would he do so again if given another opportunity to serve as an official?
Though he had wanted to act as if outside the moral community, could he somehow be
redeemed as an insider again? As the Athenians slowly came to realize, the answer to
this question hinged, in part, on whether or not they would continue to be offered dōra
again. It takes two to commit dōrodokia, and how the Athenians came to address bribe-
givers will be the subject of the next section.
The Rise of the Bribe-Giver: Individuals and the Public Sphere:
The legal and institutional changes detailed in the previous section carved out a
specific place for the figure of the dōrodokos. All of these measures focused on the illicit
receipt of dōra—that is, on the bribe-taker, not the bribe-giver—and the only Athenians
whose conduct was regulated by the law were, specifically, those citizens invested with
the honor of public office. 44 Though initially an elite figure, like an archon subject to an
archaic graphē dōrōn process, in the democracy the dōrodokos came to be configured as
an everyman, whether an elite stratēgos like Eurymedon or a councilman like Lycides.
In this respect, the Athenians seemed to fear that any citizen involved in politics might
become dōrodokos, someone corrupted to act or advocate against the community’s
interests. The informal and formal measures adopted at Athens thus aimed to restore
reciprocity after a purportedly corrupt official had failed to provide a proper return to the
community. By the end of the fifth century, however, there was a clear conceptual
division over how to restore this reciprocity. Earlier efforts had emphasized expulsion
from the community via outlawry or, later, death. But with the introduction of monetary
44 Thalheim (1902: 339-45; 1906: 304-9), Hansen (1975: 51-3), Carawan (1987: 173).
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fines for dōrodokia towards the end of the fifth century, bribe-takers could also be
reintegrated into the polity.
As the Athenians began to rethink what to do about the dōrodokos, they also
began to rethink who he was in the first place. Chapter Two surveyed the rise of the so-
called New Politicians in the second half of the fifth century: citizens whose political
authority was based more on their rhetorical abilities than on family wealth or prestige.
Individuals like Cleon and Hyperbolus acquired pre-eminent standing because they could
persuade the masses through their command of rhetoric. Yet this new style of politics
was not without its critics. In the Wasps and Knights Aristophanes decried how
politicians like Cleon were effectively corrupting the political process, whether through
outright persuasion or, more dangerously, through promises and services to the dēmos.
And, indeed, as we saw in Chapter Two, in the second half of the fifth century the
Athenians began to condemn giving as much as taking dōra illicitly.
Aristophanes’ criticisms are emblematic of an acute anxiety attending the rise of
the New Politicians, namely, that political institutions were changing, and not for the
better. Contemporary critics of the democracy blamed the fickleness of the masses for
unjust court decisions, like the execution of the Arginusae generals; poor collective
decisions, like the Sicilian Expedition, which was thought fueled more by the Assembly’s
desires than by any prudent deliberation; and unfair policies that disproportionately
burdened elites, while the masses enjoyed the fruits of their labor. 45 In each case, the
45 For an overview of these concerns, see Chapters Two and Three. Courts: AP 34.1, Diod. 13.102.5.
Assembly: Ober (1998: 104-20, esp. 114-18). The vulnerability of the dēmos to make poor collective
decisions at the end of the fifth century is also borne out by the creation of a procedure for illegal proposals,
or graphē paranomōn, and the distinction between public decrees (psēphismata) and laws (nomoi) which
were forged through the complex process of nomothesia: Hansen (1974) on graphē paranomōn, Harrison
(1955), MacDowell (1975), Rhodes (1985), Hansen (1999: 168-9) on nomothesia. Economy: Recall that,
beginning in the Peloponnesian War, the Athenians began to levy the eisphora, or war-time tax on the elite:
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deliberative process of collective institutions resulted in poor decisions, and within this
context of general institutional failure, dōrodokia was increasingly suspected.
In many respects, this was a new concern for the democracy. In the first half of
the century, the threat of corruption of individual officials was chiefly mitigated by the
large size of political bodies: boards of magistrates came in multiples of ten, juries
numbered in the hundreds, and assemblies in the thousands, so the potential damage done
by a single corrupt individual was limited. Yet, despite their apparently unassailable size,
the growing importance of the jury courts and Assembly as arenas for acquiring political
authority made them all the more vulnerable to corruption. Especially as the
Peloponnesian War progressed and political outcomes worsened, it was here, in these
larger political bodies, that critics like Aristophanes feared dōrodokia was taking root.
We might relegate these fears to only a specific group of Athenians who were
generally critical of what Athens’ polity had become, but it is striking how these new
anxieties over democracy were attended (and often preceded) by legal expressions of a
new concern about dōrodokia. In the second half of the century, the Athenians began to
shift their focus in law from how a public official might be corrupted to how a single
individual, like a Cleon, might corrupt an entire political body through persuasion and, it
was suspected, dōrodokia. 46 Shifting from bribe-takers to bribe-givers, the legal image of
the dōrodokos broadened to include essentially private individuals who came into contact
cf. Thuc. 3.19.1, Lys. 21.3, Diod. 13.47.7, 13.52.5, 13.64.4 and generally Christ (2006: 156-62, esp. 161-2)
on the increasing economic obligations of the elite during the fifth-century democracy.
46 Scholars commonly note the improbability that large groups of people, whether on juries or at an
Assembly, were bribed: e.g. Staveley (1972: 113), Taylor (2007: 325, 329-30). Even despite this
improbability, however, the Athenians readily assumed that large groups were, in fact, being bribed: cf.
[Xen.] Ath. Pol. 3.7; Thuc. 6. 13.1; Lys. 12.43-4, 29.12; Pl. Tht. 173d; Xen. Symp. 1.4; Isoc. 18.11; Dem.
18.149; AP 27.5. More importantly, by positing that bribery of large groups was infrequent in actuality,
these scholars obfuscate the role this assumption played in the workings of the democracy: however
unfounded, it shifted in part how the Athenians regulated dōrodokia.
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with political institutions like assemblies, lawcourts, and executive boards. 47 Unlike
public officials, who were regularly held accountable by the end of the fifth century,
these private individuals could engage with the polity yet seemingly evade accountability.
This section will trace how the legal and institutional changes from the end of the fifth
century onward reflected a revised understanding of the dōrodokos. As we will see,
focusing on both bribe-givers and bribe-takers, that is both outsiders and insiders at once,
mirrored how the dōrodokos himself was conceived as simultaneously inside and outside
the moral community of the dēmos. Institutional reform was thus articulated in response
to the dōrodokos.
In the previous section we saw how, by 411, the eisangelia procedure came to be
used for a number of new offenses, including dōrodokia: specific kinds of dōrodokia,
meaning specific kinds of dōrodokoi, were thus singled out for legal action. Crucially,
some of these new dōrodokoi were not public officials. On the one hand, it is
straightforward enough that the treason clause of the nomos eisangeltikos was expanded
to include a provision against taking dōra (cf. dw=ra lamba/nh|, Lex. Cant. s.v.
ei)saggeli/a). As discussed earlier, this clause would have been used primarily to
prosecute stratēgoi or other top military officials who were elected to control whole
armies, particularly as it was incorporated into a clause on the actions of stratēgoi. On
the other hand, it is remarkable that the conduct of rhētores, who were not magistrates,
was regulated in the same way: they were forbidden to “take money and speak against
the interests of the Athenian people” (r(h/twr w2n mh\ le/gh| ta\ a1rista tw| = dh/mw| tw= |
47 As Wallace (2006) rightly describes, one general feature of the Athenian democracy was that ‘private’
conduct was defined as essentially anything that did not harm the community or another individual. I
would add, moreover, that this specific demarcation of private and public was something that developed
over time. This section outlines one crucial step in that development.
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0Aqhnai/wn xrh/mata lamba/nwn, Hyp. 4.8). 48 Certainly the nomos eisangeltikos also
prohibited public speakers from making false promises to the Athenian people; what is
exceptional about the clause on dōrodokia is that it regulated the conduct of these private
individuals even before they entered the public sphere. 49 Any money or dōra they may
have taken for proposing a specific decree, say, became illicit the moment that their
decree was deemed against the interests of the dēmos. 50
To be sure, the inclusion of rhētores in the nomos eisangeltikos was but one of a
few different ways the Athenians began to formalize the role of public speakers in the
democracy during this period. 51 What these formal regulations reveal is that, as the
Athenians began to police the contact individuals had with political institutions, they did
so by refashioning regulations on the conduct of public officials. 52 So, around the same
time that the nomos eisangeltikos was formalized and expanded to include rhētores, a
number of its clauses were redrafted as separate laws applicable to private individuals
48
When Hyperides refers to this law later, he adds that rhētores were to be prosecuted for speaking against
the dēmos’ interests, afer taking money “and gifts from those acting against the dēmos,” (dwrea\j para\
tw=n ta)nanti/a pratto/ntwn tw| = dh/mw|, Hyp. 4.39). The additions does not substantively change the
meaning of the clause; accordingly, throughout this section I will refer only to the first part of the clause.
49
Cf. e)a/n tij to\n dh=mon u(posxo/menoj e)capath/sh|, Dem. 49.67. See also the clauses cited in
Demosthenes’ speech Against Leptines (Dem. 20. 100, 135) with discussion at Hansen (1975: 13-14) and
Hesk (2000: 51-7). In 489, Miltiades was prosecuted most likely for deceiving the dēmos (cf. Hdt. 6.136):
Harrison (1971: 54), Hansen (1975: 69), MacDowell (1978: 179), Rhodes (1979: 105), Hesk (2000: 52).
The process may have been an eisangelia, as Hansen (1975: 69) argues, but cf. Rhodes (1979: 104-5) and
Hesk (2000: 51-2).
50
Recall that public speakers often received some kind of fee for proposing decrees or honors: see further
Chapter Two and Jackson (1919). Again, therefore, the question of dōrodokia was intimately connected to
the performance of these speakers, whether their actions benefited or harmed the community.
51
Two other measures included the graphē paranomōn procedure—under which a public speaker could be
prosecuted for proposing a decree against the city’s interests—and a special kind of dokimasia, or public
scrutiny, for those citizens who had spoken in a public assembly yet had not been qualified to do so.
Hansen (1974) is fundamental on the graphē paranomōn. I agree with his dating of the institution to the
last quarter of the fifth century (cf. Andoc. 1.17, 22). The locus classicus for the dokimasia rhētorōn is
Aeschines’ prosecution of Timarchus (Aeschines 1): see further Lipsius (1905-15: 2.278-82).
52
Although the dokimasia rhētōrōn came essentially after, not before, someone had acted in a ‘public’
capacity, its criteria for evaluating citizens were similar to that in a regular dokimasia. Aeschines 1.27-32
explains how public speakers could not have committed a military offense nor have been cruel to their
parents, among other things. Both of these criteria held for the scrutiny of magistrates, as well (cf. AP
55.3). Similarly, the graphē paranomōn established a legal standard for holding speakers accountable, just
like in a euthyna.
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through the graphē procedure. We hear of a graphē prodosias, which presumably would
have replicated at least part of the treason clause of the nomos eisangeltikos yet, unlike
that law, applied to any citizen and was not restricted to military officials like stratēgoi. 53
Further, there are striking similarities between the nomos eisangeltikos and the list
of contemporary graphai cited in pseudo-Demosthenes’ second speech Against
Stephanus ([Dem.] 46.26). 54 The text is perhaps corrupt, but the list of graphai includes
the offenses of conspiracy and forming a faction to overturn the dēmos: “If anyone ever
conspires...or sets up a faction for the overturn of the dēmos...” (e)a/n tij sunisth=tai...h2
e(tairei/an sunisth| sunisth|
sunisth| = = = = e)pi e)pi\ e)pi
\\ \ katalu/sei katalu/sei tou= dh/mou dh/mou, dh/mou
[Dem.] 46.26). 55 This last offense
appears to be a conflation of the first clause of the nomos eisangeltikos, which prohibited
“joining together for the overturn of the dēmos or forming a faction” (suni/h| suni/h| suni/h| poi poi e) e)pi e) pi pi\ pi\\
\
katalu/sei katalu/sei tou= tou= dh/mou dh/mou h2 e(tairiko\n sunaga/gh|, Hyp. 4.8). 56 Although the original fear
concerned public officials—namely, that a prominent official might become a tyrant and
overthrow the democracy—the creation of a graphē for this same offense clearly
53
I do not press this point too far, for we have no other attestations of the existence or use of the graphē
prodosias outside of a series of graphai listed in Pollux 8.40, although compare Xen. Hell. 1.7.22. Hansen
(1975: 49) accepts it as genuine; Lipsius (1905-15: 2.262) is dubious.
54
We cannot know the date of this compilation with any great specificity, aside from that it pre-dates the
second speech Against Stephanus (351 BCE). MacDowell (1983a: 66-7), followed by Hashiba (2006:
64n.11), dates it to shortly after 409 BCE, but this is based on a mistaken understanding that the
compilation is, in fact, (only) the specific law governing the graphē dekasmou: see further below. The use
of the word dōrodokia suggests a date sometime after the mid-fifth century, while the concerns about
conspiracy, hetaireiai and judicial bribery suggest a late fifth-century date. Although it does not affect my
argument significantly, I find it not implausible that, with the exception of the graphē dekasmou, some or
all of the compilation might date to the first decades of the fourth century.
55
We earlier noted one potential corruption in the manuscript in a different section of the law. For this
section, Thalheim deletes e)pi\ katalu/sei tou= dh/mou and transposes sunisth=tai so that it immediately
precedes h2 e(tairei/an: “If anyone ever...is joined together [in a faction] or forms a faction...” Gernet
(1957: 185), with lukewarm approval by MacDowell (1983a: 66), deletes the entire clause. There is,
however, no reason to delete the clause, for it was particularly significant amid the oligarchic revolutions of
the late fifth century: it recurs, for instance, in Demophantus’ decree of 410 (cf. dhmokrati/an katalu/h|,
Andoc. 1.96).
56
This phrase should perhaps be emended to read sunisth| = for suni/h|: cf. e)pi\ katalu/sei tou= dh/mou
sunistame/nouj, AP 8.4; sunistame/nouj e)pi\ katalu/sei th=j politei/aj, AP 25.3.
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expanded the scope of who was subject to prosecution. 57 It did so, tellingly, by framing
the problem in terms of hetaireiai, which were essentially private associations wielding
public power through their members’ involvement in political processes. Again, by
modeling the clause in Demosthenes’ law on the nomos eisangeltikos, the Athenians
turned to regulations on public officials to create a procedure governing the conduct of
private citizens.
Crucially, the Athenians changed the original law against dōrodokia, as well, so
that the actions of ordinary citizens came under its purview. Like the compilation of
offenses drawn from the nomos eisangeltikos, in fact, the graphē dōrōn seems to have
pertained initially only to public officials and to have been redrafted later to apply to
ordinary citizens, too. Precise dating is impossible, but this new graphē dōrōn may have
been formalized by 419. 58 Around the same time, the law was also expanded to include
the offenses of active bribery and corruption by freely making promises to others, again
to the detriment of the dēmos or one of the citizens (cf. h@ au0to\j didw| ~ e9te/rw|, h2
diafqei/rh| tina\j e0paggello/menoj, Dem. 21.113). The impetus for both changes may
have been the same: to create a formal procedure that regulated how private citizens
interfaced with the public sphere.
Moreover, the expansion of the law’s scope appears intimately connected to its
redefinition. As the previous chapter argued, the wording of the original offense was
changed from “receives illicitly” (de/xhtai) to “receives...to the harm of the people or
one of the citizens” (lamba/nh|...e0pi\ bla/bh| tou~ dh/mou h@ tino\j tw=n politw~n, Dem.
57 Cf. Hansen (1975: 49), Rhodes (1981: 156 ad AP 8.4).
58 As argued above in the first section of this chapter. For the dating of this change, Ant. 6.49-50 describes
a case from 419/8, in which holders of a bribe, private citizens, were purportedly brought to trial and
convicted. It is unclear which legal procedure was employed at their trial, but it is likely to have been the
graphē dōrōn.
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21.113). Contemporary testimony suggests that this change occurred in the late fifth
century: it was then that the Athenians were particularly concerned about “harm to the
dēmos” and, consequently, that they framed dōrodokia as a crime against the dēmos’
interests, just as we saw in the nomos eisangeltikos. 59 Yet dōrodokia was simultaneously
redefined as giving or taking “to the harm of one of the citizens,” as well. To that extent,
changing the law’s wording was integral for expanding its scope to cover the actions of
private individuals.
Even if we conservatively date these legal changes to the half-century between
425 and 375, it is nevertheless striking that, in clarifying the law’s definition of
dōrodokia, the Athenians effectively shifted its focus from public officials to ordinary
citizens, particularly those coming into contact with political institutions. Indeed,
Demosthenes cites the law against dōrodokia in order to condemn his opponent Midias
for allegedly bribing the family of a recently deceased to claim that Demosthenes had
murdered their son (Dem. 21.104-7). Even though Midias was a well-known rhētor in
his own right, his bribing of Demosthenes’ enemies seemingly had little to do with his
public role as rhētor. The new legal definition of dōrodokia expanded the law’s scope so
that it could regulate how non-officials like Demosthenes’ opponent interfaced with the
public sphere.
59
Cf. r(h/twr w2n mh\ le/gh| ta\ a1rista tw| = dh/mw| tw= | 0Aqhnai/wn xrh/mata lamba/nwn, Hyp. 4.8. The
phrase e0pi\ bla/bh| tou~ dh/mou h@ tino\j tw=n politw~n is paralleled in both Thucydides’ account of the
debates concerning the constitution of the 400 in 411 (e)pi\ bla/bh| th=j po/lewj kai\ tw=n politw=n, Thuc.
8.72.1) and in Aristophanes’ parody of the curse pronounced at meetings of the Assembly in Council (cf.
e)pi\ bla/bh| tini\/ th= | tw=n gunaikw=n, Th. 337-8); cf. e)pi\] | bla/bei te=i 0Aqen[ai/on, IG i³ 38.6-7 (447/6).
Note, too, how in a speech probably dated to just after 403/2, a defendant claims that he never “took bribes
to the detriment of the polis” (e)pi\ de\ tw= | th=j po/lewj kakw= |…dwrodokoi/hn, Lys. 21.22). Cf. e)pi\ toi=j
u(mete/roij dwrodokou=nti, Lys. 29.11; kakw=j e)poi/ei th\n po/lin, Isoc. 16.42. This frame was formulaic
by the mid-fourth century: cf. Pl. Euthyphr. 13c, Isoc. 8.72, X. Mem. 2.3.19, D. 24.204, IG ii² 1258.5-6,
10-11 and Chapter Four above.
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Nowhere was this impulse more explicit than in the creation of the graphē
dekasmou, a procedure for prosecuting anyone who “bribe[d] the Heliaia or any of the
courts in Athens or the Council by giving money for the purpose of dōrodokia”
(sundeka/zh| th\n h(liai/an h2 tw=n dikasthri/wn ti tw=n 0Aqh/nhsin h2 th\n boulh\n e)pi\
dwrodoki/a| xrh/mata didou/j, [Dem.] 46.26). 60 The penalty was death. 61 The wording
of the law, with one of the earliest attested uses of the compound dōrodokia, suggests a
date in the second half of the fifth century. 62 Other scholars have dated it (shortly) after
409 on the strength of the Athēnaiōn Politeia, which records that active bribery (to\
deka/zein) began at this time, when the stratēgos Anytus was acquitted at an eisangelia on
a charge of treason after bribing the jury. 63 But we cannot take the AP literally here:
already a couple decades before Anytus was stratēgos, the Old Oligarch remarks that
much business in the Assembly and Council was conducted “through money” (a)po\
xrhma/twn, [Xen.] Ath. Pol. 3.3), and he suggests that juries may already have been
bribed—at the very least, the word for bribing collective bodies already existed. 64 Nor
60
Following Wolf’s emendation of the coddices’ sundika/zh| to sundeka/zh|, a common manuscript error:
cf. [Xen.] Ath. Pol. 3.7.
61
Isoc. 8.50, Aeschin. 1.86-7. Aeschines claims that both the person who bribed (e)de/kaze) and the juror
who was bribed (e)deka/zeto) were subject to the same penalty of death, as fixed by the law (1.87), but
nowhere else is this formal penalty attested for bribed jurors. Indeed, it is difficult to imagine how the
Athenians could have enforced such a law, given that jurors voted secretly. I am inclined to think, contra
MacDowell (1983a: 66-7), that the punishment for a bribed juror was fabricated to help support Aeschines’
claim that it is unreasonable to expect witnesses to come forth and claim that they had hired Aeschines’
opponent Timarchus for prostitution.
62
This is a loose estimate, given that the word dwrodoki/a is not attested until the early fourth century
(Andoc. 4.30). That said, dwrodoke/w appears in the last third of the fifth century: Hdt. 6.82; Cratinus frr.
128, 244K; Ar. Eq. 66, 802, 834 and compare dwrodokisti/ at Ar. Eq. 996 and dwrodo/koisin at Ar. Eq.
403.
63
AP 27.5, Diod. 13.64.6, Plut. Cor. 14.6, Schol. Aeschin. 1.87, Harpocration s.v. deka/zwn, 86.7. Hashiba
(2006: 64n.11), following MacDowell (1983a: 66-7), dates it to 409, while Calhoun (1913: 67) and
Bonner and Smith (1938: 2.10-11) date it to 404/3 or later. For the charge and procedure: Hansen (1975:
number 65) helpfully collects the sources. Despite the fact that Lex. Seg. 236.6 describes the process as a
euthyna—cf. ta\j eu)qu/naj didou\j th=j e)n Pu/lh| strathgi/aj—given the dēmos’ involvement in the trial
(Diod. 13.64.6), I follow Hansen’s assignment to his list of eisangeliai.
64
Note how he claims that, if juries were smaller, it would be easier to bribe them (r(a|/dion e1stai pro\j
o)li/gouj dikasta\j kai\ sundeka/sai, [Xen.] Ath. Pol. 3.7), not that juries would be bribable only if they
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should we forget the suspected corruption in the prosecution and acquittal of Cimon.
What the AP might mean is that the legally defined practice of dekazein, whence the
name graphē dekasmou, was “first made public by Anytus” (prw/tou katadei/cantoj
0Anu/tou, AP 27.5). In other words, Anytus was acquitted at his eisangelia and was
publicly rumored to have bribed the jury, yet presumably never was prosecuted for it. 65
Following the AP, we should therefore date the institution of the graphē dekasmou to
sometime between the 440’s and 409, probably closer to Anytus’ trial in 409.
Little attention has been paid to the other graphai cited alongside the graphē
dekasmou, but these laws actually provide crucial context for understanding the import of
the legislation. After all, why would the Athenians group together laws on conspiring,
bribing jurors, forming a political faction, and taking bribes for being a public prosecutor
or witness? 66 The conjunction of conspiracy and bribery suggests that all of these
offenses entailed concerted corruption of one form or another: groups of citizens, who
were not magistrates, coming together to affect the outcomes of political processes. To
be sure, at this time the hetaireiai, or political clubs, were a major force in Athenian
politics in large part because they could pack the Assembly to help sway the dēmos’
opinion. So, too, were their members suspected of helping each other out in court by
providing false testimony or by “joining in bribing” the jury, as the verb sundeka/zein
were smaller. Likewise, when in a speech dated to 403, Isocrates remarks that one Xenotimus was known
to have bribed juries, his reference to dekazein makes it clear that the practice was already quite familiar in
Athens (Isoc. 18.11). Both uses of the verb dekazein strongly suggest that Anytus did not develop a
particular method of ‘tenning’ a jury: Calhoun (1913: 66-7), and recall from Chapter One that the folk
derivation of dekazein from dekas (“ten”) has little grounding in reality.
65 On this meaning of the verb katadei/knumi, see also Hdt. 1.163, 4.42. Similarly, the friends of Ergocles
were rumored to have gone around saying that they had bribed 2100 jurors during his trial (Lys. 29.12).
Ergocles was nevertheless convicted and sentenced to death.
66 Accordingly, Thalheim’s emendations, discussed above, effectively remove the first clause on
conspiracy. Similarly, Gernet (1957: 185) goes so far as to delete the clause on setting up a hetaireia to
overthrow the dēmos—presumably because it has nothing to do with judicial bribery, and MacDowell takes
issue with “why the Boule is added to the list of courts” (1983a: 66-7, quote on 66).
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properly means. 67 Just as a lone public speaker might corrupt the Assembly by making
promises unasked, groups of private citizens, too, could work together to corrupt larger
political bodies, especially those with judicial functions. 68
The emphasis on judicial bodies was critical, for one of the underlying reasons for
these legislative changes was that citizens and officials, alike, were escaping
accountability for their actions. Clearly this fear underpinned the graphē which targeted
synēgoroi—whether public prosecutors or witnesses, it is unclear which the law intends
here—suspected of taking money for the sake of a judicial suit (e)pi\ tai=j di/kaij, [Dem.]
46.26). Contemporary sources, as well, describe how officials might use the courts to
avoid going to trial. In one case, dated to 419, a defendant describes how, during his
tenure in the Council, he discovered maladministration among various boards of financial
officials. When he tried to bring this wrongdoing to light, they banded together and
bribed one of his enemies to bring a suit against him (Ant. 6.49-50). Although the
officials were in the meantime found guilty, as were the people with whom they had
deposited the dōra (Ant. 6.50), the blatant misuse of the courts was troubling.
Read against the backdrop of the numerous setbacks of the Peloponnesian War
and the oligarchic revolutions of 411/10 and 404, this flurry of legal changes reveals a
persistent anxiety that political institutions were being corrupted en masse. Still more
troubling, therefore, was that dōrodokia could be associated with the most pernicious
breakdown of political institutions: the circumventing of public accountability. Certainly
political agents—public officials like stratēgoi or dēmarchs, jurors and councilmen—
67
On the political influence of the hetaireiai, Calhoun (1913) is still essential. Cf. Thuc. 8.54.4, Plato Tht.
173d, [Dem.] 54.31-7.
68
Calhoun (1913: 40-96, esp. 66-76) persuasively sets forth the evidence for the interconnection of
hetaireiai and dōrodokia involving the courts. See further Rubinstein (2000: 198-212).
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continued to be suspected of dōrodokia; but, increasingly, so were individuals outside the
public sphere blamed for bribing them. What began as a fear that individuals within a
political body were making poor judgments about the community’s interests shifted to
include the concern that individuals outside a political body were illicitly influencing the
entire body in order to effect poor judgments about the community’s interests. Many of
these poor judgments concerned the accountability of public officials and, towards the
end of the century, the accountability of private citizens entering into the public sphere.
As before, with this series of legal changes there continued to be divergent views
on what to do with the dōrodokos: once the dēmos had passed its judgment on him,
should he be expelled from or reintegrated into the community? Should his ‘insider’ or
his ‘outsider’ status prevail? In the case of the graphē dekasmou, the Athenians
displayed little tolerance for individuals who corrupted the judicial process; with an
automatic death penalty, it expelled from the community forever those found guilty. 69 By
contrast, no comparable penalty existed when non-magistrates were prosecuted under the
graphē dōrōn: the only punishments for that procedure seem to have been the penalty of
atimia qua disfranchisement or a tenfold fine (Aeschin. 3.232, Din. 2.16).
It is all the more striking, therefore, that of the seven known prosecutions of
ambassadors and public speakers suspected of dōrodokia in the fourth century not one
used the graphē dōrōn process. Instead, all seven trials employed the eisangelia process,
and every conviction resulted in the death penalty. 70 Our evidence is doubtless limited
69 Whether or not they were always prosecuted is another matter altogether. Isocrates decries how the
politicians who corrupted (diafqei=rai) the most people the most obviously (fanerw/tata) were elected to
the stratēgia (Isoc. 8.50). Similarly, Aeschines reports that it was common to hear accusations that people
had bribed juries (Aeschin. 1.86), one reason behind the exceptional citizen registration process ordered by
Demophilus’ decree in 346/5: see further below.
70 The cases were against Andocides, Epicrates, Eubulides, and Cratinus (392/1); Timagoras (367);
Callistratus (361/0); Philocrates (343); and Euxenippus (330-24). Additionally, the stratēgoi Ergocles
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and biased towards preserving only the most serious court cases. Nevertheless, in
practice, if not in law, during the fourth century the Athenians apparently preferred to
expel permanently, rather than to reintegrate, rhētores whose actions threatened to
corrupt a political body via outright bribes or bad policy suggestions. 71 Framing this
phenomenon in terms of insiders and outsiders might tell us why: it was exactly at this
time that the dēmos was unwilling to tolerate any ‘outsider’-like behavior resembling the
oligarchic Thirty. Better to expel that threat permanently than to reintegrate someone
who truly wished to remain outside the moral community.
In this respect, there are three concurrent trends that I think we can tie together in
this series of legal innovations. First, the shift from bribe-taking to bribe-giving can be
framed in terms of the expansion of the law’s scope from public officials to regular
citizens interacting with the public sphere. Through dōrodokia regulations, which were
modeled off of prior dōrodokia laws and which focused on how individuals could
interface with the public sphere, the Athenians in fact expanded the domain of the
‘public’. But in that case, note how the bribe-givers who had formerly been ‘outside’ the
public sphere now were ‘insiders’ just like the officials they corrupted. At the very fringe
of this expanded public sphere, therefore, we find that the dōrodokos was not simply
‘inside’ or ‘outside’ the community; he was somehow both at once, precisely like the
(389) and Timotheus (356/5 or 355/4) were convicted probably of dōrodokia; Timotheus was nearly
sentenced to death, but was fined instead. The sources for each are catalogued, respectively, in Hansen
(1975: numbers 69-72, 82, 87, 109, 124). These trials are emblematic of a larger gravitation towards the
eisangelia over the euthyna process when prosecuting public officials in the fourth century. Hansen (1975:
75-9).
71 Outside the Harpalus Affair, the only attested example of a fine for dōrodokia in the fourth century is for
Timotheus’ eisangelia in 356/5, on a charge of treason and dōrodokia: Hansen (1975: number 101)
collects the sources. Timotheus was prosecuted together with two other stratēgoi from that year:
Iphicrates on a charge of treason and Menestheus for embezzlement, numbers 100 and 102 respectively in
Hansen (1975); both were acquitted. Upon Timotheus’ conviction, the death penalty was originally
proposed (Nep. Iph. 3.3), but a fine was eventually imposed instead (Isoc. 15.129, Din. 1.14, 3.17). Even
here, though, the extraordinary sum of the fine—100 talents, reportedly—forced Timotheus into exile, in
effect creating the same permanent expulsion as capital punishment (Plut. Mor. 605F).
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figure of thief we encountered in Chapter Three. By linking up these three shifts in this
way, we thus find that shifting conceptions of the dōrodokos transformed, in turn, how
the Athenians thought about the legal space in which he worked.
One noteworthy feature of the above legal changes is that they introduced a
stricter legal definition of dōrodokia, usually a clause to the effect of “against the public
interest.” It was argued in the previous chapter that, although the Solonian law for the
graphē dōrōn nowhere defined the crime of dōrodokia, it was later redefined with the
inclusion of “to the harm of the dēmos or any citizen” (e0pi\ bla/bh| tou~ dh/mou h@ tino\j
tw=n politw~n, Dem. 21.113). Similarly, the law for the graphē dekasmou specified that
one was not allowed to “give money unto dōrodokia” (e)pi\ dwrodoki/a| xrh/mata
didou/j, [Dem.] 46.26), and the nomos eisangeltikos prohibited public speakers from
taking money and speaking “against the dēmos’ interests” (mh\ le/gh| ta\ a1rista tw| =
dh/mw, Hyp. 4.8). In the case of the graphē dōrōn, this redefinition seems to have been
intimately tied to expanding the scope of the procedure, but the same cannot be said for
the other procedures. Why, then, the broader interest in more clearly defining what
dōrodokia was?
As a result of these stricter definitions in the law, litigants had a clearer guide in
demonstrating when or if dōrodokia had occurred, namely, by showing whether or not
the public (or some private) interest had been harmed. There was a symbolic reason, too,
for framing this definition with respect to the dēmos’ interests. In committing dōrodokia,
a citizen had either misjudged the greater good or was seeking to avoid being held
accountable to that standard. This, it was thought, lay at the root of institutional
breakdown in the late fifth century. By clarifying the legal definition of dōrodokia, the
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Athenians reaffirmed which political domains should make those judgments in the first
place: this specific norm was to be authorized by a jury court, not by the dōrodokos. As
we will investigate in greater detail in the next chapter, one reason for including more
precise definitions of dōrodokia at this time may have been to allow a jury—and, in an
eisangelia, the dēmos—to reauthorize the precise communal norms which had been
thought misjudged or evaded by the dōrodokos.
Subsequent formal measures similarly reasserted the proper authority of a
political body whose domain contained some political norm in the community. If a
dōrodokos had misestimated what constituted harm to the dēmos, or if he had tried to use
dōrodokia to escape judgment by the community, these later measures ensured that the
community had another chance to pass judgment or to be the proper arbiters of what was
and was not harmful to the dēmos. Here, though, it is crucial that so many of these
measures were predicated on the threat posed by veritable networks of corruption, just
like the ones we examined in Chapter Four.
So, in one trial a certain Euxennipus claimed that he had been left off the citizen
registry—and others had been illegally voted onto it—because of corruption involving a
local official and his friends. 72 Whereas the graphē dōrōn originally had focused on the
corruption of individual agents and only much later came to cover the individuals who
corrupted entire political bodies, the networks of corruption envisioned by Euxenippus
and others in the final decades of the democracy posed a new challenge. Both insiders
and outsiders were potentially already corrupt and working in concert. In response, the
Athenians continued to affirm a proper institutional structure, as they had done by giving
72 The speech for Euxitheus’ case was written by Demosthenes (Dem. 57) and is discussed most fully by
Haussoullier (1979: 41-51), Whitehead (1986: esp. 293-301). For purported corruption involving the
dēmarch Eubulides, see Dem. 57.26, 58-61. Eubulides’ father and corruption: Dem. 57.26, 60-1.
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jurors a stricter legal definition with which to guide their judgment on dōrodokia suits.
But they did so either by essentially repeating the process, thereby reasserting the
authority of a particular political body within a particular domain, or by changing what
had been deemed a thoroughly corrupt process—i.e. switching domains.
One instance of repeating the process involved the dokimasia procedure at which
Euxenippus had experienced problems. As Euxenippus’ testimony suggests, Athenian
anxieties over the corruption of political bodies only continued in the fourth century, and
were not limited to the main political organs of the polis; on the contrary, the corruption
of local bodies was just as serious a concern. For Euxenippus was not the only one to
call foul at a local assembly. There were numerous contemporary fears that the
dokimasia process was not working correctly. 73 By 346/5, there was such a pervasive
belief in, and anger at, corruption of the citizen registration processes that the Athenians
voted to hold an extraordinary registration, in which every citizen of every deme would
have his citizenship reviewed and voted on by his fellow demesmen. 74 This was an
exceptional measure, to be sure, yet it is testament to the twin beliefs that dōrodokia had
corrupted a number of individual outcomes and that the solution was to repeat the
73 On corruption at the deme level, see further Haussoullier (1979: 45-6), Whitehead (1986: 291-301, esp.
292-3). So, Aeschines accuses Timarchus of being bribed to drop the citizenship case of someone who was
in fact from a different deme (Aeschin. 1.114-15). Contemporary comedies joke about how readily the
residents of Potamos accepted illegally registered citizens into their community or how often slaves
suddenly became full-fledged citizens in the deme of Sounion. Potamos: Harpoc. s.v. Potamo/j. Sounion:
Anaxandrides fr. 4.3-4: polloi\ de\ nu=n me/n ei)sin ou)k e)leu/qeroi,/ ei)j au!rion de\ Souniei=j (“many are
slaves today, but tomorrow they are Sounians”). In one case, dated between 336 and 324, it was claimed
that a public slave, Agasikles, had bribed his way into the citizen ranks; on that occasion, the prosecution
harped on his Scythian heritage, a particularly potent claim in the wake of Macedonian influence at Athens.
Agasikles: Hyp. 4.3, Din. frr. 7.1-2; cf. Harpoc. s.v. skafhfo/roi and Harpoc. and Suda s.v.
prometrhth/j. For further details on this trial, including its dating and the circumstances surrounding it,
see below and number 115 in Hansen’s catalogue (1975: 105).
74 The diapsēphesis of 346/5 was proposed by Demophilus, who was known for his public accusations of
corruption during the citizen enrollment procedures: cf. Aeschin. 1.86. On Demophilus’ decree and the
diapsēphesis of 346/5, see Haussoullier (1979: 38-55), Whitehead (1986: 104-9). Citizen anger against
those who had corrupted the dokimasia process is reported in Dem. 57.49: see further Haussoullier (1979:
40-1).
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process. The local bodies whose domain included enrollment decisions were still deemed
authoritative, but they were given another chance to make the right judgments.
Like the diapsēphisis of 346/5, which repeated the dokimasia for all Athenian
residents, the Athenians created the graphē dōroxenias procedure, which gave a jury
court a second chance to authorize the justice of a resident’s claim to citizenship. The
procedure was used “if someone secured an acquittal at a citizenship trial (graphē xenias)
by giving dōra” (dwroceni/aj a1n tij dw=ra dou\ \j a)pofu/gh| th\n ceni/an, AP 59.3). 75
More telling are the comments of Hyperides, who adds that any citizen could bring forth
a graphē dōroxenias suit if it seemed that someone’s acquittal at a citizenship trial had
been unjust (e0a\n mh\ dokw=si dikai/wj to\ prw=ton a)popefeuge/nai, Hyp. Fr. 28.2
Blass=Harpocration s.v. dwroceni/a). One seemingly peculiar aspect of the procedure is
how little it differed from a graphē xenias: both were jury trials held before the
thesmothetai, and, as Hyperides’ comment suggests, both hinged on whether or not the
defendant was a citizen. In effect, the graphē dōroxenias was a safeguard against an
unjust acquittal at a graphē xenias, a new opportunity for a new jury to cast the correct
judgment on someone’s citizenship status. Again, a jury still was the proper domain for
deciding disputes over citizenship; it simply needed an occasional second chance to reach
the right outcome. Although we have no indication of what the penalty in such a
procedure would have been, we can tentatively conjecture that it would have been atimia,
or permanent expulsion from the community. 76 If this hypothesis is correct, then in the
75 The AP’s testimony is our only indication of what the law governing the graphē dōroxenias may have
stated. During the citizen registration process, if someone’s candidacy for citizenship was questioned, he
underwent a graphē xenias before a jury who would then determine whether or not he met the requirements
of citizenship. On the citizenship enrollment procedure and the graphē xenias, see especially Haussoullier
(1979: 15-19), Whitehead (1986: 97-109), Robertson (2000).
76 On the one hand, the penalty probably was not public enslavement, as it was for a graphē xenias (Dem.
24.131). Even if the graphē dōroxenias were intended solely to correct the prior acquittal, having an
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case of citizenship trials, too, the Athenians expelled from their community those
elements which were corrupting the political process.
Both the extraordinary diapsēphisis of 346/5 and the graphē dōroxenias represent
attempts to reassert the authority of proper, uncorrupted political domains through
repeating a formal process. Yet if an entire body had been thoroughly corrupted, it was
conceivable that repeating the process would only result in the same, unjust outcome. In
such instances, the Athenians may have had little choice but to change the process
entirely, hence switching a process from one domain to another. One is reminded, for
instance, of Ephialtes’ reforms and the suspected corruption of the Areopagus at the time.
There is a similar explanation in the AP about judging patterns for the robe used in the
quadrennial Great Panathenaia procession: originally the Council had judged these
matters, but because they had shown favoritism (kataxari/zesqai), jurisdiction was
transferred to a jury court selected by lot (AP 49.3). 77 In the 350’s all eisangeliai before
the Assembly began to be held in front of a jury court instead. 78 While this last change
was due most likely to economic considerations—particularly amid the Social Wars, it
was cheaper for the Athenians to fund a day’s worth of court cases rather than an
identical penalty for both the dōroxenia and xenia procedures would have effectively created an incentive
for non-Athenians to try to bribe the jury! With the same penalty for losing a xenia trial as for being
convicted of bribing the jury in a xenia trial, nothing would have been lost, and everything could have been
gained, by at least attempting to bribe the jury. On the other hand, the punishment probably could not have
been death, for what then would have distinguished the graphē dōroxenias from the graphē dekasmou,
which already had the death penalty? Indeed, positing a different penalty is a good reason for the creation
of the graphē dōroxenias in the first place. Given the gravity of the offense, atimia in the sense of
outlawry, is our most sensible option.
77 What the AP intends here is a matter of debate. The phrase ta\ paradei/gmata kai\ to\n pe/plon
(“public works and the robe”) was emended by Blass to refer to just the peplos (ta\ paradei/gmata ei)j
to\n pe/plon); Rhodes (1981: 568-9 ad loc) follows Blass, albeit with caution. Wilamowitz (1893: 1.212-
13), on the other hand, follows the manuscripts in positing that these decisions involved public works in
general. What is important for our purposes is simply that some change was made in the fourth century,
and that the AP, at least, attributed this change to dōrodokia.
78 Hansen (1975: esp. 53-5), Rhodes (1979: 108); cf. Thalheim (1902: 351-2), Lipsius (1905-15: 1.191-
2).
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Assembly meeting—here too concerns about dōrodokia may have played a role in the
decision. 79
Perhaps our best example of a new process designed to circumvent some of the
institutional corruption thought to be plaguing the democracy in the fourth century is the
apophasis procedure for suspected acts of treason and corruption. This procedure
entailed an investigation, preliminary report and verdict by the Areopagus, followed by a
final verdict and punishment by a jury, with the prosecution led by publicly elected
prosecutors. 80 We can date its creation to the mid 340’s, exactly the same time that there
were a number of trials for judicial dōrodokia (Aeschin. 1.86) and fears that ‘traitors’
were destroying the city. To be sure, part of the impetus for the change lay in
contemporary constitutional debates, which focused on the Areopagus’ ancestral
authority as “guardian of the laws.” 81 But it is worth considering what need the Athenians
had for these debates at this particular time. Amid fears of widespread institutional
corruption, I suggest, the Athenians looked to restore the Areopagus’ authority as
‘guardian of the laws’ precisely because they believed the laws were being contravened
on a systematic basis.
The details of the apophasis procedure support this interpretation. It is telling,
after all, that unlike the preliminary judgments of officials, which simply established that
a certain case was worthy of trial before a jury, in an apophasis the Areopagus also
passed a preliminary verdict on guilt or innocence in drafting its report. It was up to the
79 Financing: Hansen (1975: 55; 1991: 159). Dōrodokia: Isocrates laments how the constitution had been
corrupted by his time (cf. diefqarme/nhj, Isoc. 7.15), and for this reason he advocates a return to the
Solonian constitution with a prominent Areopagus, but his reference might be to an imbalance of power,
not active corruption.
80 On the apophasis, see MacDowell (1978: 190-1), Wallace (1989: 113-18), Hansen (1991: 292-4), Todd
(1993: 115).
81 Carawan (1985: 138-40).
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jury to accept or reject the Areopagus’ verdict, but prosecutors were sure to point out how
just and true the Areopagus’ report must be. So, in the Harpalus Affair, prosecutors
continually referred back to the Areopagus’ verdict as their (sole) evidence that
Demosthenes and others were guilty; for them, the verdict of the Areopagus was
unimpeachable, and the dōrodokoi represented a threat to that very authority. 82
So the fourth-century legal focus on dōrodokia of large groups of citizens and of
large political bodies went hand-in-hand with the nascent political narrative depicting the
dōrodokos as a traitor. At the same time, the impetus for asserting the authority of
discrete political domains to legitimate communal norms was an old one: as we have
seen, that aspect of dōrodokia legislation was constant from the Solonian graphē dōrōn
onwards. Within the law, at least, we might say that the dōrodokos represented a
consistent threat to the way the community established value. This included a threat not
only to what was and was not in the community’s interests, but even to who in the
community was authorized to make that evaluation in the first place.
The threat of the dōrodokos at this time was considerable. He was thought
capable of corrupting an entire political body, in effect forcing the Athenians to reassert
the authority of one political body or to switch domains to another one altogether. Just as
he was traitorously positioned to overturn the democracy, the dōrodokos overturned the
very sources of political authority in the city, as well. Switching domains as the
Athenians often did in the fourth century in response to suspected corruption thus
reflected a particular conception of the dōrodokos qua a traitor to the community.
Crucially, then, underpinning institutional reform throughout the fourth century was the
82 Carawan (1985: 136-7). Note how frequently the prosecutors weigh the upstanding nature and justice of
the Areopagus’ report against the corruption and injustice of the defendants: Din. 1.45, 1.87, 2.1, 2.2, 2.6-
7, 3.7; Hyp. 5 fr.3.5-7.
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figure of the dōrodokos. At the same time as they articulated new conceptions of the
democracy through legal and institutional reforms, the Athenians created new legal
spaces for the dōrodokos. In this sense, we might say that dōrodokia was itself legislated
against in the shadows of democracy.
In tracing a gradual shift in focus from individual to institutional corruption, we
have uncovered profound questions about how these laws functioned within the broader
context of Athenian society and polity. In essence, if in this chapter we have identified
the democracy’s concern to match specific domains with the authorization of specific
political norms, then we have opened up the broader question of how the law and legal
process were used to frame, contest, and legitimate public discourse. It is to this highly
political role of the courts to which the next chapter turns. With this final piece in place,
we will at last be in a position to evaluate the role of dōrodokia in the classical Athenian
democracy.
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Athenian dōrodokia Legislation in Practice:
Civic Education, Legitimization, and the Athenian Democracy
Understanding the relationship between law and society is about much more than
mere statues or legal norms; it is about how these norms are intertwined with legal
practices, as well. Norm and practice, law in the books and the law in action, are always
in a dialectical relationship: a norm establishes a practice that is then taken to be
indicative of the norm itself and used to underpin various other practices that establish
that norm. 1 Whereas the previous chapter examined how the legal norms regulating
dōrodokia changed over time, this chapter will locate those norms within the twin
contexts of the law and political institutions in action. We are thus building on the
argument we have been developing, namely, that the Athenians articulated the hallmarks
of their democracy in opposition to the figure of the dōrodokos. Here we will see how,
within the legal space created for the dōrodokos, the Athenians devised ways to learn
about, debate, and ultimately legitimate the practice of democratic politics. Tracing this
story will help us see more clearly how Athenian laws on, and institutional changes
concerning, dōrodokia might have shaped public discourse more generally and the way
individual Athenians practiced politics, specifically.
Necessarily this kind of dialectical investigation entails moving past thinking
about the law merely as a deterrent and opens up the question of the broader effects of
dōrodokia legislation on Athenian society and polity. After all, the moment we begin to
1 For a thought-provoking look at legal regulation in ancient Athens from the perspective of a legal
anthropologist, see Comaroff (2002). The idea that legal rules are constitutive of and constituted by local
practices underpins recent cultural approaches to the law: see Silbey (1992, 2005), Sarat and Austin
(2001), Ewick and Silbey (2003), Mezey (2003). Allen (2000) fruitfully applies many of these ideas to her
study of Athenian punishment; see also Papakonstantinou (2007) on archaic Greek law.
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ask who was most affected by a legal or institutional change—and above all how they
were affected—we begin to see that, within the context of Athenian society, these legal
and institutional changes had dramatically different effects. Whereas changes in the law
primarily affected elite citizens, for they were most liable to prosecution for dōrodokia—
whether receiving or giving bribes—institutional changes, which tended to affect the
masses who served on political bodies, were not punitive. Moreover, whereas
institutional reforms focused on eliminating certain kinds of relationships—e.g. close ties
among jurors or between juror and litigant—legal regulations focused only on
eliminating certain kinds of gifts and were effectively silent on the social relationships
leveraged in politics. Understanding the purpose of such social differentiation will thus
be one key aim of this chapter.
Asking who was affected by Athenian legislation on dōrodokia and how
implicates the further question of why these particular Athenians were affected in this
particular way: in other words, we are faced with the intended role of law in society.
This chapter will focus on two related roles—what we might term law’s educational and
legitimating roles—each of which strengthened the democracy in a different way.
Changes to Athens’ political institutions and to her laws on dōrodokia aimed in part to
educate citizens by instilling within them proper democratic values and making them
aware of the prevailing political norms on dōrodokia. Yet anti-dōrodokia laws in
particular opened up a political space wherein the norms themselves could be contested
and re-established by the proper authoritative body. In this sense, dōrodokia suits in
action served as a means of legitimizing specific political outcomes, political players, and
even political practices. Certainly the law’s ability to act as a deterrent continued
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throughout the democracy, but underscoring its educational and legitimizing roles places
into focus how, even if the laws themselves were ineffective deterrents, the legal
regulation of dōrodokia, those laws in action, could nevertheless strengthen the
democracy in important ways.
One hallmark of the democracy was the elaborate sortition process by which
jurors and, later, magistrates were selected for service. 2 Originally, jurors were assigned
by lot for the full year of their jury service to a single jury panel which reported to a
particular court. 3 Probably in the late fifth century this system was changed so that each
panel was randomly assigned by an allotment machine (klērōtērion) to a court each
morning. 4 Around 380, this process was complicated yet again: the klērōtēria were used
to determine at random which jurors would be selected for jury service that morning,
before each juror then drew his court assignment at random. 5 In the second half of the
fourth century, moreover, the Athenians began to select at random the location of the
courtroom over which each magistrate would preside. 6 Similarly, around 370-362, the
selection of magistrates, too, came to employ the klērōtēria used in the allotment of
jurors to courts. Previously, for the minor magistracies, each deme had been allotted
specific offices to fill in a central lottery using clay tokens in the Theseion, and each
2 On this process, see Dow (1939), Kroll (1972), Staveley (1972: 47-57, 61ff.), MacDowell (1978: 36-40),
Rhodes (1981: 697-735), Boegehold (1984), Bers (2000), Demont (2003); cf. Taylor (2007) on the election
and sortition of magistrates. Selection by lot was later viewed as a cornerstone of the democracy: Hdt.
3.80, Aristot. Pol. 1274a5, 1294b7-9: Headlam (1933: 4-12, 19-26), Badian (1971: 9), Ober (1989: 76-
7). Whether viewed as a pro-democratic or, more likely, a pro-elite instrument used to reduce elite
competition for office by ensuring broad representation and even distribution—so Carawan (1987: 207-8)
and Demont (2003: 40)—sortition was essential for including a more diverse range of citizens in the
workings of the polity: Taylor (2007).
3 Ar. V. 242-4, 303-5, 1107-9, MacDowell (1983: 64).
4 The first mention of the klērōtērion probably dates to Aristophanes’ Geras (assigned to 410 BCE): see
Boegehold (1984: 24). The next mention of the sortition machines in our sources dates to around 391 BCE
with Aristophanes’ Ecclesiazousae (cf. klhrw/sw, Ec. 682).
5 MacDowell (1978: 36-40) provides a helpful summary of the sources and process. See further Kroll
(1939), Bers (2000).
6 Implicit from AP 63.5.
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office was then filled by a lottery process in the deme. 7 When the klērōtēria came to be
used for this selection process, the entire process was centralized, as sortition for each
office was performed in the Theseion. 8
Needless to say, the klērōtērion procedure for jury selection was considerably
more complicated than has been suggested by this cursory overview. In his Constitution
of Athens Aristotle spends four chapters—out of a total sixty-nine—describing the
allotment procedure for jurors (AP 63-6). Each juror had a personalized box-wood ticket
(pinakion) with his name, his father’s name, his deme, and a letter of the alphabet A-K
(AP 63.4). On the morning of a court day, jurors filed by tribe into one of ten holding
rooms and deposited their pinakion into a chest inscribed with a matching letter A-K on it
(AP 64.1). From there in each room an affixer was appointed at random to draw ten
pinakia, one from each chest, and affix those pinakia to the klērōtērion (AP 64.1-2). The
archon then drew lots of white and black copper dice, the white number corresponding to
the number of jurymen required. As the dice were slotted into the klērōtērion, they fell
next to pinakia affixed to the machine. If a white die fell next to a pinakion, that juror
would serve on a jury (AP 64.2-3). Each selected juror then drew from an urn an acorn
also inscribed with a letter and entered a second holding room, where he was given a
7 Demont (2003: 44) posits that a still earlier procedure—selection of magistrates using white and black
beans—was in effect for most of the fifth century. Other magistracies, like the archonship, were always
allotted by tribes. The lottery process using clay tokens is described at length in Lang (1959), Staveley
(1972: 70-2), and Whitehead (1986: 280-7), although Whitehead (1986: 286) rightly underscores that it
was a potentially (very) short-lived process.
A plausible reconstruction of the sortition process at the Theseion is as follows. Rectangular clay
allotment tokens were painted with the abbreviation of the name of a tribe on one side and then cut in half
with a jigsaw cut so that one half could be re-fitted only with its original matching half. The two halves
were then placed into different piles. For one pile, the abbreviation of a deme within that tribe was written
on the reverse of every token; for the other pile, either a blank or the abbreviation of a magistracy was
inscribed in the lower portion of the token. In this way, only the exact number of magistracies needed was
inscribed on the tokens. When the tokens were reassembled, demes were matched with either a magistracy
or nothing. On these clay tokens, see further Thompson (1951).
8 So AP 62.1. Cf. Staveley (1972: 48-51, 69-72). For the date of this change, see Kroll (1972), Whitehead
(1986: 287-90).
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colored staff that matched the color of a lintel on the doorway to the court where he
would serve; this court also had a letter matching the acorn he was given (AP 64.4-65.2).
Matching letters, randomization, colored lintels, colored wands and acorns: the purpose
of most of these changes, according to Aristotle and numerous scholars since? To
prevent corruption. 9
Some recent scholars have rightly questioned Aristotle’s judgment here, however,
by claiming that it is unlikely that dōrodokia was the sole, or even primary, motivation
for institutional change. 10 After all, it is difficult to imagine how, even in the late fifth
century, a litigant could successfully rig the system by assembling and bribing enough
jurors to secure a favorable outcome. Because jury panels were randomly assigned to
courts at the beginning of each morning, a litigant would have had to bribe a critical mass
of jurors in each panel to ensure the outcome of his trial. The only feasible way this
could have happened—and recall that, despite the implausibility of judicial bribery, the
Athenians strongly suspected that it did occur—was if the jurors, themselves, were
banding together into groups. This was a concern not so much about bribery—money
exchanged for votes—as about collusion; the relationship at issue was that between
jurors, not between some outside bribe-giver and the jury. Indeed, the other offenses
grouped together with the graphē dekasmou, like the prohibitions against conspiracy or
9 AP 64.2 (ticket-drawer chosen by lot to prevent mischief), 64.4 (drawing of acorns prevents packing of
jury panels), 65.1 (colored sticks and lintels prevent juror from purposely going into the wrong jury court),
66.2 (men chosen by lot to work the water clock to prevent dishonest arrangements), cf. AP 66.1 (archons
assigned to courts by lot to prevent prior knowledge of assignment). Cf. Eubulus fr. 74 K on the sale of
jury allotments. AP is followed in the main by Staveley (1972: 61ff.), MacDowell (1973: 35-40), Rhodes
(1981: ad loc), Todd (1993: 87).
10 Taylor (2007), Bers (2000). In particular, as Bers (2000) points out, if the sole purpose was to prevent
corruption, the Athenians could have achieved that goal with a less complex, less timely process. For the
allotment of magistrates, too, Whitehead (1986: 290) notes that AP’s attribution of the change to fears of
corruption “may be open to doubt.”
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forming a political faction to overthrow the democracy, point in the direction that a
concerted group of political agents was helping to corrupt the judicial process. 11
On this view, as judicial outcomes like Anytus’ trial in 409 ran counter to the
dēmos’ expectations, they were blamed on a kind of dōrodokia that signaled a
problematic relationship to the community. As with other accusations of dōrodokia, I
would add, what was troubling was the idea that single individuals could have
relationships with such far-reaching influence; the media used to negotiate those
relationships—whether drachmas, favors, or other—was thus incidental.
The Athenians’ response was twofold: first, to atomize jurors so that they could
not self-assemble into large voting blocks; and then to ritualize the allotment process
through an increasingly complex series of steps in order to remind jurors of the very
authority they held as dikasts. Note how the sortition process first broke up jurors by
tribe, then by letter groups, precisely the two categories that previously would have been
most easily exploited for collusion. Then, after atomizing jurors, the process transformed
them from citizens into jurors. Like other rituals in the Athenian polis, civic and
otherwise, one purpose of transforming the citizens into this civic category of jurors was
to foster a new solidarity among participants qua dicasts, one thus drawn along public not
private lines. 12
As more steps of the allotment procedure became randomized, they also became
invested with greater social significance, creating greater separation between ordinary
11 See discussion above, Chapter Six.
12 Connor (1987) and Osborne (1994) on, respectively, religious and civic rituals in the democracy. Bers
(2000) also underscores the ritual aspects of the sortition process, but ultimately claims that the process was
meant to assuage non-jurors of the number and probity of jurors selected (2000: esp. 557-8). By contrast, I
would point to the very real significance that the ritual could have for the participating jurors, themselves.
A similar process of identity (trans)formation can be found in the swearing of the dicastic oath, on which
see Chapter Six above.
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citizen and authoritative juror: hence the involvement of more jurors in executing the
selection process, or the use of more props (pinakia, colored staffs) to dramatize the
jurors’ roles. The implementation of the lot at each step of the way may very well have
been a reminder of the profoundly religious character of the jurors’ office, as signaled by
the oath of the heliasts sworn by all potential jurors each year. 13 Inasmuch as the new,
more complicated allotment process was a kind of civic ritual, it is perhaps unsurprising
that the Athenians soon extended it to the selection of magistrates, as well.
The changes to the jury allotment procedures thus may have been geared more
towards both preventing jurors from self-assembling into blocks of voters and inculcating
a sense of civic identity than from preventing an external agent from bribing a jury en
masse. The difference is crucial. While the Athenians turned to the law to regulate how
an outsider could interface with a political body like a jury, they left the regulation of
jurors’ behavior to informal means like the heliastic oath or the process of allotment. No
doubt this distinction was partly necessary if the Athenians were to maintain secret ballot
voting in court cases. But one significant sociological consequence of these policies was
that elites would have been disproportionately punished in courts of law—whether for
giving or taking bribes—whereas the masses who sat on juries would have been
controlled through non-punitive measures. 14
What seems at first glance to have been an elaborate system set up to prevent
corruption appears, on closer examination, to have served a very different purpose,
indeed. What I suggest is that in both cases the desire to locate jurors or magistrates
13 So Bers (2000: 558-9) helpfully carves a middle path through the ‘religious’ and ‘secular’ interpretations
of the lot, on which see, for example, Headlam (1933: 4-17), Demont (2003: 39-50).
14 On the social composition of juries, see Markle (1985). Taylor (2007) convincingly shows that
magistrates selected by lot were more likely to be drawn from a broader socio-economic and geographical
range than those elected.
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within an explicitly political space—one stripped of the content of personal relations and
imbued instead with civic meaning and identity—led the Athenians to devise an
increasingly elaborate selection procedure. This procedure amounted to nothing less than
a civic ritual that simultaneously removed jurors from their social relations qua neighbors
or philoi from the same tribe and promoted a common civic identity qua jurors or public
officials. It focused on the relationships, not the dōra, in dōrodokia. Perhaps as a result,
it performed less of a regulatory and more of an educational role. As with the swearing
of the heliastic oath, the use of the lot throughout the ritual signaled the sanctity of the
position the jurors and officials took on. 15 The ritual itself educated its participants in the
very ways in which they should perform their duties: participation of all, with
impartiality, for the benefit of the community, with added honor for oneself.
Whereas legal regulations might be viewed as punitive measures meant to correct
a wrong, the institutional changes made to the jury and magistrate allotment procedures
signaled a desire to educate participants in how to perform a public role—that is, they
focused on preventing the wrong from happening in the first place. To that extent we
might helpfully connect this educative function with the prevailing conception of the
dōrodokos at the time of the bulk of these changes: he was a thief, an insider looking to
become an outsider, but who might nevertheless be reintegrated into the community as an
insider. Again, if the Athenians were concerned about dōrodokia in the selection of
jurors or magistrates, they were focused more on these figures’ relation to the community
rather than, specifically, on the dōra they might receive. In order to mend that
relationship to the community, the Athenians used civic rituals to foster a more civic-
oriented character.
15 Cf. Headlam (1933: 4-12), Bers (2000: 558-9), Demont (2003: 50-51).
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Mass Education, Elite exempla, and the Legitimation of Political Norms in the Courts:
It was noted above that the elaborate sortition of jurors and magistrates would
have affected primarily the masses, while it was primarily elite citizens who would have
been prosecuted for dōrodokia of whatever type. In other words, it would have been
mainly the masses who were so ‘educated’ by the sortition procedures in the fourth
century, whereas elites would have been punished by the law. Did legal regulation of
elite behavior through Athenian laws on dōrodokia have any such educative function? In
this section, I will argue that it did, but not as a means of educating someone who had
already taken bribes; rather, much like the institutional changes outlined above, the law in
action was intended to educate the citizenry as a whole. As we have traced with
changing conceptions of the dōrodokos, elites were held up as negative exempla for how
citizens should behave. In this way, we should think of the law in action as a valuable
site of civic education at Athens; particularly when it came to dōrodokia, it opened up a
unique political space for legitimizing fundamental political norms.
One as yet unanswered question in our investigation of Athenian bribery is whose
definition of bribery prevailed, and by what process did that definition become
legitimate? This was a question of vital importance to the democracy. When a general
was on campaign, if he effected some unacceptable outcome, the dēmos needed to signal
the illegitimacy of that outcome, but how? There was precious little time in Assembly
meetings, and the circulation of gossip was an unreliable means of signaling the
legitimacy of public actions. 16 As this section will argue, the Athenians’ solution was to
create a legal space wherein an outcome—or politician, or political process—could itself
16 On gossip in Athens, see Hunter (1990).
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stand trial; that is, the Athenians created a legal space for articulating political legitimacy.
This space was a trial for dōrodokia, and it was at just such a trial that competing
definitions of dōrodokia, hence competing understandings of what constituted legitimate,
democratic action, might be contested.
Adriaan Lanni has recently argued that the courts at Athens were used to enforce
informal norms generally rather than to uphold formal, legal statutes specifically. 17
Indeed, there are good historical reasons for adopting her view. Without a police force or
public prosecutors, prosecution—like the enforcement of a penalty—was left largely to
private initiative, whether by the victim in a private suit or by ‘whoever was willing’ in a
public suit. 18 As a result, with no legal experts—no professional lawmakers, judges, or
lawyers—the Athenians never imagined that the language of ‘the law’ was in any way
autonomous from society. 19 The jury, composed of hundreds, sometimes thousands, of
citizens who may or may not have been familiar with a given law, learned the ‘relevant’
law only if one of the litigants chose to have it read aloud. Even then, the content of laws
was not granted any privileged authority within the courts, as statutes were treated just
like any other source of communal norms, including poetry, public decrees, or general
platitudes about good or bad behavior. 20 When jurors cast their votes, they did so
immediately after the litigants’ speeches, without consulting among themselves, and
without any instruction from a legal expert, often without any instruction about the law.
17
Lanni (2006, forthcoming). See also Cohen (1991, 1995), Johnstone (1999), Allen (2000: 176-83).
18
Hunter (1994), Lanni (forthcoming: 2).
19
Carey (1994), contra Johnstone (1999); Todd (2000b).
20
For the significance of this, see Mirhady (1990), Allen (2000: 174-6), Lanni (2006, forthcoming). Note
how Aristotle claims that a speaker’s ethos was more important than almost anything else in a speech
(Rhet. 1356a).
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When a defendant was brought to court, therefore, he was tried according to
whatever legal and extra-legal norms his opponent thought relevant. Note how this
means that his guilt or innocence in a court of law need not have hinged on whether he
had violated the particular legal statute under which he had been prosecuted. Frequently,
in fact, litigants made no mention of the ‘relevant’ law, and with one exception—to
which we will return momentarily—there was little effort to establish that the defendant
had committed an offense, as defined by the law in question. 21 Whereas the ‘rule of law’
would consistently and predictably enforce legal norms, the Athenian preference for
discretionary justice enforced formal and informal norms only irregularly.
Lanni’s view helpfully illuminates how the relationship between law and
legitimacy at Athens was not straightforward: even within the courts, there were multiple
sources of legitimacy—legal norms as well as communal norms, evidenced by statutes,
decrees, poetry, gossip, history, and sometimes even past trials—none necessarily more
authoritative than any other. In this way, jurors and litigants, alike, relied on multiple
sets of previously established norms by which to judge actions. These norms sometimes
conflicted, however, and were not always clearly defined. Again, this is understandable
in a context in which there were no legal experts, and there was no real concept of ‘legal
language’. Uncertainty over what, precisely, constituted bribery (“harm to the people”)
could have had the advantage of making citizens err on the side of safety; as a whole,
then, the destabilizing effect of vague statutes could have reduced the incidence of
bribery, as Lanni’s view suggests.
21 Christ (1998: 193-224). So Arist. Rhet. 1373b-1374a comments that it was up to litigants to define
clearly the nature of the wrongdoing, with or without reference to any legal statute.
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Given the difficulties of measuring the prevalence of bribery in any polity, let
alone in a historical society like Athens, it is ultimately impossible to assess the accuracy
of Lanni’s claim with respect to bribery in particular. There are, however, good reasons
to think that at least with dōrodokia the enforcement of norms in the courts played out a
bit differently than Lanni’s picture suggests. With dōrodokia, the Athenians used the
courts, I argue, not simply to leverage already legitimate norms, as Lanni proposes, but
especially to define which competing norms regarding dōrodokia should be legitimate.
The Athenians effectively shifted the problem of definition we encountered above: it was
up to an individual to define the offense, not according to some strict legal definition, but
according to broader community norms. 22 More often than not, litigants on both sides of
a trial thereby defined dōrodokia as a kind of harm to the people: prosecutors would
claim that the outcomes tied to the receipt of gifts had been detrimental to the city, while
defendants would claim that their actions had in fact benefited, not harmed, the
community. 23
In the case of dōrodokia, therefore, litigants offered their own conception of what
constituted “harm to the people,” and a jury of hundreds of citizens—with potentially
hundreds more looking on 24 —would cast their vote, effectively in favor of one definition
over another. This was not a contest between two equally legitimate norms, but a
22 It should be noted that dōrodokia may not have been the only offense for which this would have been
true: hubris (~arrogance) and likely asēbeia (impiety) also were not strictly defined in law. See further
Ostwald (1986: 528-36), Bauman (1990: 105-27), Carey (1994: 179), Cohen (1995: 143-62), Todd
(2000a). With these offenses, too, it is possible that the lack of a legal definition intentionally fostered
contestation of the norm itself.
23 Both Cimon (ad Plut. Cim. 14.3) and the unnamed magistrate in Lysias 21 defend themselves on the
grounds that they had benefited the polis. The juxtaposition of harm and benefit is particularly pronounced
in Aeschines’ and Demosthenes’ mutual accusations of dōrodokia. Demosthenes, for example, proclaims
how his opponent’s harmful actions were due to dōrodokia, while his own actions were both beneficial and
unrelated to bribes: cf. Dem. 19.15-16, 18, 33, 45-6, 150-2 with 155 and 157, 205-8, 211-12, 223, 229-30.
24 Lanni (1997) on the bystanders at Athenian trials. Likewise, audience members, whether bystanders or
jury members, might create a roar (thorubos) of approval or disapproval: Bers (1985).
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contestation of which definition of a norm should become legitimate. Here, in the case of
anti-bribery legislation, the Athenians appear to have actively used the courts as a locus
for creating and contesting the legitimacy of certain public norms. It should be noted
that, if what constituted dōrodokia was contested by individuals and was decided
ultimately by the people, not by the law per se, any legal definition of dōrodokia need not
have acted as a deterrent.
Two features of the Athenian laws on dōrodokia support this interpretation: as
the previous chapter traced, the legal history of dōrodokia entailed both a legal
redefinition of dōrodokia and frequent changes in which judicial body would hear
dōrodokia cases. Around the end of the fifth century, the original law against bribery
was changed from “If someone is bribed…” to “If someone gives or receives…to the
harm of the people…”; similar wording can be found in other anti-bribery legislation that
was created around the same time. Such a modification to the original law seems to have
incorporated a generally accepted, albeit still quite vague, definition of dōrodokia. Prior
to this re-definition, Athenians frequently defined dōrodokia in roughly similar terms as a
general ‘bad’ to the community 25 ; remarkably, after this legal redefinition, in the fourth
century it was defined by litigants not as a general ‘bad’ but specifically as a ‘harm’. 26
This is the only example in all of Athenian law in which there is a strong correlation
25
So, in Sophocles’ Antigone money is said to re-teach the minds of good men so that they take to
“shameful” deeds (ai0sxra/, 299); in this respect, it is a “bad” institution (kako/n, 296). Similarly, the
Rhodian poet Timocrates twice lambastes Themistocles for being ‘unjust’ in having taken bribes to break
his promise to restore the poet: Plut. Them. 21.1-3. When Callias was (perhaps?) condemned for bribery at
a euthyna after serving as an ambassador, he was condemned purportedly for being “hateful and not useful”
to the polis (e)xqro\n…kai\ a)lusitele/j th| = po/lei, Dem. 19.275).
26
This argument is partial, at best, for we simply do not have enough forensic evidence prior to the
adoption of the law, and afterwards we have primarily only forensic evidence.
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between how litigants and the law defined an offense. 27 The redrafting of the original
law against dōrodokia thus had the crucial effect of focusing litigants’ attention on what,
precisely, constituted ‘harm against the people’; the norm itself was under trial.
Why would dōrodokia legislation be an exception? It is certainly possible that
this was an unintended, even unforeseeable, effect of the new anti-bribery legislation
towards the end of the fifth century—we have no contemporary evidence either way
about the discussions that went into anti-bribery legislation, so certainty is impossible.
Recall, though, that especially for the Athenians accusations of bribery were always
already claims about polity. It would make sense for a litigant to rely on the wording of a
law precisely because what constituted dōrodokia was a matter that could be defined only
by the community as a whole. In this light, because of the peculiarly political nature of
dōrodokia, the law—i.e. the dēmos’ benchmark for how to define dōrodokia—played an
unusually authoritative role in forensic debates.
Moreover, the legislative motivation I am positing here accords well with another
curious feature of Athenian anti-bribery legislation: the wide range of institutional
settings in which trials could be held, what we termed domains of authority in the last
chapter. For any given offense in Athenian law there were often multiple legal
procedures, each with its own distinct incentives and legal penalties (for both prosecutor
and defendant)—presumably to give prosecutors the greatest flexibility in choosing
whether or not to prosecute. Most of these options, however, did not change the venue of
the trial. Whereas most offenses had at most two different venues for prosecution, at one
point or another dōrodokia trials were heard by at least four different institutional bodies:
27 Contra Todd (2000a), who maintains that there was never any such marked legal language at Athens; cf.
Johnstone (1999).
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a public jury, the Assembly, the Areopagus Council, and the Assembly with preliminary
investigation and verdict by the Areopagus. 28 For three of these four venues the relevant
law came to specify that dōrodokia entailed ‘harm’ to the people. 29
The wide range of venues for bribery trials suggests more than mere ‘flexibility’;
indeed, it seems that the Athenians were keen to match dōrodokia to the ‘right’ judicial
venue, the right domain of authoritative expertise. So, as we saw in the previous two
chapters, in the archaic period prior to the democracy, when dōrodokia was viewed as a
kind of moral pollution to the community, a public suit for taking bribes (graphē dōrōn)
was created, and all such suits were tried before the Areopagus Council, the most
hallowed body in Athens. By the start of the democracy, however, the people as a whole
began to regulate what did and did not constitute bribery, first through a series of public
curses and oaths and then through formal trials, as around 462/1 the jurisdiction over
bribery trials was transferred from the Areopagus to jury courts and the Assembly. As
the next section will detail, part of the motivation behind this shift was that the
28
Recall that public trials (graphai) presided over by the thesmothetai were held for those prosecuted for
the general offense of bribery (graphē dōrōn), bribing a judicial body (graphē dekasmou), or taking bribes
while a public prosecutor or witness (synēgoros), and probably bribing the jury in a citizenship trial
(graphē dōroxenias). Trials for outgoing magistrates (euthynai) accused of bribery were presided over by
the financial examiners (logistai), while impeachment of public officials still in office (eisangelia) and
public speakers (rhētores) came before the Assembly. Finally, in the early part of the democracy, the trials
of magistrates were heard by the Areopagus court (euthyna or eisangelia). From the 340’s on, a new
procedure in which the Areopagus performed an investigation (apophasis) and gave their verdict prior to a
trial before the Assembly was created for bribery trials.
29
On changes to the original law against dōrodokia, including the redefinition as “harm to the dēmos or on
of the citizens” (e0pi\ bla/bh| tou~ dh/mou h@ tino\j tw=n politw~n, Dem. 21.113), see above p. 125; the
graphē dekasmou also makes explicit reference to the original law against bribery (cf. e)pi\ dwrodoki/a|
xrh/mata didou/j, [Dem.] 46.26). Eisangelia: rhētores could be prosecuted for “taking gifts and speaking
against the interests of the Athenian dēmos” (mh\ le/gh| ta\ a)/rista tw= | dh/mw| tw= | 0Aqhnai/wn xrh/mata
lamba/nwn, Hyp. 4.8). Apophasis: When the Areopagus conducted an apophasis in the Harpalus Affair, its
charge was probably to determine whether or not the indicted officials had taken gifts “against the country”
(kata\ th=j patri/doj), as this phrase recurs throughout the speeches of prosecutors: e.g. Din. 1.13, 1.26,
1.60, 1.64, 1.67, 2.6, 3.18, 3.22; cf. 1.3, 1.99, 2.26; Hyp. 5.21, 5.38. Even then, the only exception to this
rule is the prosecution of magistrates before the Areopagus, but this grew out of the archaic period prior to
the re-drafting of the original law against dōrodokia and was, in any case, later re-defined to include
‘harm’.
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Areopagus’ judgments in bribery trials were no longer deemed authoritative and hence
legitimate by the people; shifting domains thus allowed those who ‘should’ be the
authoritative judge of what constituted dōrodokia—the people—to judge the trials.
Throughout much of the rest of the democracy, dōrodokia fell under the authoritative
domain of the courts.
By contrast, public speakers and military generals, the most important political
figures, were brought under the domain of the Assembly through an eisangelia process.
This makes sense when we consider how intimately connected these figures were to
public policy: whereas juries might be kurios to judge the conduct of either figure after
the fact, only the dēmos as a whole had the authority to assess if their actions constituted
an immediate danger and thereby warranted an eisangelia. Finally, towards the end of
the democracy in the 340’s, as certain decisions made in the Assembly or the courts were
viewed with suspicion, the Areopagus’ reputation as the ancient ‘guardian of the laws’
made it an ideal authority for passing preliminary verdicts (apophasis) in dōrodokia trials
before the Assembly. 30
What I am proposing, therefore, is that part of the motivation behind Athenian
anti-bribery legislation was to use various judicial bodies to legitimate competing visions
of what ‘dōrodokia’ was—and, by implication, what ‘good governance’ was. The law
itself provided at best a heuristic for thinking about dōrodokia, and notably this heuristic
was closely followed by litigants in dōrodokia suits. If anything, the law’s vague
wording would have encouraged more, not fewer, prosecutions, as litigants would look to
30 Ultimately, these notions were part of a larger political debate about what the ‘ancestral constitution’
(patrios politeia) was. A return to the ancestral constitution, including restoring to the Areopagus some of
the powers Ephialtes had stripped from it, was viewed as a way to make Athens more democratic: see
Ruschenbusch (1958), Witte (1995).
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the law and see that the prevailing norm was, merely, a general ‘harm’ to the people. As
a result, bribery trials became a popular means of contesting the legitimacy of political
outcomes: practically any bad political outcome could be considered a ‘harm’ and was,
accordingly, blamed on dōrodokia. 31 With each trial, the appropriate body, with
authority within that particular domain, would signal whether or not an outcome should
be deemed a ‘harm’ or a benefit to the community; indeed, it would decide between two
competing ideas of how that ‘harm’ or benefit should be defined.
Take, for instance, the series of late-fifth-century accountability measures
designed to ensure that public speakers would not simply follow the money or pander to
the masses. With both the graphē paranomōn and the creation of an eisangelia for
prosecuting rhētores, public speakers would be held accountable for the laws, decrees,
and proposals they recommended. The graphē paranomōn, or public suit against
‘unconstitutional’ proposals, was used against any speaker who had proposed a law or
decree that conflicted with other laws or decrees. 32 In the fourth century, it was used
frequently, and often the basis for prosecuting a public speaker was that his proposal had
been against the city’s interests. 33 The penalty was a sometimes considerable fine, and
disfranchisement if convicted three times. Similarly, an eisangelia, as explored in
31 A point nicely brought out by Harvey (1985: 112-13). Hyperides 4.3 makes a similar claim about how
in his day the impeachment law (nomos eisangeltikos) was being abused to enable prosecutions for trivial
offenses, like hiring out flute-girls at a price higher than that fixed by law, that had nothing to do with the
impeachment law itself.
32 In 403/2, the distinction between nomoi (laws) and psēphismata (public decrees, which were ad hoc
measures) became formalized with different processes for enacting each: Hansen (1983: 161-76). At this
point, the Athenians created a graphē nomon mē epitēdeion theinai (public suit for enacting an inexpedient
nomos) to deal with unconstitutional laws, while the graphē paranomōn continued to be used for
unconstitutional decrees.
33 E.g. Dem. 22.35-78, 23.100-214; Aeschin. 3.49-200. Wolff (1970: 45-67). As catalogued in Hansen
(1974), we have at least 35 attested examples of the graphē paranomōn dating to the second half of the
democracy (403-322 BCE), from which Hansen (1991: 208-9) plausibly extrapolates that the “vast
majority” of Athenian political leaders would have been prosecuted under the graphē at one point or
another in their career.
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Chapter Six, was used against rhētores who had spoken against the best interests of the
dēmos after having taken money. 34 The penalty was variable, but could be an
extraordinary fine or, most often, death.
Essentially, these measures laid out the parameters within which rhētores could
operate: they could gather inspiration for their proposals from any source, and they could
even receive money in exchange for speaking, but they could never speak against the
interests of the people. Within the context of the purportedly grave danger posed by the
New Politicians, these reforms are revealing. In the first place, they clearly illuminate the
legitimacy of this new style, including paying for a public speaker’s services, for in both
cases it was the content—not the source—of the public speech that mattered. Referring
the matter to a court was simply another way to determine whether or not the proposal
was, or should be, publicly legitimate. Rather than ban outright or limit pay for public
proposals, the law allowed public speakers to continue being political entrepreneurs like
Cleon and the like. Wherever they could find new sources or ideas for public policies, so
much the better, provided the policies themselves were ‘democratic’.
Moreover, these laws opened up the courts as an alternative venue to assess and
legitimate policies and policymakers alike. Even if a particular proposal had been passed
in the Assembly, prosecuting a rhētor for proposing it was a way to make the policy less
legitimate. Again, with the eisangelia against the taking of bribes by rhētores, the law
provided merely a guide to the grounds on which someone should be prosecuted.
Ultimately, it was the norm itself—whether or not a particular policy should be
considered legitimate—that was under trial.
34 Hyp. 4.7-8 gives the text of the law. See further discussion in Hansen (1975), Todd (1993: 114-15) and
Chapter Six. Hansen (1975) lists 17 different examples of eisangelia used against a rhētor.
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Already we can begin to see how in Athens, thinking of bribery as politics, albeit
a ‘bad’ political outcome or process, went hand-in-hand with creating a formal space
within the courts to discuss and legitimate which outcomes were ‘good’, which were
‘bad’, and by what criteria those assessments should be made. Even with the specific
legal definition of dōrodokia as a kind of ‘harm’, we should keep in mind the possibility
that this redefinition may have been added not so much as a deterrent to dōrodokia, but as
a public guide to how the Athenians should conceptualize dōrodokia. What I suggest is
that the law here played both a deliberative and an educational role within the polity:
deliberative because the legal redefinition of dōrodokia fostered deliberation among
litigants and jurors over what constituted dōrodokia; educational because it then
broadcast that definition to the public at dōrodokia trials.
The formal political space we have been uncovering, a space opened up within
and by the law, could have been invaluable within a constantly changing polity like
Athens’. Because of this space, political values could be consistently wed to law
enforcement even as new ways of practicing politics developed and as popular ideas
about the legitimate or ideal practice of politics were in constant flux. Assuming a
handful of high profile bribery trials per year—that is, a consistent handful of instances in
which a broad cross-section of the people could legitimate which political outcomes were
beneficial, which were harmful to the city—bribery trials could have provided a novel
supplement to the deliberative institutions of the democracy. 35 To discuss bribery at a
trial was to discuss democracy, as we have seen, and accusations of bribery became in
35 Based on the above estimate that 5% of major public officials—stratēgoi, rhētores, and ambassadors—
were prosecuted for dōrodokia: see the Introduction. I argued there that this was a conservative estimate; a
more accurate assessment might be closer to 10%, which would be around 3 trials per year.
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this manner the prime vehicle for signaling disapproval of public policies or political
outcomes.
Simply by considering the results of frequent dōrodokia trials—some of which
were publicized, others of which doubtless circulated around through informal
channels—an Athenian could quickly gather a rough approximation of which emergent
political practices were gaining legitimacy, which were consistently considered
illegitimate. Considerations like these are often overlooked when bribery is treated as a
cancer—an undesirable practice that is inherently foreign to the aims of politics and one
that must be contained—yet readily appear as vital concerns if we think of bribery as a
subset of politics. Thus, the Athenians may not have been effective in containing the
‘cancer’ of bribery, but they were unusually effective at leveraging accusations (and the
practice) of dōrodokia for the greater good.
Indeed, the next section will take up one case-study to explore this claim in more
depth. As evinced by an examination of how the Athenians first instituted public
accountability, the idea of ‘contesting the norm’, raised above in consideration of how
dōrodokia was prosecuted in Athenian courts, spilled over into other Athenian
deliberative institutions. ‘Bribery’ functioned like a paradigmatic anti-type, a metaphor
used for thinking through which kinds of political processes were ‘democratic’, which
were ‘undemocratic’. By making an accusation of bribery at a bribery trial, an Athenian
implicitly offered a contrasting view of what constituted the legitimate practice of
democratic politics, and this view both reflected and shaped political discourse within
deliberative institutions. ‘Undemocratic’ political practices, by contrast, were labeled as
bribery and were thus delegitimized by court decisions and, subsequently, public action.
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Athenian Laws against dōrodokia in Action: Deliberative Politics and the dōrodokos
One central hallmark of the Athenian democracy, public accountability, arose in
response to purported dōrodokia. Ephialtes’ reforms of 462/1, already encountered
briefly above, were connected to the infamous acquittal of Cimon. As we saw in Chapter
Two, Cimon was prosecuted for dōrodokia at a euthyna after he had failed to take
Macedon, even though it appears that he had never been charged to do so (Plut. Cim.
14.2-3). As our sources describe it, Cimon’s trial seems like just another prosecution of a
top official on the charge of dōrodokia: the general was eventually acquitted by the
Areopagus, and he was subsequently elected stratēgos again. End of story.
What is crucial for our purposes is what happened after Cimon’s trial. Though
apparently convicted by the Assembly, Cimon was acquitted by the Areopagus, and
corruption was immediately suspected. Ephialtes subsequently prosecuted members of
the court where Cimon had been tried for “doing injustice to the people” (tw=n to\n
dh=mon a)dikou/ntwn, Plut. Per. 10.8, cf. AP 25.2-4). 36 We do not know the substance of
this charge, but it is more than likely that a form of illicit influence—bribery is a main
suspect here—was assumed. After all, in an alternate tradition one of the public
prosecutors, a young Pericles, was publicly rumored to have gone soft in his prosecution
of Cimon after Cimon’s sister had unsuccessfully tried to seduce him. 37 The
36 Ephialtes’ “public reputation for being adōrodokētos and just with respect to his politicking” is telling
(dokw=n kai\ a)dwrodo/khtoj ei]nai kai\ di/kaioj pro\j th\n politei/an, AP 25.1).
37 Plut. Cim. 14.4, Per. 10.5. The story sounds apocryphal, but it reveals the need to explain Pericles’
unexpectedly soft behavior towards Cimon at his trial. Both the supposition of bribery and the story of
Elpinice explain a bad outcome with reference to a close relationship and potential personal gain. Cf.
Carawan (1987: 204, 205-6n.58), Rubinstein (2000: 208). Connor (1971: 58-64) provides background on
Pericles and Cimon’s friendship. According to sources unnamed by Plutarch (Per. 10.4), earlier Cimon and
Pericles had entered into a secret pact whereby Cimon could be recalled to the city only if he agreed to
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unacceptable acquittal of Cimon was thus attributed to corruption generally, and probably
bribery specifically. 38 When Cimon left the city again on campaign, Ephialtes quickly
moved to change the procedures for accountability so that public officials would be held
accountable to the people: the fear of bribery enabled true democratic accountability at
Athens. 39
The backdrop for Cimon’s trial and the prosecutions it enjoined was one of class
conflict, according to our sources. The Areopagus Council and its predominantly elite
membership had increasingly been viewed as a source of elite conservatism; even if the
political body was not an instrument of class warfare, the rhetoric of pro- vs. anti-
democratic views was likely employed heavily. 40 In other words, precisely because it
was a dōrodokia suit, debate at the trial would have boiled down to what ‘democratic’
results should look like. 41 The Areopagus’ place within the democracy could have
consequently been deemed corrupt and undemocratic. A bribery trial like that of
Cimon—himself aligned with the more elite interests in the city—or those of the
handle external affairs while Pericles would be given control of the city. That this rumor even existed is a
good indication that at least some Athenians were concerned about the pair’s relationship.
38 Based on Plutarch’s wording of ‘doing injustice (adikountōn) to the people’, the only other plausible
legal process used was a public denunciation for ‘maladministration’ (graphē adikou): cf. AP 54.2. This
obscure process later came under the purview of the Council (AP 54.2) and is otherwise first attested in the
430’s when Pericles was prosecuted whether for bribery, embezzlement, or adikion (Plu. Per. 32.2). It is
unclear, however, what kind of financial crime beyond bribery could have been committed by the
Areopagites here.
39 Note how Aristotle suggests the same institutional change as a remedy for corruption among the Spartan
gerontes: Aristot. Pol. 1271a3-6. After Ephialtes’ reforms, the Areopagus no longer had the right to
initiate and conduct the euthynai of magistrates. Instead, each year ten members of the Council of 500
were designated as euthynoi in charge of lodging indictments as needed against public officials at the end
of their term. Cases of treason could still be heard by the Assembly, but Ephialtes surely transferred
jurisdiction over euthynai and all other cases of maladministration from the Areopagus to the Council of
500 and the newly created popular courts.
40 Cf. Wilamowitz (1893: 2.94). So, Plutarch records intonations of class conflict: Ephialtes was
“terrifying to the oligarchs [i.e. the elites] and inexorable in his pursuit of euthynai and prosecutions of
those who had done the dēmos injustice” (tw=n to\n dh=mon a)dikou/ntwn, Plut. Per. 10.8, cf. AP 25.4);
similar language is found in Aesch. Eum. 690-2.
41 I suggest that this pro- vs. anti-democratic rhetorical positioning could have been misread later and
assigned new meaning amid the patrios politeia debates of the late fifth century. Note how Plutarch frames
this as a debate between democracy and aristocracy, not oligarchy in particular: Plut. Cim. 15.2-3.
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Areopagites would have lent itself well towards legitimizing the people’s view that the
Areopagus simply was not producing ‘democratic’ outcomes. As it turns out, the very
process by which public officials would be held accountable seemed, itself, to be on trial.
Concerns about judicial corruption seem to have surrounded Cimon’s trial from
the outset. Cimon was not prosecuted according to the regular process of accountability
(euthyna), in which the Areopagus or any willing citizen indicted a public official before
the Areopagus. Instead, Cimon’s trial was hand-tailored to the occasion: essentially, a
modified probolē process, in which the Assembly gave a preliminary hearing and non-
binding verdict before the final hearing before the Areopagus. 42 As in a probolē process,
the trial was initiated by a proposal approved at the Assembly, rather than by the
Areopagus or by some willing citizen; moreover, unlike the probolē process, Cimon’s
trial featured public prosecutors directly appointed by the people. 43 Although some of
these procedural details might simply have been conflated in later accounts of the trial, it
is possible that the people strategically employed a probolē-like process to ensure that
Cimon would actually go to trial and, we might surmise, be convicted. 44 After all, Cimon
normally should have been prosecuted by the Areopagus, whether on its own accord or
42 Probolē was normally employed for prosecuting someone who had deceived the dēmos. For Cimon’s
trial, Carawan (1987: 202-5) assumes a straightforward probole was employed, yet the additional use of
public prosecutors should not be understated. In this respect, it would be unsurprising to find that AP calls
the process a euthyna (ta\j eu)qu/naj, AP 27.1), while Plutarch refers to it as a probolē (Per. 10.6): cf.
Roberts (1982: 56). I can make no sense of Bauman’s (1990: 28-31) assumption that ‘aggravated
bribery’, and hence treason, was the charge; the Athenians had no concept of ‘aggravated’ corruption, and
treason is mentioned in none of our sources. On probolē generally, see Carawan (1987: 179-81),
MacDowell (1990: 13-17); for Cimon’s trial, Roberts (1982: 55-7), Ostwald (1986: 40-2).
43 Initiated by the dēmos: Plut. Per. 10.5, Cim. 14.5. Pericles and nine other citizens were appointed to
prosecute Cimon: Plut. Per. 10.6. Preliminary hearing in the Assembly: Plut. Per. 10.5, Cim. 14.3.
44 Given the lack of securely attested probolē trials prior to Cimon’s, and given the fourth-century
preponderance of labeling as probolē the initiation of judicial proceedings by popular vote in the
Assembly—e.g. Xen. Hell. 1.7.35; Isoc. 15.313-14; Dem. 21.1-2, 8-11; AP 43.5—it is uncertain to what
extent the process and terminology recorded reflect contemporary fifth-century usage. Even so, my
argument is concerned more with the use than with the specific mechanics of Cimon’s legal process; in this
sense, the clear desire for the dēmos to initiate and control the proceedings is unquestionable.
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after having assessed an indictment brought by any willing citizen. Likely, when it
became clear that the Areopagus would not lodge an indictment, the people stepped in to
ensure collectively that Cimon would be brought to trial by conducting all initial
proceedings on their own, as in a probolē process. 45 The form of Cimon’s trial was thus
highly unusual, designed as if the people were intent on ensuring that the ‘correct’ result
(a conviction) would be reached.
Of course, even despite this exceptional process, Cimon was acquitted by the
Areopagus. As noted above, Ephialtes responded by prosecuting a number of members
of the Areopagus most likely on a charge of dōrodokia, and these trials played a crucial
mediating role between an unacceptable political outcome (Cimon’s acquittal) and
subsequent political innovation (Ephialtes’ reforms). We know regrettably little about
this series of trials, but our sources clearly understood them in tandem with Ephialtes’
legislative reforms: more than mere retributive measures, they were especially public
ways of signaling the illegitimacy of accountability before the Areopagus. 46 Indeed,
Plutarch records that Ephialtes had prosecuted those who had “done injustice to the
dēmos” (tw=n to\n dh=mon a)dikou/ntwn, Plut. Per. 10.8), a phrase that resonates well with
the then incipient slogan of dēmokratia. 47 If Cimon’s trial was, in a sense, ‘about’ control
over the monies of empire, as we saw in Chapter Two, then Ephialtes’ subsequent
prosecution of Areopagites hinged on who should have control over the judicial process.
45 Cf. Carawan (1987: 179). At least by the 420’s the Athenians were certainly concerned that euthynoi,
like those in the Areopagus, might fail to prosecute an offender. So, IG ii² 127.18-20 records an explicit
punishment for euthynoi who failed in this respect. Carawan (1987: 188) suggests that this was an archaic
penalty. If he is correct, then this archaic law becomes early evidence of precisely the kind of abuse of
authority I am positing was feared in Cimon’s trial.
46 Both are posited by Plutarch as reasons for Ephialtes’ murder: Plut. Per. 10.8; cf. AP 27.3-5.
47 Cf. Aesch. Supp. 398-400, 483-5. See especially Raaflaub (2007) on the central role of Ephialtes’
reforms in the emergence of dēmokratia during the 460’s.
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In effect, those intermediary trials enabled Ephialtes to delegitimize the Areopagus’
acquittal of Cimon.
Given the ideological tensions and concerns with bribery reported in our
sources—and especially given how in Athenian bribery trials what constituted dōrodokia
was, itself, under trial—we can plausibly conjecture that this anti-democratic bias would
have come under fire when Ephialtes alleged that the Areopagites had ‘done injustice to
the people’. On this reconstruction, Ephialtes’ prosecution of the Areopagites pitted two
sides against each other: ‘acquit’, anti-democratic, and dōrodokia were lined up against
‘convict’, democratic and an ‘uncorrupt’ way of holding officials accountable (i.e.
Ephialtes’ imminent reforms). 48 I propose that the series of dōrodokia trials was used, in
part, to delegitimize the Areopagus’ method of accountability and to signal public
support for a new way to secure legitimate political results (such as convictions at a
bribery trial like Cimon’s). The very process by which public officials would be held
accountable seemed, itself, to be on trial.
It is surely significant, after all, that the unusual way in which Cimon was brought
to trial—with public prosecutors conducting the case before a judicial body composed of
the people—would subsequently form the backbone for public accountability after
Ephialtes’ reforms. 49 Ephialtes transferred jurisdiction for trials of public officials from
the Areopagus to the Council of 500 and the jury courts, the composition of both of
which was at this time demonstrably more inclusive than that of the Areopagus Council.
As such, the decisions made by each body straightforwardly manifested the norms of the
48 Cf. Raaflaub (2007: 139) on the terms of this debate.
49 In Cimon’s trial the people elected ten public prosecutors to conduct the trial before the Assembly and
the Areopagus. After Ephialtes’ reforms, prosecutions at euthynai were conducted either by euthynoi, who
were ten members chosen by lot from the Council, or by any willing citizen; depending on the offense,
these trials would be held before either the Council or a jury court.
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entire community, not just those of its elite citizens; for decisions that affected the entire
polity, they were kurios. 50 By transferring to the Council of 500 and the jury courts the
Areopagus’ prerogative to initiate and conduct proceedings for public officials, Ephialtes
made it less likely that an elite official who had been publicly reputed to be corrupt would
go untried or, worse, unpunished like Cimon.
If we look between Cimon’s exceptional trial and Ephialtes’ subsequent reforms,
therefore, we can begin to uncover a vital public debate over how to hold public officials
accountable. I underscore that the Areopagites’ bribery trials likely played a crucial role
in this debate. The same courtroom arguments concerning what should or should not be
considered dōrodokia—that is, which modes of politics were and were not legitimate—
shaped and were shaped by public debates found in deliberative institutions like the
Assembly. The accusations of dōrodokia surrounding Cimon’s trial—the injustice done
to the Athenian people or the prosecutor Pericles’ suspicious involvement with Cimon’s
sister—certainly were ways of delegitimizing Cimon’s acquittal. Simultaneously, too,
they signaled the illegitimacy of accountability before the Areopagus. In claiming that
dōrodokia, or some kind of corruption, had occurred, these accusations implicitly called
for a more ‘democratic’ approach, one which had been partly employed in Cimon’s trial
and was soon instituted through Ephialtes’ reforms.
This case-study is emblematic of what I see as a likely trend in how the Athenian
democracy functioned, and so successfully at that. Our evidence for consistent
connections between bribery and politics like the one proposed here, however, is very
limited, and ultimately the value of this approach is perhaps more theoretical than
50 Cf. Taylor (2007).
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empirical. Accordingly, in the Conclusion we will turn to what I think are the most
salient lessons we have learned from our investigation of bribery in Classical Athens.
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Rethinking Political Bribery:
The View from Athens
The previous seven chapters have tried to understand the world through the eyes
of the dōrodokos. We have viewed the democracy through its various monies—gifts, pay,
honors, bribes, and tribute—and seen how the Athenians used these monies to define the
relationships, legitimate and not, ‘democratic’ and other, that made up their polity. And
we have followed the figure of the dōrodokos out of the shadows of the democracy as he
was etched indelibly into Athenian law and political institutions. Having borrowed the
eyes of the dōrodokos for so long, if we think back to Timagoras’ ill-fated embassy to the
Persian King, it is perhaps difficult now to grasp just how inscrutable Timagoras’ dōra
first appeared to be. We were perplexed then by how dōrodokia was defined, why
Timagoras took the dōra, and why the Athenians killed him. Now, however, those
questions are seen to have ready, even irrelevant, answers.
But if assuming the perspective of the dōrodokos has laid to rest certain questions,
it has uncovered still others. As we look back from Timagoras’ world to our own, we
find that the view from Athens reveals a paradox to modern observers. Bribery, a form of
corruption, has long been considered a hindrance to political and economic development,
as it is thought to raise transaction costs while short-circuiting or distorting political
process. In Klitgaard’s (1988: 75) influential definition:
Corruption = Monopoly + Discretion – Accountability.
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Anti-bribery reform advocates consequently focus on diffusing political power and
reducing discretion while increasing accountability. In making government more
efficient and fair, such reforms implicitly make government more responsive to the
people’s interests. It is perhaps no coincidence, then, that the bulk of suggested reforms
entail implementation of what are essentially the hallmarks of modern liberal
democracies—public accountability, transparency, clear separation of public and private
spheres, and the rule of law. 1
By these standards, the Athenians enacted paradigmatic reforms for combating
bribery. The vast majority of public officials at Athens were selected by lottery for one-
year terms and worked collaboratively on executive boards, not individually; similarly,
the most significant court cases were decided by juries consisting of hundreds of
Athenians, selected at random from a pool of 6,000 potential jurors each year. The
potential monopolization of resources, whether political, economic, or judicial, was thus
slim. Likewise, executive boards were tasked with explicit charges by the dēmos;
although they might have a certain amount of discretion in how they fulfilled their
charge, the members of a board nevertheless tended to have effectively little discretionary
power of their own. Finally, as we saw in the previous two chapters, the Athenians
heavily legislated bribery, creating no fewer than seven legal processes for prosecuting
the gift or receipt of bribes, whether generally or involving specific officials in specific
contexts. By modern standards, the penalties attached to these laws—a tenfold fine,
1 See recently Klitgaard (1988), della Porta and Vannuci (1999), Rose-Ackerman (1999), World Bank
(1997), Doig (2000), della Porta and Rose-Ackerman (2002), Johnston (2005). Robinson (1998) has
rightly called for more research as to the efficacy of these specific reforms; his approach prudently
privileges analytical empirical research over definitions and models. His uncertainty stems in part from the
recognized need to adapt anti-corruption reforms to a local context; in this light, ethnographic studies of
corruption have been particularly illuminating: see Haller and Shore (2005) generally and, for specific
examples, Ledeneva (1998) and Lane Scheppele (1999) on Russia in transition, Rosenthal (1964) on the
Muslim world, and Gupta (1995) on India.
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disfranchisement, or death—would be considered extreme and, one might imagine,
effective ways to hold officials accountable.
What makes the Athenian case a paradox, however, is that these anti-bribery
measures, though paradigmatic, appear to have been ineffective. Although Athenian
conceptions of what did or did not constitute bribery changed over the course of the
democracy, these laws apparently did nothing to change the common sentiment that
officials could take gifts so long as their actions did not harm the dēmos. As a result, the
number of public officials who took gifts seems to have been very high by Western
standards. Accurately measuring the incidence of bribery is impossible, of course, but we
have already found two different indications that this was so: both the enormous volume
of accusations of bribery and, as best as we can extrapolate from limited evidence, the
high rate of bribery trials as well. 2
Still more inexplicable, Athens actually flourished in the face of corruption.
Neither was the polis captured by rent-seeking politicians nor is there evidence that it was
really run by informal criminal networks. On the contrary, commonplace bribery seems
to have co-existed with strong institutions; in both theory and practice, the power of the
people was only augmented over time, as we have seen. Moreover, ineffective anti-
bribery legislation seems to have been perfectly consistent with Athenian democratic
values, as hallmarks of the democracy were forged through constant regulation of the
dōrodokos. How could this be? How was it that Athens flourished because of, not in
spite of, this inefficacy? 3
2 There are over 460 attested references to bribery in our non-fragmentary classical sources; similarly,
between 5-10% of major public officials were brought to trial for bribery: see the Introduction above.
3 It should be noted that the amount of bribery envisaged in Athens is considerably more than the minimal
amount advocated by political economists, who recognize that controlling bribery itself creates additional
324

Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Conclusion
The view from Athens suggests that these questions are perhaps the wrong ones to
ask. For the Athenians, bribery was not a discrete problem that could simply be solved
(or reduced to a minimal equilibrium); rather, it was a mode of politics that, along with
the democracy, changed, reinvented itself, took on new meaning, and thus had to be
constantly re-incorporated into the workings of the democracy. Athenian bribery, like the
democracy itself, was not a static phenomenon—some isolated inefficiency in the
workings of polity—but was ever dynamic. In other words, precisely because the
democracy was always changing, there was never any set equilibrium for which the
Athenians were striving: certainly Plato and Aristotle understood that polities were
always in motion, always evolving or devolving over time. As a result, there was never
any static ideal of ‘good government’ against which bribery could be measured. To
speak of ‘more’ or ‘less’ bribery at Athens would be to miss the point that the Athenians
seemed okay with even a considerable amount of bribery, provided it could be leveraged
in some way for the good of the democracy.
It is important, in this regard, to underscore the very different way in which the
Athenians approached the concept of bribery. For them the normative value of dōra did
not depend on the context in which they were given or received (e.g. public office), or
even the intent with which they were given. It hinged, instead, on the perceived result of
costs in time, money, and effort: e.g. Klitgaard (1988: 24). What conventional political economic wisdom
suggests is that the ideal amount of bribery lies at the equilibrium where trying to regulate it further would
accrue more costs than simply letting the bribery exist. It could be argued that, given severe informational
asymmetries in the world of Athenian politics—that is, given the enormous costs of trying to monitor
public officials’ financial accounts—this equilibrium was astonishingly high at Athens; on this view, given
Athens’ inefficient technologies for monitoring public officials, we could only expect that they would have
a high amount of bribery.
This view is unattractive, however, given the extreme monitoring the Athenians actually achieved:
they employed treasurers whose sole job was to look after the accounts of generals, they examined the
financial accounts of magistrates ten times a year, and the Athenians did not seem shy about bringing a
bribery suit against an official. Indeed, if political economists have correctly modeled the cost-benefit
analysis of bribery and its regulation, then Athens’ success as democracy and economy is doubly
impressive, for she invested seemingly excessive resources in combating corruption.
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Conclusion
the dōra. If an official did something good for the community, even if he had received
dōra in the process, he was praised; if something bad happened during his tenure, he was
blamed, and frequently it was assumed that he had been bribed, even if the assumption
was unwarranted. 4 It was the outcome of the purported exchange that mattered, and this
outcome was always evaluated with respect to the good or bad done to the community.
As a result, the Athenians focused far less on minimizing an official’s opportunity to take
bribes and far more on ensuring that that official’s relationship with the community
would continue to be reciprocal.
Such a consequentialist approach to bribery worked particularly well in the
Athenians’ case precisely because so much of their political process leveraged social
relationships. Within this context, as we saw, dōra entered politics unproblematically;
numerous sources attest to the perquisites received by a variety of magistrates.
Negotiation of these duties within the context of personal friendships was inevitable, but
it was also desirable to the extent that it fostered greater cooperation and an ethos of
community among the citizens. 5 In practice the leveraging of private relationships in
politics created a range of outcomes, from desirable to undesirable, helpful to harmful.
Hence the Athenians needed some way to differentiate between the good and the bad
leveraging of relationships to achieve political outcomes. Accusations of bribery
4 Recall, for instance, that in the dōrodokia trials of Cimon and the unnamed public official of Lysias 21,
both defendants insisted that whatever dōra they had received should be evaluated according to how much
they had given back to the community: Plut. Cim. 14.3, Lys. 21 passim. Conversely, during the disastrous
Sicilian expedition of the Peloponnesian War, the general Nicias fears returning to Athens, lest the people
(erroneously) condemn him for having taken bribes to lose in battle: Thuc. 7.48.4; cf. 4.65.2-4.
5 Note, too, how higher rates of political participation in Athens meant that political office could be
leveraged by ultimately more citizens in helping, or in being helped by, their friends. Without a discrete
class of repeat political players consistently benefiting from access to public office, the stigma against gifts
to public officials might have been necessarily small. By contrast, in precisely those areas where we do
find a narrower range of political participation—notably military generals and public speakers—anxieties
over the mixing of money and politics were relatively great.
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Conclusion
explicitly served this purpose, as they were used to delegitimize political outcomes,
processes, and players, alike.
In this way the dōrodokos, that curious chameleon of a social type in Athens,
became a conceptual bogeyman of the democracy. He frequently entered public
discourse at the precise moment someone wished to cast a particular practice, person, or
outcome outside Athens’ moral community: what was not ‘inside’ the democracy was
‘outside’, and what was ‘outside’ was dōrodokia. Crucially, therefore, in configuring
who was ‘outside’ the community, accusations of dōrodokia also defined the contours of
that community. In effect, the image of the dōrodokos isolated the offender from the
dēmos and thereby negatively revealed the moral boundaries of the community, itself.
The formal oaths and curses sworn in the Council, Assembly, and jury courts are a good
example of this process at work. In swearing an oath together, participants in these
political bodies were bound to each other within the framework of the polity, and they
swore to rise up as a community to drive out anyone guilty of dōrodokia. 6 The inside of
the community itself was reaffirmed by extirpating the dōrodokos.
Accusations of bribery were rampant—in literature, at public venues like the
Assembly or the courts, and of course at dōrodokia trials—but this was only because the
Athenians constantly policed the borders of acceptable practices within their democracy
and continually tweaked the democracy in practice for the greater good. 7 Thus, these
accusations were more than descriptive claims about the conduct of an individual; they
6 Rhodes (1972, 2007), Sommerstein and Fletcher (2007). In this respect, it is crucial that in the stoning of
Lycides, suspected of dōrodokia after he proposed to listen to a Persian herald during the Persian Wars
(Hdt. 9.3-5), although it was the Council members who stoned him, they acted as citizens, not magistrates,
by first removing the crowns signaling their political office (Lyc. 1.122).
7 For a different view on the widespread condemnation of dōrodokia, see Mastrocinque (1996: 16-18),
Taylor (2001).
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Conclusion
were prescriptive ideas about how a political actor should act. Specifically, as we have
seen, bribery trials functioned as a vital political opportunity for an authoritative body to
think through and weigh in on a particular outcome or policy. Through bribery trials, that
authoritative body could signal its disapproval of certain political results: a ‘failed’
military campaign, for instance, or a ‘harmful’ public proposal. At these legal venues,
the people could begin formal deliberation on what a better solution to ‘corrupt’
institutions might be. All bribery trials offered, whether explicitly or implicitly, a
different view of what a ‘democratic’ polity should look like, and these views could play
a foundational role in shifting—and legitimating—the terms of public debate.
Approached this way, an accusation of dōrodokia was an insinuation that the
democracy was headed in the wrong direction, albeit for a single point in time when an
official had purportedly taken a bribe and thereby effected a bad outcome. It was a
reminder, too, that the democracy could always be better than it was, and it was
consequently an invitation to think about a new trajectory for the democracy. The
significance so attached to bribery may seem excessive to modern readers, but the
Athenians appear to have consciously crafted their institutions to foster exactly this kind
of deliberation on dōrodokia. With vague legal definitions, high rates of prosecution, and
speeches at trials that attempted to place the conduct of the accused either inside or
outside the sphere of permissible, legitimate, ‘democratic’ actions, Athenian laws on
dōrodokia created a political space within the courts wherein the norms on bribery could
be contested and ultimately legitimated.
In this way, by construing a different relationship between law and legitimacy, the
Athenians could perform crucial political work that would have been too time-consuming
328

Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Conclusion
for the Assembly to do in each and every case. Indeed, it is political work that nowadays
is performed not by judges or jurors, but by legislators in crafting the law. Whereas the
rule of law presupposes that law defines the contours of a sphere of legitimate action—
what is legal should be legitimate—law in Athens was used in the case of bribery as an
arena for contesting the very boundaries of that sphere.
The Athenian approach incorporated informal discussion of political values into
formal judicial process and thereby avoided a crucial vulnerability in the rule of law: its
inability to adapt quickly to changing notions of legitimacy. 8 Under the rule of law,
precisely because law-making is ideally distinct from adjudication, there can be
considerable distance between what is legal and what society considers legitimate. By
contrast, in Athens this distance between legitimacy and law in action was effectively
minimized, as with each subsequent bribery trial a potentially new, emerging conception
of what did or did not constitute a ‘harm’ to the community—hence bribery—could be
forwarded and, if it accorded with popular notions of what was good for the city,
legitimated. 9
Examining bribery in Classical Athens can arguably provide a valuable corrective
to contemporary public policy approaches to bribery. Even if we look upon the Athenian
case and ultimately throw up our hands, calling Athens too ‘different’ to be of real
comparative use, the view from Athens offers us at least a vision of a different way to
8 So, Warren (2004: 330-1) critiques modern conceptions of bribery on the grounds that they are
essentially normatively static: comparative studies simply posit some set of ‘background norms’ against
which the workings of law, politics, and the market should operate. In reality, however, this background is
dynamically contested and in constant flux. What is essential for our investigation here is that, likewise,
what was considered ‘socially legitimate’ at Athens was not normatively static, but was in fact constituted
through the political practices of Athenian citizens.
9 It should be noted that this is not a blanket criticism about the potential efficacy of the rule of law; rather,
it is an observation that one reason law and legitimacy can diverge so significantly is precisely because
there is little formal recourse within the law to allow it to evolve lock-step with shifting public norms.
329

Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Conclusion
think with, through, and about bribery. In adopting a relational, consequentialist model
of bribery rather than the standard rational actor model, we gain a better understanding of
when and why people frame an action as bribery. This, in turn, prompts us to focus more
on the content of the social relationships in which bribery occurs, rather than on the
corrupt character of—or poor institutional design around—a bribe-giver or bribe-taker.
Further, that the Athenians relied on personal relationships to the extent that they
did provides a helpful reminder that all polities are constituted by social relationships.
Even arms-length, professional relationships—the kind we find in parts of the Athenian
democracy—are a specific kind of social tie, one with specific norms, obligations, and
practices. The practice of politics in any polity is thus a constellation of these
differentiated social relationships. As we have seen at Athens, the monies used to
negotiate any of these relationships can look like bribes to an outside observer: what was
needed in Athens—and, arguably, what is needed in any polity—is a means to legitimate
one particular perspective, to call a specific negotiation ‘bribery’ or ‘not bribery’.
Fundamentally in Western societies this legitimization is thought to stem from the law,
yet Athens reminds us that there can sometimes be a wide separation between legally and
socially legitimate practices.
It is not clear to what extent reforms like the Athenians’—or even legal inefficacy
more broadly—would be successful instruments of democratization in other societies; in
this respect it is unclear how easily findings from Athens can be translated into a different
context. Certainly, where gift exchange is not a cornerstone of society, it would be more
difficult to imagine that bribery would take on the same meaning as in Athens and, as a
result, that it could be used in the same way to improve, not simply to corrupt, the
330

Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Conclusion
workings of politics. After all, in a society where gift exchange is limited, allowing more
frequent bribery may result in patterns of bribery different from those in the Athenian
case: more harm-inducing bribes, or bribes only in certain sectors, bribes that quickly
transform into extorted payments, etc.
Nevertheless, the kind of investigation undertaken here suggests that, even if we
take into account different cultural norms and definitions of ‘bribery’ and then legislate
accordingly, we might still miss the point that different societies use ‘law’ in different
ways. The figure of the dōrodokos lay at the very center of the Athenian imaginary, and
regulations of dōrodokia consequently loomed large in the Athenians’ efforts to reform
their democracy. This is arguably why eschewing the rule of law enabled the democracy
to be more responsive to (changes in) popular conceptions of justice and thus to be more
legitimate overall. Because bribery is always about injustice and illegitimacy, its
normative value stems from social, not legal, conceptions of how politics should work.
In the eyes of the Athenians, therefore, espousing the ‘rule of law’ to combat corruption
would make sense only if the outcomes of the law happen always to synch up with the
people’s understanding of political justice.
Like the Athenians, who used the dōrodokos to think through pressing issues and
ultimately to arrive at a more just polity, we end by looking forward on a positive note.
There are a number of ways in which the Athenians succeeded at democratization and
development even amid common bribery. Other thick accounts of cross-cultural or
historical comparison might yield similar results. It is hoped that the view from Athens
will open our eyes to a different understanding about the ideal role of bribery in a polity.
Far from minimizing bribery through precise legal restrictions and ‘proper’ institutional
331

Conover Bribery in Classical Athens Conclusion
design, a more valuable approach to anti-corruption reform might be to think of ways
bribery can continually be leveraged for the greater good.
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Conover Bribery in Classical Athens References
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