Homeric Seåfåring

Ed Rachal Foundation
Nautical Archaeology
Series
in Association with
the Institute of
Nautical Archaeology
 Homeric
Såmuel Mårk
Seåfåring

Texas A&M University Press college station

Copyright © 2005 by Samuel Mark
Manufactured in the United States of America
All rights reserved
First edition

The paper used in this book meets the minimum requirements

of the American National Standard for Permanence
of Paper for Printed Library Materials, Z39.48-1984
Binding materials have been chosen for durability
o

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Mark, Samuel (Samuel Eugene)
Homeric seafaring / Samuel Mark.—1st ed.
p. cm. — (Ed Rachal Foundation nautical archaeology series)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 1-58544-391-3 (cloth : alk. paper)
1. Homer—Knowledge—Naval art and science. 2. Naval art and science in literature.
3. Naval art and science—Greece. 4. Homer—Characters—Sailors. 5. Seafaring life in
literature. 6. Greece—History, Naval. 7. Ships, Ancient—Greece. 8. Sailors in literature.
9. Navigation—Greece. 10. Ships in literature. I. Title. II. Series.
PA4037.M323 2005
623.82'00938—dc22 2004015208
To my mentors:
George F. Bass
Donny Hamilton
J. Richard Ste¬y
Frederick H. van Doorninck
 Contents

List of Figures viii

Acknowledgments xi
1 Introduction 1
2 The Cultural Context of the Iliad and the Odyssey 8
3 Society, Economics, and Trade 17
4 Hull Construction 25
5 Odysseus Builds a Seagoing Vessel 70
6 Homeric Ships 97
7 Seafaring on the Wine Dark Sea 138
8 Anchoring and Anchorages 153
9 Geography 161
10 Summary 179
Abbreviations 189
Notes 191
Glossary 219
Bibliography 223
General Index 235
Greek Index 245
Index of Citations 249
 Figures

1. Warship versus merchant ship? 5

2. Warship versus warship engraved on a catchplate 6
3. Single-banked or two-banked ship? 6
4. Mortise-and-tenon joinery 26
5. Kyrenia ship 27
6. Laced joinery 28
7. Cross section of the royal barge of Cheops 31
8. Map of Mediterranean shipwrecks 36
9. Uluburun wreck 36
10. Canaanite ship from the tomb of Kenamun 38
11. Mazarrón wreck 39
12. Lacing and wadding on the Mazarrón wreck 39
13. Giglio wreck 43
14. Planking from the Bon Porté I wreck 44
15. Framing from the Bon Porté I wreck 44
16. Gela wreck 46
17. Ma’agan Michael wreck 47
18. Bon Porté I mast step 47
19. Midship section of the Ma’agan Michael wreck 48
20. Table from Mycenae with pegged tenon legs 53
21. Sketch of a laced ship laden with amphorae 63
22. Classical framing 66
23. Evolution of mortise-and-tenon joinery 67
24. Odysseus’s raft 72
25. Kelek 73
26. Qu¬a 73
27. Herakles jar raft 76
28. Odysseus’s raft of jars? 76
29. Clay boat model from Molchos 77
30. Adze 82
31. Egyptian shipwrights with various sizes of adzes 82
32. Greek carpenter using an adze to shape a timber to the line 83
33. Greek carpenter using a bow drill 85
34. Auger 86
35. Creating an arc with a line and stake 88
36. Geometric ship 98
37. Oculi on Archaic ships 101
38. Oculus from a Classical merchant ship 102
39. Oculus possibly from a Classical warship 103
40. Sailor’s knee through an oculus 103
41. Warrior standing on the cutwater of a Geometric ship 105
42. Sailor defecating on the cutwater of an Archaic ship 105
43. Ship painting on a vase from Asine 107
44. Ship painting on a pyxis from Tragana 107
45. Gra~to no. 13 from Kition 108
46. Ship paintings on a krater from Fortetsa, Crete 109
47. Geometric ship with quarter rudder 110
48. Boat model from Oropos, Attica 111
49. Ship engraved on a catchplate 111
50. Proposed ramming scene 112
51. Geometric aphract 114
52. Possible plan view of a Homeric galley 116
53. Storage of spears at the bow of a Geometric ship 117
54. Stern storage of spears on a Geometric ship 117
55. Sail and rigging 125
56. Model of an early-Egyptian riverboat 127
57. Mast support 129
58. Mast assembly 130
59. Geometric ship with gangplank 133
60. Comparison of Homeric pike and spear to warriors 147
61. Geometric shipwreck 150
62. Mooring cable for one of Queen Hatshepsut’s ships 155
63. Sketch of stone anchor from Uluburun shipwreck 156
64. Ma’agan Michael anchor 157
65. Killick 158
66. Catenary anchors attached to an anchor cable 159
67. Sketch of three proposed routes of Odysseus’s wanderings 162
åcknowledgments

I am indebted to Thomas A. Green, Steven Oberhelman,

and especially George F. Bass and Shelley Wachsmann for

their advice. Thanks also go to the editors at Texas A&M

University Press and the readers of this manuscript, all of

whom have made this a much better book.

Homeric Seåfåring
 1
Introduction

Few works of art have touched people as deeply and inspired Western
culture as have the Iliad and Odyssey of Homer. The Classical Greeks were pro-
foundly influenced by both epics, and according to Herodotus, much of what they
knew of their gods they learned from the works of Homer and Hesiod.1 Plato be-
lieved Homer was the first and greatest tragedian, and he quoted him extensively.
However, he also felt that Homer slandered the gods and that such stories should
not be allowed.2 Aristotle thought Homer was the greatest of poets and like-
wise quoted him at length.3 Homer’s influence among the Greeks was not limited
to religion and literature. Alexander the Great traveled to Troy to pay homage
to Achilles and lamented that he lacked a Homer to immortalize his deeds.4
Homer’s influence continued into Roman times, as evinced by Strabo, who ar-
gues that Homer founded the science of geography.5 In addition, Virgil’s Aeneid,
the national epic of Rome, combines elements of both the Iliad and the Odyssey.6
Moreover, Homer’s influence is not confined to ancient authors but continues
millennia after he created both epics. More recent works reflecting a strong Ho-
meric influence include Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde, Shakespeare’s Troilus and
Cressida, Gogol’s Taras Bulba, and James Joyce’s Ulysses.7 Homer’s epics have also
influenced writers from other disciplines. Jonathan Shay, the author of Achilles
in Vietnam, compares the behavior of warriors that Homer describes with the be-
havior of his own patients, Vietnam veterans su¬ering from chronic, posttrau-
matic stress disorder.8
Homer’s influence extends beyond literature. From ancient times through
the twentieth century, subjects and scenes from both of his epics have inspired
artists working in media as diverse as ceramics, tapestries, and gems.9 Homer
has also been a popular subject of sculptors and painters. Rembrandt painted
not only a portrait of Homer but also one of Aristotle with a bust of Homer.10
 As a result of Homer’s influence, scholars have written virtually hundreds of
books and articles on various aspects of both epics. A list of such publications
conveys an impression that every imaginable aspect of these poems has been ex-
plored in depth. Curiously, Homeric seafaring has not received the same atten-
tion as other Homeric topics. It is relatively easy to find articles or individual
chapters discussing limited aspects of Homeric seafaring, but most merely re-
view the more obvious aspects of this subject. One of the more successful at-
tempts at covering this topic in a limited space is Thomas Seymour’s Life in the
Homeric Age (1907). This chapter is an excellent summary of the extant knowledge
of Homeric seafaring at the beginning of the twentieth century.
A slightly earlier complement to Seymour’s work is Ancient Ships, written by
Cecil Torr in 1895. Just as Seymour tries to describe all that was known of the
Homeric world in one book, so too does Torr attempt to cover what was known
of Greek and Roman ships, including their construction, equipment, and use.
Although both works are excellent summaries for their time, the rapid pace of
archaeological discovery has left them outdated. Aspects of each publication,
however, are still relevant, and neither one should be forgotten.
The next significant work does not appear until 1968, with Greek Oared Ships,
900–322 B.C., by John Morrison and Roderick Williams. As the title suggests, the
authors of this book, unlike Torr, focus primarily on galleys and warships. How-
ever, like Torr, they confine themselves to the ship, its equipment, and crew. This
book is for the most part a detailed summary of the subject as it was understood
at that time. Unfortunately, some of their more original interpretations are
flawed, and a dearth of citations makes it di~cult to evaluate others.
Although out of date, Torr’s Ancient Ships remained the primary reference on
Greek and Roman ships until 1971, when Lionel Casson’s Ships and Seamanship in
the Ancient World first appeared. Although Casson confines himself primarily to
the same general topic as Torr, he expanded his volume to include early vessel
construction and Egyptian and Mesopotamian seafaring. Furthermore, he
greatly developed the sections on Greek and Roman seafaring. Much of this ma-
terial was the result of new interpretations of ancient texts based on archaeolog-
ical discoveries. The fact that most of the material in this volume is still relevant
is a testament to the author’s thoroughness and his command of the primary
sources. In fact, it is fair to say that many still consider the sections on Greek and
Roman seafaring to be “the Bible” for those interested in either subject. Casson
makes a number of important points about Homeric seafaring; unfortunately,
this chapter is very short and concise. The most important and detailed discus-
sion centers on the construction of Odysseus’s boat described in book 5 of the
Odyssey, but it had been previously published.11 The main flaw in the Homeric

2 chapter 1
chapter, if one can call it that, is its brevity, which, as with previous publications,
appears to result from the wide scope of Casson’s book.
Finally, in 1974, Dorothea Gray published Seewesen. In this volume Gray pri-
marily focuses on Greek seafaring from the Bronze Age through the Geometric
period, and she cites a wide range of sources, both iconographic and textual.
However, unlike previous scholars, she attempts to interpret these sources
chiefly in the context of the Iliad and the Odyssey. Because of the narrower scope,
she is able to give more depth to the descriptions of the various aspects of Ho-
meric seafaring, especially Odysseus’s voyages as an indication of the knowl-
edge of geography. Gray’s work is still an important introductory reference for
those interested in this subject. Yet, as with the previous works, it needs to be re-
vised. This is crucial in view of the fact that since these last three books were pub-
lished, we have experienced one of the most fruitful periods of discovery in the
discipline of nautical archaeology. We have learned more about ancient seafar-
ing, especially ship construction, since 1970 than in any other period, and only
Casson has attempted to remain current by appending an addendum to Ships and
Seamanship in the Ancient World. However, this small supplement does not ade-
quately reflect the degree of change that has taken place in archaeology.
Most new information, especially on ship construction, is scattered among
various publications; thus it is di~cult to study Homeric seafaring as a coherent
subject. By consolidating the pertinent sources into one volume, I hope that in-
terested readers will find them more accessible and thus be able to see various
patterns that would normally escape us.
Having laid the foundation for this book, I also wish to clarify a few comments
that arose in conjunction with its publication. Some readers may notice that
there are fewer citations in this work from the three books mentioned earlier (by
Torr, Casson, and Gray) than they might expect. This may appear to indicate a
paucity of material in these publications or that I am intentionally ignoring
them. In fact, neither is true. These assumptions continue to occur possibly be-
cause some scholars, especially those who specialize in seafaring, are unaware
of the long history of Homeric studies. Consequently, many of the nautical
translations and interpretations had been published so many times previously
that they were in the realm of the public domain by the time these later works
appeared. Thus, some citations were simply not required. For those who are
unaware of this, however, these later works may have given a false, although
unintentional, appearance that they were presenting original interpretations.
Furthermore, most scholars have a tendency to cite translations or interpreta-
tions that best support their vision of Homer’s world and, in many cases, fail to
mention supporting material or explain their line of reasoning when proposing

Introduction 3
a particular interpretation. Therefore, to keep citations at a manageable level and
to give readers access to the most profitable sources of information, I refer to the
earliest known sources and those that include substantiating references or ex-
planations of interpretations.12
Furthermore, for those who do not work with the original Greek texts and in-
stead base much of their research on works such as Morrison and Williams’s
Greek Oared Ships (1968) and Casson’s Ships and Seamanship in the Ancient World
(1971), they may assume these sources take precedence over references such as
Georg Autenrieth’s Homeric Dictionary (1987); Richard Cunli¬e’s Lexicon of the Ho-
meric Dialect (1988); and Liddell, Scott, and Jones’s Greek-English Lexicon (1996). Yet,
most translations cited in these three references were already standard in Auten-
rieth’s 1876 edition, Cunli¬e’s 1924 edition, and Liddell, Scott, and Jones’s 1940
edition, and all therefore take precedence.
Another recurring criticism concerns the title of this work, Homeric Seafaring.
Those who like it seem to do so because they feel it is concise and descriptive of
the book’s contents. Paradoxically, those who dislike it do so because they feel it
is misleading. Again this appears to be the result of the wide appeal of and inter-
est in Homeric studies. Scholars acquire well-defined preconceptions of what
“Homeric” means to them, which appears to be based in large part on their in-
terests and disciplines. As an example, one reader felt that the title was too broad
because I had based much of my analysis on the Homeric texts. In addition, the
reader believed that, because both epics best describe Greece during the Geo-
metric period and thus represent Geometric seafaring, a complete corpus of
Geometric pottery depicting seafaring scenes was implied in the title.
On the other hand, I know of at least one Bronze Age archaeologist who firmly
believes that Homer is describing the Bronze Age and that this book therefore
best describes Greek seafaring during that time. Under these circumstances
such a broad title would imply (and this reader would expect) the addition of a
complete corpus of Bronze Age pottery portraying aspects of seafaring.
For these reasons it was recommended that the title be changed from Homeric
Seafaring to Homeric Seafaring: The Textual Evidence. However, a colleague with whom
I shared this possible change responded that such a title is redundant because
etymological studies of the texts should form the primary basis of any Homeric
study. Furthermore, in my colleague’s opinion, such a title would be misleading
because many of my interpretations were based on archaeological and ethno-
graphic data. Another associate felt that the revised title would be confusing be-
cause it suggested that I had written a reader’s companion or commentary to the
epics that analyzes the seafaring elements of both works book by book, line by

4 chapter 1
Figure 1. Warship versus merchant ship (after Morrison and Williams, 1968, pl. 9)

line, much like Peter Jones’s Homer’s Odyssey: A Companion to the Translation of
Richard Lattimore.
It finally became clear that the word “Homeric” can mean many things to
many di¬erent people, and, regardless of the title, someone will be unhappy. As
previously mentioned, I had not anticipated that I would need to address such
concerns. Nevertheless, after much reflection on the various and sometimes
strong reactions to what I thought were rather trivial points, I now realize that
these responses indicate the passion that Homer continues to instill in readers
more than two and half millennia since he created his epics. As a result, I have re-
tained the original title without adding a corpus of seafaring iconography for two
reasons. First, the extant pictorial materials have already been published and are
accessible in resources that include Lucien Basch’s Le musée imaginaire de la marine
antique, Morrison and Williams’s Greek Oared Ships, and Shelley Wachsmann’s
Seagoing Ships and Seamanship in the Bronze Age Levant.
Second, there are considerable di¬erences of opinion on how to interpret
Bronze Age and Geometric iconography. It is di~cult to make definitive state-
ments or interpretations based on much of this imagery because it contains just
enough detail to support a number of interpretations. In addition, artistic license
can make it even more di~cult to correctly interpret these early works. For ex-
ample, the Aristonothos vase, which dates to about 650 B.C., depicts a Greek war-
ship preparing to fight what has typically been described as a merchant ship
(figure 1).13 In contrast, on the catchplate of a fibula from the eighth century B.C.,
we see what is obviously the same scene, but the tubby merchant ship has been
transformed into a low, sleek warship (figure 2).
Artistic license is an obstacle that one must be aware of when evaluating sea-
faring art from any period because the artists who created it may have had little or
no contact with the subject matter they portrayed. When analyzing this early art,

Introduction 5
Figure 2. Warship versus warship engraved on a catchplate of a fibula from Sparta
(after Hagy, 1986, figure 19)

Figure 3. Single-banked or two-banked ship? (after Casson, 1995, figure 74)

this obstacle is exacerbated, however, due to other characteristics. For example,

there is disagreement even on the nature of perspective that Geometric artists
utilized. Figure 3 portrays a ship preparing for a voyage. One school of thought
describes this ship as having two banks, or levels, of rowers, whereas a second
school interprets it as a ship with only one bank of rowers.14 This second group
proposes that the painter had not yet mastered the use of perspective and as a re-
sult used an almost abstract form of perspective that attempted to create a feeling
of depth by placing the far bank of rowers directly above the near bank of rowers.15
A third viewpoint is that the first two theories are too simplistic, that no uniform
principles govern perspective during this period, and that each painting must be
evaluated separately by using a number of criteria.16 The di~culties inherent in in-
terpreting such a work are illustrated by Williams, who cannot decide whether
figure 3 portrays a single-banked or a two-banked vessel. On the one hand, he is
an adherent of the abstract school described earlier; thus, it should be interpreted
as a single-banked ship. On the other hand, he feels that since this painting shows
twenty rowers “below” and nineteen “above,” “[s]uch a discrepancy would be out
of the question in a single-banked ship.”17 Considering the large amount of ink
that has been spilt on this topic throughout the years without any agreement and
6 chapter 1
because there are no new data to help clarify these various interpretations, a com-
prehensive analysis of the seafaring art from these periods would add little or
nothing to this work, and in the process a better understanding of Homeric sea-
faring would be lost in tangential and futile arguments.
Therefore, Homeric seafaring, as defined within the context of this work, is
neither Bronze Age nor Geometric seafaring but first and foremost the world
that Homer created. However, to properly understand the maritime aspects of
this world and to decide whether this information sheds light on any particular
period, it is first necessary to place both epics within the proper cultural context.
This is not an easy task, but it is necessary if we are to better understand both the
nautical and the ship construction descriptions that both epics mention. Then,
once the cultural context is established, the relevant archaeological, icono-
graphic, and ethnographic data help us to comprehend various aspects of Ho-
mer’s world. Consequently, this volume begins with a review of the di¬erent pe-
riods that the Iliad and the Odyssey have been thought to represent, a discussion
of the di~culties in placing both epics in a particular period, and then an attempt
to show which period most of the evidence supports. Although this is a topic typ-
ically outside the purview of nautical archaeology, it is one that is necessary to
give structure and meaning to this study.

Introduction 7
 2
The Culturål
Context of
the Iliåd and
the Odyssey

The Iliad and Odyssey describe life in Greece in a detail that is not seen
again until the Classical period. To archaeologists and historians this is both a
blessing and a curse. The blessing is obvious to all, while the curse is the di~-
culty we have in defining the period these two epics best represent. This misfor-
tune is illustrated by the divergent opinions that Homeric scholars hold on this
issue. It is di~cult to discern whether the Iliad and the Odyssey describe the
Bronze Age and, as such, preserve much of the Mycenaean culture or whether
Homer fashions both works to represent his own time. Most scholars seem to
agree that Homer has taken ancient songs and stories of heroes and created two
epics that portray di¬erent aspects of life from di¬erent periods. If this is true,
we must try to separate each item of this amalgam and place it in its correct cul-
tural context. We can, of course, finesse this problem by proposing that the Iliad
and the Odyssey portray a “heroic age,” but, by doing so, we lose much of the his-
toric value. It is therefore necessary to evaluate the available evidence, its draw-
backs, and the ways in which it is interpreted.
The most common method Homeric scholars use to place the Iliad and the
Odyssey in a specific period is to list artifacts, social practices, people, and places
that are known to exist only in one period. With regard to artifacts, the boar’s tusk
helmet, greaves, and Ajax’s “tower” shield are commonly cited as objects that
existed only in the Bronze Age.1 Such arguments appear convincing, but they
have been challenged.2 Addressing one of the main drawbacks to relying on such
evidence, Anthony Snodgrass points out that any inferences we might make
about the Dark Age are open to challenge because of the paucity of archaeolog-
ical and representational proof. Furthermore, he states that “we do not know,
and may never know, how far backwards in time we may extend this eighth-
century picture, nor how far forwards that of the late Mycenaean period.”3 His
point of view is bolstered by a review of the literature on the boar’s tusk helmet,
which is one of the few items that most scholars agree represents only the Myce-
naean period.4 Hilda Lorimer asserts that the helmet did not survive into the Late
Helladic (LH, or Submycenaean) IIIC period (1200–1100 b.c.). She states that
“the final state of LH III was a period of impoverishment and degeneration in
which neither the thirty nor forty pairs of tusks required for such a helmet . . .
nor the skill necessary to produce it were likely to be forthcoming.”5 Yet, shortly
after Lorimer made this statement, the remains of a boar’s tusk helmet were re-
covered from a grave in Kallithea that dates to the LH IIIC period.6 More recently,
Hector Catling dates the remains of another helmet from Crete to about 1050
b.c.7 As a result, these later finds raise the possibility that such a helmet could
have survived as an heirloom to the eighth century, just as Homer describes it.8 If
nothing else, these new discoveries leave in doubt any definitive dating for this
type of helmet.
As previously stated, our task of securely dating artifacts in the Iliad and the
Odyssey is impeded by a lack of archaeological evidence from the Iron Age. This
is because most of the objects discussed are made of perishable materials. Met-
als corrode or are recycled, fabrics rot, and neither usually survives under normal
circumstances. This situation is exacerbated by the partial replacement of inhu-
mantion by cremation in the Iron Age. Furthermore, although Bronze Age sites
are far richer in archaeological material than Iron Age sites, most of the “Myce-
naean” items mentioned in the epics are still rarely recovered from places dating
to this time. For example, only one set of Mycenaean bronze armor survives, and
before its discovery at Dendra in 1960, scholars commonly agreed that Myce-
naean armor was made from perishable materials such as leather.9
Since we lack a representative sample of these artifacts from either Bronze or
Iron Age locations, we are therefore basing our arguments on negative evidence.
This is at best a dubious methodology. Moreover, we are hindered by a lack of ar-
ticles from the Iron Age. This is important when we consider that much of what
is interpreted as Homeric parallels from the Bronze Age is based on artistic il-
lustrations. Such representations are more common by the Geometric period,
but these are silhouette paintings that lack the detail necessary to discern a war-
rior’s accouterments, and what little information we can glean from Iron Age art
is disputed. Both Georg Lippold and Gerard Else claim that body shields are
shown on Geometric pottery, but Martin Nilsson denies their existence.10
Even the more detailed representations from the Bronze Age are not conclu-
sive. For example, much of what we know of boar’s tusk helmets is based on such
images, but Snodgrass maintains that later Mycenaean depictions that are thought

Cultural Context of the Iliad and Odyssey 9

to portray this type of helmet actually show “built-up” helmets. Such helmets are
designed on the same pattern of a boar’s tusk helmet but are made from di¬er-
ent materials, possibly strips of leather.11
Social practices also help us to define the age of Homer’s works, but here too
there is little agreement. Cremation is commonly mentioned in both works and
is associated with the Iron Age.12 Lorimer agrees with this view but qualifies it by
raising the possibility that Mycenaean warriors may have adopted the practice of
cremation from the Trojans during the siege of Troy. She points out that crema-
tion was the standard burial practice at Troy as early as level VI (ca. 1300 b.c.) of
the Bronze Age, and the Achaeans may have found this practice to be more suit-
able during a protracted siege far from home. Consequently, cremation may be a
Mycenaean custom used only while on foreign soil.13
Like cremations, Homer’s descriptions of Phoenicians sailing and trading
throughout the Aegean have been thought of as a late addition to both epics
and are most commonly associated with the eighth century b.c.14 Unfortunately,
conclusions based on this evidence may be flawed. Rhys Carpenter claims that
Phoenicians best represent a period between the latter years of the eighth century
b.c. and earlier years of the seventh century b.c.15 Yet, again, others have pro-
posed di¬erent dates. William Albright advocates a date of about 950 b.c., and
James Muhly proposes that Homer’s Phoenicians reflect a span of time from
1000 to 700 b.c.16 Frank Stubbings, on the other hand, believes the Phoenicians
are representative of the Mycenaean Age.17 George Bass supports Stubbings by
arguing cogently that recent archaeological discoveries on land and under the
sea indicate that Syro-Canaanites or early Phoenicians were sailing and trading
in Greek waters as early as Mycenaean times. In addition, these discoveries have
provided substantiation for earlier dating of some items, such as dyptichs, which
were once thought to be anachronisms in a Bronze Age society.18
Not too surprisingly, a similar pattern appears with regard to architecture.
Some believe Homer is describing structures built during the Bronze Age.19 Oth-
ers, however, propose that they are either structures reminiscent of Homer’s
time, buildings that date to a combination of periods, or edifices that he de-
scribes too vaguely to be assigned to any period.20
Finally, the “Catalogue of Ships” (Iliad, book 2) is also placed in various peri-
ods. According to Denys Page, this catalogue was originally “a list of contingents
assembling for an expedition overseas” and, for the most part, is an inheritance
from the Mycenaean period.21 He is supported by R. Hope Simpson and John
Lazenby, who conclude that this catalogue embodies a number of smaller cata-
logues that seem to reflect the Mycenaean period.22 Both arguments are based on
the premise that many of the sites in this catalogue were abandoned at the end of

10 chapter 2
the Bronze Age and could not be identified by historic Greeks. J. K. Anderson
challenges this idea by arguing that although many sites were indeed deserted at
the end of the Bronze Age, in most cases it is only conjecture that they bore the
same names as those that appear in the Catalogue of Ships. Furthermore, as he
points out, a site that is uninhabited does not necessarily disappear.
Local stories and traditions were probably attributed to nearby ruins. If the
Catalogue of Ships was a compilation of local stories by a traveling poet, then
the mention of such sites would be “real” but would not represent a historic
document. Anderson therefore proposes that a late-eighth-century poet traveled
throughout Greece, collecting stories associated with the crumbling buildings,
and then fashioned the Catalogue of Ships based on his travels.23 This argument
is plausible when we consider that such massive structures could not be built
during Homer’s time, and they must have awed and fascinated the local inhabi-
tants. This would also explain why Gla, the largest of the Mycenaean sites, is
ignored in the epics whereas lesser locations are mentioned. If this site was
flooded shortly after it was destroyed, it would have disappeared not only from
sight but also from the region’s folklore.
This catalogue illustrates the di~culty of evaluating such documents with too
little archaeological evidence. Aspects of it have been dated from as early as the
Bronze Age to as late as the seventh century b.c.24 Finally, the most reasonable
interpretation comes from Albert Lord, who, after a detailed study of catalogues
in traditional epics, asserts that no evidence exists to suggest that such lists are
historic documents. He agrees with Page that the Catalogue of Ships is confirma-
tion of a war that took place at some time in the past, but to say more overstates
the evidence.25
The preceding arguments are frustrating for a number of reasons. With regard
to artifacts, it is impossible to make definitive statements about how long the
objects were used because we lack representative samples of relevant items from
any period being studied. Yet, scholars consistently cite such “evidence” to sup-
port the dating of Homer’s epics to a particular period. In most cases there is just
enough archaeological evidence to allow scholars to endorse whatever theory is
proposed. Homer himself aggravates this problem because he is creating poetry,
not a detailed study of artifacts, social practices, and geography.26 Furthermore,
he infuses much of his work with rather mundane characteristics of life, aspects
that may transcend the centuries. Finally, he is envisioning a heroic world, and at
least some facets of this world probably existed only in his imagination. To add
further confusion, we tend to underestimate the influence of Homer’s works.
The Iliad and the Odyssey can easily become a siren’s song to an archaeologist
or historian. As we saw earlier, it is easy to interpret the archaeological evidence

Cultural Context of the Iliad and Odyssey 11

to fit a preconceived view of the epics instead of using it to clarify them. The dat-
ing of level VIIa of the Late Bronze Age at Troy is such an example. Carl Blegen
assigns a period of only thirty-five years to this level, in part because it would end
after the destruction of “Nestor’s Palace” at Pylos; he makes the evidence fit
Homer’s chronology.27 If such a skilled and conscientious archaeologist as Ble-
gen can fall prey to Homer’s siren song, then we are all at risk of doing so.
Using the evidence I have mentioned to date Homer’s works presents many
pitfalls. A more objective method is to study the medium Homer uses to create
the Iliad and the Odyssey. The prevailing view is that Homer was an oral-
traditional poet, a view that is based mainly on the works of Milman Parry and
Albert Lord, who developed the oral-formulaic theory. The essence of this hy-
pothesis is that an oral-traditional epic is distinguished most readily by its re-
peated phrases and lines, or formulae, and by its repeated incidents and
descriptions, or themes. Parry and Lord emphasize that such poets do not mem-
orize songs but create a new song during each performance. By using formulae
and themes a singer is able to create long epics without memorization. Formu-
lae are groups of words that are repeatedly used in the same metrical contexts to
express an idea and allow a singer to rapidly construct lines of poetry during a
performance. A singer will have only one metrically equivalent formula to ex-
press an idea and, by doing so, is considered “thrifty” or “economic.”28
Themes are groups of ideas that are repeatedly used in a formulaic style. A
singer employs this device as well as formulae to compose songs in much the
same way. Themes are, in e¬ect, compartmentalized, allowing a singer to change
the length of a song to fit di¬erent occasions or the mood of an audience without
significantly changing a story. They allow a singer to perform a song by learning
a basic story, the names of heroes, and names of places.29 According to Parry and
Lord, an oral singer can use both formulae and themes to construct long and
complex songs such as the Iliad and the Odyssey without the aid of writing. They
point out that Homer’s works have all the typical elements of orally composed
poetry, and such a combination of elements is extremely rare in written litera-
ture. However, even if Homer did write his epics, the structure of both works in-
dicates that they must be based on oral-traditional poetry and that written epics
must have been a very recent innovation. Therefore, the following dating tech-
niques would still apply.
One of the most important features of oral epics is fluidity or change, which re-
sults from a singer’s creating a new song with each performance. Consequently,
if an epic singer produced a new version at every presentation, how long would it
be before all of its Mycenaean elements would disappear? Adam Parry argues that
our text of the Iliad came into existence only when it was written. He feels that a

12 chapter 2
composition of such length changes so much with each rendition that “Homer”
must have been the singer who sang it when it was transcribed.30 Geoffrey Kirk
disagrees; he feels that these songs are relatively stable and that a reasonably ac-
curate, oral reproduction is possible.31 Based on his interpretation, Kirk regards
the scenes of setting sail as belonging to a body of “pre-existing material.”32
Kirk bases much of his argument on his belief that Homer’s works, due to
their massive size, were “assimilated with unusual care” and changed little until
being written down in the seventh century b.c.33 Adam Parry refutes this argu-
ment by pointing out that Kirk fails to produce evidence to support his specula-
tion and that all of the primary information on oral epics indicates that such
poetry is very fluid. He continues by looking at the song “Alija Rescues Alibey’s
Children,” which is the same song that Kirk cites for its stability over a period
of seventeen years. Instead of being stable, Parry reveals that it had actually
changed by 26 percent between the two times it was transcribed. If a song changes
by 26 percent in only seventeen years, how much would it change in one or two
hundred years? Furthermore, this poem is much shorter than either the Iliad or
the Odyssey; both versions contained fewer than fifteen hundred lines as opposed
to 15,693 and 12,110 lines respectively for Homer’s epics. Parry points out that
the massive sizes of Homer’s epics make them less stable and states that the sta-
bility Kirk proposes is impossible.34 Lord concurs; he argues persuasively that
fluidity is a keystone of oral epics, and he rebuts the type of stability Kirk pro-
poses because it has no parallel and is incomprehensible to all of the oral-
traditional epic singers that have been studied over the years.35
In a later work Lord discusses whether it is possible for historic facts to be
transmitted via oral poetry over long periods of time. He examines songs that are
set during the reign of Suleiman the Magnificent, who lived about five hundred
years ago. Lord compares names, places, and events in the songs with those in
the historic record. In all cases but one, none of the songs accurately reflect past
events. In one of the songs, the name of an obscure leader is correct, but the
singer of this song was the most widely traveled of the group and possibly had
contact with people who were versed in the area’s history. Another possibility is
that the singer’s choice of a name for the obscure character was coincidental.36
All of the evidence indicates that oral epics seldom retain their original form
and content for even short periods. In addition, Ruth Finnegan concludes that
even with shorter memorized poems “as one looks hard at the notion of exact
verbal reproduction over long periods of time, it becomes clear that there is very
little evidence for it.”37 She is supported by Jan Vansina who concludes from his
fieldwork that, although memorized poems can last for considerable periods,
they rarely do. Most poems usually disappear after about a century.38

Cultural Context of the Iliad and Odyssey 13

 Vansina’s fieldwork may explain why oral and even memorized poetry disap-
pears or changes significantly after a hundred years. He notes that oral traditions
reflect both the past and the present. Historic consciousness is similar in that it
is perceived in two ways, both as a “time of origin” and “recent times.” The time
of origin moves with the passage of generations. For the Tio of the Congo recent
times extended back about eighty years.39 The evidence Vansina presents sug-
gests that once a generation of grandparents dies o¬, their knowledge recedes
into the time of origin. The mechanism for this recession seems to be that knowl-
edge can no longer be verified and becomes di~cult to maintain. A period of
three generations, or about a hundred years, is the span of time knowledge ap-
pears to remain stable in a family or society. However, since this period is based
on average life spans, it can be shorter, as with the Tio.
This period of stability is probably much shorter for oral epics than for shorter
songs. To an epic singer it is the story, not the objects described in it, that must
remain authentic. Oral epic singers like Homer would use common objects in
their songs as their canvas. The description of such items allowed audiences to
relate more easily to a song’s fictional aspects, making them seem real. There-
fore, epic singers did not worry about contaminating their renditions with ana-
chronisms as long as they remained true to the story line. In fact, they seemed to
embrace innovations. According to Lord, “tradition is not a thing of the past but
a living and dynamic process which began in the past, flourishes in the present,
and looks forward into the future as well. While it does not seek novelty for its
own sake, it does not avoid the new in the life around it. In the Odyssey Phemius
sang the newest songs for the suitors in Ithaka.”40 Concurring with this view
Walter Ong states that “oral societies live very much in a present which keeps it-
self in equilibrium or homeostasis by sloughing o¬ memories which no longer
have present relevance” and that “oral traditions reflect a society’s present cul-
tural values rather than idle curiosity about the past.”41 Finally, Finnegan points
out that “an oral poem is an essentially ephemeral work of art, and has no exis-
tence or continuity apart from its performance.”42
By labeling oral epics as traditional poetry, we may fail to di¬erentiate be-
tween the structure of a song and its content. The structure and general story en-
dure, but the singer continually changes and reworks the details to maintain the
audience’s attention. In The Wedding of Smailagić Meho epic, which is set during
the reign of Suleiman the Magnificent, people travel on steamships.43 This is an
obvious anachronism, but that did not concern the singer because it did not
influence the story, and it placed the tale in a cultural context that was more com-
fortable to the audience. Furthermore, these changes almost always seem to en-
compass what the singers and their audiences would perceive as technological

14 chapter 2
improvements. After all, the heroes that Homer describes are superior in almost
every sense to the people listening to the epics. Therefore, it would be hard for
them to accept that these demigods who lived in the far distant past were inferior
to them in any way.
In any event, the evidence suggests that a hundred years after an item disap-
pears from use, it usually recedes from a long oral epic, and, as such, the details
in the Iliad and the Odyssey best encompass at most a hundred-year period before
these songs were written down. Nevertheless, there are exceptions. Again, a
singer or audience will accept earlier and retain longer than previously suggested
anything that they perceive as superior. An example of the latter is Cyclopean ar-
chitecture. Although the Homeric Greeks did not know who built the imposing
structures like those at Mycenae and Troy—or when they had done so—they
assumed that it was the gods or godlike creatures during the time of the heroes.
Another case in point is the use of bronze swords in both epics. Iron swords did
not replace bronze ones during the Iron Age because they were superior but be-
cause bronze was less accessible. As John Luce points out, “a well-hammered
bronze blade can be as hard as mild steel, and it is di~cult to surpass this degree
of hardness in iron without rendering the metal extremely brittle.”44 As a result,
even if such weapons did not survive from the Bronze Age, the people of Homer’s
time would still have outfitted their heroes with them because they were a supe-
rior weapon. As such, we can consider this an example of an item that may have
existed in only Homer’s heroic world.
One can argue that these perceptions make it di~cult to assign the epics to
only one period; be that as it may, it still has no influence on this study. As Page
suggests, Homer was a skilled storyteller because he was careful to make his
characters and events as lifelike as possible. One reason his tales seemed cred-
ible to his own readers or listeners is that the adventurous and heroic aspects
overlay a background of the real world that they could relate to, and such ele-
ments continually change with time.45 Because Homer performed for audiences
that were steeped in nautical lore, the types of ships they traveled in and the
routes they sailed must have been authentic. They made up a large part of every-
day life and, as such, constituted a good deal of the background that made the
fictional aspects seem more real. We therefore need to know when Homer lived
in order to anchor down the hundred-year period that his epics best describe.
Most ancient writers believed that a poet named Homer created both the Iliad
and the Odyssey. Unfortunately, they did not reveal any details of his life. It was,
however, thought that he was from either Smyrna or Chios, but these claims are
not certain. After the time of Friedrich Wolf, about 1795, there was strong dis-
agreement on the unity of authorship of each poem. This movement was based

Cultural Context of the Iliad and Odyssey 15

on a number of perceived di~culties in both works. The oral-formulaic theory
appears to have resolved these di~culties, and now a single poet for at least each
epic is accepted by most scholars. Most also seem to accept the idea of one poet
named “Homer” for both epics. Although the number of poets has no real bear-
ing on the present work, I adhere to this idea of a single poet.
Unfortunately, ancient authors disagree on when Homer lived. He has been
dated from as early as the Trojan War to about five hundred years later. Today, cit-
ing a number of factors, most scholars place him in the middle of the eighth cen-
tury. According to Herodotus, who is the earliest writer to date Homer, both
Homer and Hesiod lived not more than four hundred years before him, which is
no earlier than about 850 b.c.46 Of course, as Ian Morris points out, Herodotus
appears to have used a forty-year generation span. As a result, it is possible to
move Homer’s time to as late as 750 b.c.47 Furthermore, Richard Janko has stud-
ied the language of the works of both Homer and Hesiod and concludes that the
Iliad was composed between 750 and 725 b.c., the Odyssey between 743 and 713
b.c., and Hesiod’s Theogony from 700 to 665 b.c.48
The dating of these three works coincides well with the previous date given
by Herodotus and the introduction of writing in Greece at the beginning of the
eighth century b.c.49 Furthermore, his analysis and dating of these works has
gone unchallenged. This combination of evidence therefore suggests that the
social and heroic aspects of the story best fit a period no earlier than 850 b.c.
However, the background details, like the ships and nautical lore described in
the Iliad and the Odyssey, are probably contemporary with the time when the epics
were written down—from about 750 to 713 b.c. It is possible that some nautical
formulae derive from earlier periods, but if so, it is because they describe features
that continued to be relevant. Such stability over long periods is very common in
nautical lore. Shipwrights and sailors are known for their conservative attitudes,
and the archaeological evidence, especially in regard to ship construction, sug-
gests that change was typically incremental and took place over very long peri-
ods. Consequently, even though some of the seafaring experiences mentioned in
the epics may reflect structures, practices, and beliefs that predate Homer (and
occurred as early as the Bronze Age), they appear in the works because they were
still in use during Homer’s time, not because of the stability of formulae, or fos-
silization. Again this is so because these are the ever-changing aspects of the
epics that grounded them in the present and allowed audiences to more easily re-
late to the songs. As a result, the evidence based on the oral-formulaic theory
clearly indicates that the nautical lore in both the Iliad and the Odyssey accurately
reflects the period when Homer created both epics—between 750 and 713 b.c.

16 chapter 2
 3
Society,
Economics,
ånd Tråde

The society that Homer describes appears to conform to what anthro-

pologists’ label as a chiefdom. This concurs with the archaeological evidence,
which suggests that Greek society from the Dark Ages to the early Archaic period
was based on this type of social structure.1 A chiefdom is a transitional phase be-
tween tribal and state societies and is roughly defined as a regional, social, and
economic organization that is centrally controlled. Chiefdoms also have some
level of heritable social ranking and usually a form of economic stratification.2 The
social and economic organizations Homer describes concur with these criteria.
The basic social unity in Homeric society is an extended family of three gen-
erations, which typically consists of parents, children, and grandchildren. Male
children and their spouses live at home until the death of the father, while female
children usually move to the home of their husbands. The oi\ko", or household,
is the essence of the economy Homer depicts, which is supported by an agri-
cultural estate. This type of economy may have developed after the fall of the
palace economies of the Bronze Age. Odysseus’s household appears to be self-
su~cient. He raises pigs, cattle, sheep, fruits, and grains. Wool and possibly flax,
which were woven into textiles, are also produced. Local stands of trees would
provide the timber necessary for most construction needs, and food surpluses
appear to be stored in a locked room in the main house. The prestige and honor
of a Homeric hero are based in part on his ability to bequeath both a thriving
household and his hereditary position to his children. When Odysseus suppli-
cates himself to the Phaeacians, he says, “may the gods give prosperity in life,
and may each bequeath to his children the wealth in his home as well as the
hereditary honors the people have given him.”3
We should keep in mind that not all agricultural labor is considered hon-
orable work. The lowest position in Homeric society was that of a day laborer
working for an a[klhro", or a man without any land of his own.4 Furthermore,
Odysseus reacts angrily when he is o¬ered a job collecting stones for fences or
planting trees on a remote estate; both appear to be hard, menial tasks. Instead,
he wants to compete in reaping or plowing to show he can outwork anyone. He
goes so far as to put both on the same level as war, where he can distinguish him-
self in a similar manner by outfighting all combatants.5 Some types of agricul-
tural labor are a proper test of manhood and therefore transcend social classes.6
Although self-su~ciency was an ideal, it was rarely attainable. Metals, slaves,
and luxury goods could rarely if ever be acquired from within a household. War,
raiding, and bartering were the only ways to obtain such goods.7
One of the most famous examples of warfare is the ten-year siege of Troy.
Odysseus attains wealth after the fall of Troy, but this cannot be seen as all pure
gain. The booty that he obtains must recompense him for the ten years he is un-
able to work his estate or raise a family. Ironically, few of the Achaeans appear to
benefit from this long siege. Odysseus’s comrades from Ithaca are returning
home with nothing to show for ten years of warfare.8 Consequently, beyond the
fame and glory Odysseus gains, it is di~cult to calculate how his household and
his community benefit by such a protracted war.
Homeric warriors acquire livestock, slaves, and other goods by raiding, but by
Homer’s day this practice may have diminished in importance.9 All mention of
plundering in both epics appears to be restricted to enemies and distant lands.10
The most famous description of looting in the epics is that by Nestor. In his youth
he leads a successful raid against the Eleans, a longtime foe that has done con-
siderable damage to Nestor’s people.11 Similarly, when Odysseus raids a Cicon-
ian city on his return to Ithaca, he is attacking a Trojan ally.12 Of course, it is also
likely that Odysseus would assault any distant people who were not his allies
solely for the booty. For example, no evidence exists to suggest that Homeric
Greeks considered the Egyptians as enemies; in fact, they seem to admire them
greatly. Nevertheless, Achaean raiders do not hesitate to raid them.13
Odysseus, who is posing as a Cretan, tells Eumaeus that it is through hard
work in the fields and care of the household that healthy children are raised.14
Yet, he continues by stating that he himself has prospered as a raider. However,
nearly every raid Homer describes in the Odyssey ends in disaster, suggesting
that, by his time, success in such a career may have been rare.15
Thucydides asserts that piracy was no disgrace in Homer’s time, but it does
not appear to garner much glory either.16 Odysseus describes such a lifestyle as
wretched and dreaded. When successful, a raider seems to reap only fear (dei-
nov") and respect (aijdoi'o") but not glory (ku'do"), even among his own people.17
According to Eumaeus, raiders are hostile, heartless men, and even the success-
ful ones always fear the retribution of the gods.18 In Homer’s eyes, raiding is ac-

18 chapter 3
ceptable when done out of necessity and can garner glory during war, as the Iliad
shows, but it is not a way of life that one aspires to or that is held in high esteem
during times of peace.
Barter was probably the most common means of attaining goods not pro-
duced by a household. Aristotle defines barter (metablhtikhv) as an exchange of
goods meant only for use, such as wine and food, and only in quantities neces-
sary to meet one’s needs. Unlike barter, he disapproves of trade (kaphlikhv),
which has as its goal the acquisition of gold and riches. Moreover, he disap-
proves of those who try to exact the largest profit from trade goods.19
Homer describes a few incidents of barter in the epics. When Athena pretends
to be Mentes, king of the Taphians, she tells Telemachus that she is sailing to
Temesa to trade iron for copper.20 Homer portrays a poor woman weighing wool
with scales “to get meager goods for her children.”21 Finally, the Achaeans at
Troy exchange copper, iron, hides, cattle, and slaves for wine from Lemnos. In
contrast, Agamemnon and Menelaus are given a thousand measures of wine.22
One must wonder whether this is some form of duty for the right to trade with the
troops. This passage may be a clue as to why Odysseus’s comrades come home
without any booty. They may have been forced to trade everything to acquire wine
and other necessities. If some troops had to barter for necessities at Troy, the
practice of stripping the dead of armor may have been followed for more than
just honor. In some situations stripping a body is no doubt a matter of honor, as
when Hector strips the body of Patroclus. Hector gains status by taking and
wearing the armor of Achilles. On the other hand, warriors who had little or no
social standing may also have stripped the dead to acquire goods to exchange for
necessities.
Unfortunately, Homer usually describes only the Greek nobility. What little he
tells us of the rest of society is almost exclusively in short similes.23 Undoubtedly,
trade thrived in other classes. A farmer may have taken his surplus stock and
sailed with it to market, where he could dispose of it when not needed on the
farm.24 According to Hesiod, if it is necessary to send a cargo by ship, one should
choose a large ship because the greater the cargo, the bigger the gain.25 Yet, at
the same time he also suggests that a prudent man ships only a small part of his
goods, while keeping most at home because if the ship is lost, all is lost.26 The
fact that a landlubber like Hesiod disseminates information on lading cargo and
other nautical matters, such as the best and worst sailing seasons, implies that
sea trade was a common aspect of the times.
Like Aristotle, Homer takes a dim view of bartering for profit. Odysseus is in-
sulted when Euryalus, a Phaeacian youth, compares him to a sea merchant who
is obsessed with profits. Odysseus’s immediate reaction to this a¬ront is an

Society, Economics, and Trade 19

obvious indication of the disgrace attached to such endeavors.27 Homer does not
even use a word to specifically denote traders. Later Greek authors use e[mporo",
but Homer uses it to denote a “passenger on another’s ship.”28 Instead, Euryalus
calls Odysseus a “prhkthvr,” which generally means a “doer.”29 Hesiod, how-
ever, uses a form of e[mporo" to denote trading, suggesting that Homer’s omis-
sion may have been due to poetic or metrical constraints.
We see a disdain for traders and merchants throughout ancient Greek litera-
ture. Plato characterizes them as objects of universal contempt, who not only
lack culture but also attract and cultivate the worst qualities of society.30 Al-
though a stigma exists for nobles participating in sea trade, examples are found
in the literature. Odysseus goes trading with a Phoenician, but he does so only
out of necessity.31 Hesiod’s father becomes a trader but only in order to escape
debt and hunger.32 Andocides was an admiral of the Athenian navy, but he was
forced to become a merchant and ship owner after being driven into exile, sup-
plying the Athenian fleet at Samos with timber, grains, and metal.33 It therefore
appears acceptable for nobles to engage in trade if they fall on hard times. In ad-
dition, it seems acceptable for nobles like Solon to defray expenses by trading
while on foreign trips.34 In the Odyssey and later Greek works, we see a tendency
to minimize such dealings but to trade more than is admitted.35
The tale of Eumaeus, the swineherd, best demonstrates the way Homeric
trade takes place. He tells Odysseus that he is a native of the island of Syria and
that one day a band of Phoenicians came with a large cargo of knickknacks
(ajquvrmata) in their black ship. During their stay they secretly agreed to give
passage to a Phoenician slave girl in Eumaeus’s household. She urged the traders
to barter as quickly as possible and send for her as soon as their ship was loaded
with a new cargo (biovtoio). Yet, they stayed for a whole year before acquiring
their goods and sending for her. They did so by going to the house of Eumaeus’s
father with a necklace of gold and amber. While Eumaeus’s mother and the other
servants were distracted during the haggling, the trader signaled the slave girl.
That night she took both young Eumaeus and a few gold objects and then ran to
the harbor. The ship put to sea and sailed to Ithaca, where Eumaeus was sold to
Laertes.36
Homer is not clear about the customary locations for trading. He does not
specifically mention a fixed marketplace. Instead, the word agora (ajgorhv) de-
notes a “gathering place,” but nowhere a “market.”37 Yet, nothing precludes the
possibility that a Homeric agora was used as a marketplace at this time. In fact,
Homer tells us that the agora served for other purposes. Phaeacian seafarers use
it to repair their gear and sharpen oars.38 Consequently, Homer may have omit-
ted mentioning a market simply because it was not a necessary setting for his

20 chapter 3
story. Even if the agora functioned as a marketplace, a harbor would still be the
natural place to trade for bulk items that are di~cult to move from a ship to a
town’s market. In contrast, smaller and more valuable items may even have been
traded door to door as described earlier.
Although the Phoenicians are asked to make haste, they spend a year trading
before acquiring their new cargo.39 In contrast, Herodotus tells us that Phoeni-
cians at Argos sold nearly everything in five or six days.40 Of course, many factors
may have influenced the time spent trading at any location. For example, the Syr-
ians may have provided a slow but steady trade, and, as a result, the Phoenicians
were content to spend a year in port. In contrast, the Phoenicians that Herodotus
describes may have been very lucky and sold everything in a short time. They may
also have been performing cabotage on a trading voyage that lasted for several
months or a year, with Argos as the last stop where they were able to sell what re-
mained of their original cargo. It is also possible that these two passages indicate
radically di¬erent trade patterns. There may have been fewer lucrative ports for
the Phoenicians to trade in during Homer’s time; thus, longer stays of up to a year
may have been common. In contrast, the description by Herodotus may be a gen-
eral indication of increased trade and of a larger number of ports to barter in dur-
ing the seventh and sixth centuries b.c. Unfortunately, Homer, as with many
things, tells us too little of the trading habits of seafarers for us to be certain.
Eumaeus’s story also reinforces a perception that Phoenicians are cunning
traders who were mistrusted by other Homeric peoples.41 Homer cultivates this
impression by his wordplay, as when he describes Phoenicians as both “of many
skills” (poludaivdalo") and “of many tricks” (polupaivpalo").42 In addition,
Odysseus describes his Phoenician companion as having “deceit in his heart”
(ajpathvlia eijdwv").43 Phoenicians are characterized as being like gypsies, who
sell trinkets and steal babies, but these depictions are probably overstated.44 For
example, there appears to be no stigma attached to slavery in Homeric times, but
the Phoenician slave who kidnapped Eumaeus or the Trojan women who were
taken after the fall of Troy would probably have similar opinions of Taphians and
Achaeans. Furthermore, if all Phoenicians were thought of as deceitful, it is un-
likely that Eumaeus’s mother would have allowed them into her house.
In other passages Phoenicians are described as skilled craftsmen and as noble
(ajgauov").45 When Odysseus meets Athena, who is disguised as a young sheep-
herder, he tells her that he asked Phoenicians to take him and his treasure to
Pylos or Elis. Unfortunately, because of adverse winds they dropped him in
Ithaca and unloaded his goods while he slept.46 Yet, if all Phoenicians were sly
and dishonest, they could easily have stolen his treasure and possibly even have
sold him into slavery. Nevertheless, we can argue that since this is another one of

Society, Economics, and Trade 21

Odysseus’s lies, we should ignore it; but a good liar, which Odysseus obviously
is, knows that the best falsehood is one interwoven with the truth. If all Phoeni-
cians were rogues, as portrayed in other Homeric stories, not even a simple
sheepherder would believe his story. A more balanced view of sailors, regardless
of whether they were Phoenicians, Taphians, or Achaeans, is that most were
probably honest. However, all Homeric people should be wary of unknown sea-
men. After all, seafaring strangers, regardless of nationality, are commonly
asked whether they have come “for some reason or are you aimlessly wandering
like raiders do . . . bringing evil to foreign people?”47
These two divergent attitudes toward Phoenicians were probably also in-
fluenced by the very nature of the chiefdom society that Homer describes. In such
a culture nobles maintained their positions by controlling resources, which in-
cluded surplus food, and access to land as well as to imports, like metals, all of
which were necessary to survive and prosper. Successful chiefs maintain and ad-
vance their position by judiciously redistributing these resources to their people,
which is why generosity is an important characteristic in a chief. Metals and
many other luxury items had to be imported. Therefore, by instituting, main-
taining, and controlling this trade, chiefs would gain status in the eyes of their
people. Furthermore, they could increase their personal wealth by charging a
duty on any goods that foreigners brought. During the Dark Ages this trading
arrangement would have been advantageous to the chiefs and other high-
ranking nobles. However, during the Geometric period the growth of imports
from not only Phoenician but also Greek traders started to grow beyond their
control. The larger quantities of imported goods also made them cheaper and
more available to a wider segment of society, leading to a new class of wealthy
traders outside the control of the nobles. As a result, the artistry of some Phoeni-
cian goods, like the silver mixing bowl Achilles gives as a prize in memory of
Patroclus, are admired, but Phoenicians and traders in general are also seen as a
threat to the nobles’ way of life.48
Although Phoenicians make attractive scoundrels, sometimes it is di~cult
to justify the transactions the Achaean nobles carried out as pure barter. As pre-
viously mentioned, Aristotle defines bartering as a trade for necessities. At first
glance, gift exchanges appear to fall outside the barter system. When Tele-
machus visits Menelaus, Menelaus o¬ers him three horses and a chariot as a
gift.49 Such gifts are a common aspect of Homeric society and appear, for the
most part, to be exchanges and not presents.50 In Homeric society usually only
the host o¬ers a gift.51 If the recipient cannot use the item, however, a refusal is
acceptable. Telemachus declines the horses and chariot because the rocky island
of Ithaca lacks the wide meadows necessary for pasturing and driving the ani-

22 chapter 3
mals, and he asks for something more practical. Instead of being o¬ended,
Menelaus is pleased by the maturity Telemachus displays and gives an even more
valuable gift.52 However, by accepting an o¬ering, a guest is obliged to pro¬er an
item of similar value if the host ever returns the visit.53 If a noble is unable to visit
the gift-friend before the latter dies, he apparently forfeits any right to a recipro-
cal gift.54 Nevertheless, if social ties are still valued, the gift-exchange custom
may transcend generations, and a present is given anyway. These hereditary priv-
ileges are commonly a basis for gift exchanges in later generations.55
Exchanging gifts is not usually seen as a source of wealth since items of equal
value are expected. It is, in fact, a form of social interaction in which a noble can
acquire friends and allies. Thus, it strengthens a household, and, in e¬ect, no-
bles receive a social return for their presents. Yet, not all gifts are of this type. As
previously mentioned, some items appear to take the form of duties. Agamem-
non and Menelaus receive a thousand measures of wine from the Lemnians, and
Thoas receives a silver bowl from the Phoenicians.56 Furthermore, some ex-
changes are not equal. For instance, Glaucus is thought to have lost his mind
when he swaps his golden armor for Tydeus’s bronze armor.57 It also seems that
Tydeus violates the principle of such trades by accepting an item of much higher
value than the one he gives; in e¬ect, he makes a profit. Thus, his actions are sim-
ilar to those of Odysseus.
James Redfield points out that Odysseus appears to do a basic cost-benefit
analysis of everything. He always seems to be weighing his present expenditures
against hoped-for profits.58 He tells his men it is miserable to spend even one
month from home, but it is disgraceful to stay away for long periods and come
home with nothing.59 He also informs Alcinous that no matter how eager he is to
go home, he would gladly stay away for another year and acquire more riches be-
cause he would then garner greater respect at home.60 Odysseus appears to ex-
ploit the gift-exchange custom by taking presents from the Phaeacians that he
will never have to reciprocate. Furthermore, in this situation he makes it clear
that it is the value of a gift and not the thought that counts.61 His presents are so
numerous that Poseidon complains to Zeus that Odysseus is getting more than
he could have won from the fall of Troy.62 Furthermore, Odysseus goes so far as
to count his gifts to confirm that the Phaeacian crewmembers did not steal any-
thing.63 Ironically, he is behaving like the careful, grasping merchant that Eu-
ryalus accuses him of being, but his actions are consistent with those of people
living in band, tribal, or chieftain societies.64 Odysseus’s desire to get as much as
possible and give nothing in return is labeled negative reciprocity. This is a com-
mon practice in such societies when dealing with a group outside or on the
edges of that community. The closer groups are socially, the more balanced the

Society, Economics, and Trade 23

exchanges of goods. However, distance between groups can also be a factor.
There appears to be a direct correlation between the degree of negative reciproc-
ity and the distance between the gift givers. In other words, the farther a noble re-
sides from a gift giver, the less social interaction occurs between them. Thus, the
less will also be the possibility the gift giver will ever visit and receive a present.
Under these circumstances, the more valuable the gift the better.
In a sense, Odysseus earns the gifts given him by the Phaeacians in the context
of a chiefdom society. The number and quality of these gifts are a direct result of
the glory and status that Odysseus attained at Troy. A noble of little distinction
would have received considerably less. Regardless of the apparent similarities to
us between a merchant and Odysseus, in Odysseus’s mind no similarities exist.
Traders and merchants are seen as acquiring extortionate profits for themselves
at the expense of the chiefs, weakening their positions at home, which goes
against their precepts of society. In contrast, everything Odysseus does he does
to acquire wealth for his household and his descendants. When he spins the tale
of all the wealth the Thesprotians are holding for him, he says it will feed his
heirs for the next ten generations.65 He is concerned mainly with the longevity,
status, and security of his family circle. In addition, these goods will allow him
to give gift exchanges of a higher value and also enable him to redistribute more
goods to his community, both of which will enhance his own and his descen-
dants’ status.
Passages from both epics clearly show that the wealth and status of a house-
hold were dependent on the goods that ships and seafarers brought. Ships were
the primary conveyances that allowed nobles to acquire necessary goods and to
extend their social network. Chariots and wagons, on the other hand, were far
less e~cient when compared to the heavy burdens even a small craft could carry,
especially since no evidence exists for a well-developed road system in Homeric
Greece. Ships are therefore a fundamental component of the economic prosper-
ity of Homeric heroes, and the next chapter explains the technique the Homeric
Greeks used to build the hulls of these vessels.

24 chapter 3
 4
hull
construction

If we wish to understand Homeric ships and seafaring, the first ques-

tion to ask is how did Homeric carpenters build their ships? This would seem to
be relatively easy to answer, but a lack of archaeological evidence has made it
one of the more controversial questions about Homeric seafaring. The paucity
of such evidence has forced many scholars to base their interpretations on the
vessel-building passage in book 5 of the Odyssey. Here Homer describes Odys-
seus’s activity: He fells trees, roughly shapes them with only an axe (244), and
then skillfully smoothes them with just an adze (245); finally, with drills he bores
the holes for the fasteners (247). Once the hull planking is joined, Odysseus in-
serts the framing and sets up a deck (252–53). This is a rather simple process that
requires few tools.
Furthermore, Homer tells us specifically how Odysseus joins his planking
and timbers. The two relevant lines state that “he bored them all and fit them to-
gether, and then with pegs [govmfoisin] and fasteners [aJrmonivh/sin] did he ham-
mer [or join, a[rassen] it together.”1 Although this passage appears clear, there
has been considerable disagreement over its interpretation, mainly because of
the various translations of govmfoi and aJrmonivai. Homeric scholars have imag-
ined Odysseus building his vessel with dowels and cords, treenails and dowels,
nails and clamps, and even bolts and rivets.2 Finally, in 1964, Lionel Casson rein-
terpreted this passage based on new information discovered from Greek and
Roman shipwrecks.
Casson proposes that Homeric ships were built with the same type of pegged
mortise-and-tenon construction as these later ships exhibited (figure 4).3 The
vessel most commonly cited as an example of this type of construction is the
Kyrenia shipwreck, a small Greek merchant ship that sank o¬ the coast of
Cyprus probably during the last decade of the fourth century b.c. (figure 5). The
hull planking of this ship is of Aleppo pine (Pinus halepensis), while tenons and
 Figure 4. Mortise-and-tenon joinery
(after Casson, 1991, figure 3)

tenon pegs are made from Turkey oak (Quercus cerrus). Shipwrights edge-joined
the planks with closely spaced mortise-and-tenon joints.4 These pegged joints
act as internal frames, and their size and proximity add considerable sti¬ness
and integrity to hull planking. Shipwrights carved tenons from a hardwood to re-
duce the distortion, cutting, or breaking of joints because seams try to shift un-
der the strain of heavy cargoes or turbulent seas. The broad and rounded hull and
soft curvatures of the Kyrenia ship also minimized these strains.5 The hull plank-
ing is reinforced with forty-one alternating floor timbers and half-frames, all
with an average, center-to-center spacing of 25 centimeters (figure 5). The fram-
ing is secured with oak treenails through which copper nails were driven and
then double-clenched.6 Longitudinally, this ship is sti¬ened by wales, a shelf
clamp, and ceiling planking.7 The Kyrenia ship was a graceful and watertight
merchant craft that carried considerable tonnage for many years.
Casson was therefore extending this classical technique of shipbuilding back
to Homer’s time, and his interpretation has received wide support, but there are
a few problems with it. Even he concedes that ancient literature suggests that the
Greeks and Romans believed that Homeric Greeks built their ships a di¬erent
way, by edge-joining their planking with dowels and then securing the planking
by lacing them together with some form of cordage that was either pegged or
lashed into place (figure 6).8 In the Supplices, for example, Aeschylus describes the
suppliant maidens sailing from Egypt to the shores of Argos in a laced ship.9 In
Pacuvius’s Latin version of the Odyssey, the Niptra, Odysseus builds a laced boat
to escape from Calypso’s island.10 Varro and Pliny wrote that the Greeks sailed to
Troy in such ships, basing their opinion on the following passage from the Iliad:
“[T]he planks of our ships have rotted away and the cords are parted.”11 Even
Casson agrees with this interpretation.12 Patrice Pomey is one of the few who

26 chapter 4
Figure 5. Kyrenia ship (after Ste¬y, 1985, figures 1 and 2)
 Figure 6. Laced joinery

believes this evidence suggests a wider use of such ships during classical times,
but he has for the most part been ignored.13
Instead, such passages are explained away by proposing that they are not rel-
evant because the authors mentioned laced ships to evoke a feeling of the distant
past, just as a mention of the “ark” does today.14 Yet, it seems unlikely that ancient
writers would rely on easily forgotten aspects of ship construction to evoke feel-
ings of the past unless such techniques were still relatively common in their day;
the type of fastener used to secure hull planking is the sort of information that is
quickly forgotten as one technique of ship construction is replaced by another.
An audience simply does not have the time during a performance to interpret a
few arcane details of ship construction in order to grasp a playwright’s meaning,
thus suggesting that such details must have been common knowledge. Laced
vessels must therefore have been relatively ordinary in Greece when Aeschylus
(ca. 525–456 b.c.) wrote the Supplices and when Herodotus (ca. 484–420 b.c.)
wrote an abbreviated description of Egyptians building a laced riverboat. The lat-
ter’s audience must have been well acquainted with laced assembly if they were
to understand this passage. Today, even with the aid of archaeology, iconogra-
phy, and textual information, scholars still disagree on some of the finer points
of this section, just as they do with the vessel-building passage by Homer.15 By
the time Apollonius Rhodius (ca. 290–247 b.c.) wrote the Argonautica, laced

28 chapter 4
vessels were apparently no longer being built or were so rare in the Greek world
that a mention of one would result in confusion instead of conjuring visions of
the past. Jason and the Argonauts seem to build their ship with pegged mortise-
and-tenon joinery instead of cords, even though they are supposed to have lived
before the time of Odysseus.16
Furthermore, if Homer were trying to evoke memories of the past, we would
expect him to be consistent throughout both epics. However, as previously men-
tioned, he describes the ships at Troy as being laced together, whereas Casson
has Odysseus building his vessel with pegged mortise-and-tenon joints. Cas-
son’s interpretation is also unlikely because Homer uses the phrase scedivh"
poludevsmou to describe this vessel, which means “on a vessel fastened with
many bonds.”17 Whenever desmov" appears in Homer and is associated with hu-
mans, it means cables or cords. However, in relation to the gods, it usually de-
notes metal fasteners, but it is never used to describe any type of wooden joint.18
In the Odyssey, for example, desmov" describes a mooring cable, a cord used to tie
up a box, a cord to secure a lock, and the cords used to tie Odysseus to the mast.19
Another passage in the Odyssey may suggest that ships were laced together:
“He said that he had seen Odysseus among the Cretans at the house of Ido-
meneus, mending [ajkeiovmenon] his ships which storms had shattered [trans.
A. Murray].”20 The verb ajkevomai (“to heal,” “to cure,” or “to repair”) is used fre-
quently in reference to tailors, cobblers, and even to a spider mending its web.21
Again, some type of thread or cord is used in each context, but none has any con-
nection to wooden fasteners. Consequently, if Homer is describing the building
of a laced vessel in this construction passage, he would be consistently describ-
ing laced ships throughout both epics.
Another problem with Casson’s interpretation is that a pegged mortise-and-
tenon design seems to be too complex for the description Homer outlines in this
passage. In order for Odysseus to build a vessel in this manner, with the tools and
materials mentioned, he must follow a specific sequence of tasks: shape the
planks with an axe and an adze; cut the mortises out with a chisel; fit the plank to
the vessel; bore the peg holes through the mortise-and-tenon joints and then
hammer in the pegs; install the frames after the planking is assembled; and,
finally, bore and treenail the frames to the hull.
If Odysseus were building a vessel with pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery,
we would expect Homer to describe him chiseling out the mortises before the
planks were fitted and then drilling the holes for the locking pegs after they are
fitted because all of the required drilling for this type of construction occurs af-
ter the planking is in place. In this construction passage, however, Odysseus
bores all his planks and timbers before the planks are fitted. Casson attempts to

Hull Construction 29
circumvent this inconsistency by proposing that Odysseus was drilling into the
edges of the planks to start the mortises. A carpenter can make a mortise by first
drilling two holes to define the edges and then cut out the wood between both
holes with a chisel. Nevertheless, boring the edge of a plank before cutting the
mortises is not required, and there is a lack of evidence to suggest it was a com-
mon practice at this time.22 The Uluburun wreck is the earliest known vessel with
pegged mortise-and-tenon joints (ca. 1306 b.c.), and the mortises on this craft
lack evidence of drilling before chiseling.23 Although unlikely, it is possible that
such a technique was used, but, even so, it still fails to address the omission of
the chisel and the two later stages of boring necessary for this type of design.
In comparison to pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery, laced construction con-
forms more closely to the evidence. To build a simple laced boat, one requires an
axe and an adze to shape the planks, then a drill to bore the dowel holes in the
edges of the planks. A drill with a smaller-diameter bit is used for the pegs that
secure the cords. The planks are then fitted to one another and laced, and finally
the pegs are driven into place. The frames of such a ship were neither treenailed
nor nailed to the planking but were laced and then pegged in place, just like the
planking. Since dowels are not pegged and it is unnecessary for lacing holes to
line up, all of the holes in a plank could be bored at the same time—before the
plank was fitted, as Homer describes.24 In contrast, as mentioned earlier, the as-
sembly of a pegged mortise-and-tenon vessel would have required boring at two
or three di¬erent times, depending on the type of craft. Finally, Odysseus could
have built a rudimentary laced boat with the few tools mentioned in this passage;
in the case of a pegged mortise-and-tenoned craft this is impossible.
Such small toolkits appear to be rather common for the construction of laced
ships. Alfred Wallace describes the construction of a laced vessel called a prahu
kulis, which he observed the people of Kei Island, Indonesia, building during his
travels in the nineteenth century. A prahu kulis was a seagoing vessel that could
carry 20–30 tons of cargo and was praised for its seaworthiness. Yet, a carpenter
needed only an axe, an adze, and a drill to build one.25 To build mitepe only a saw,
adze, drill, and hammer were required, and traditional shipwrights in Oman
built vessels of up to 100 tons with only an adze, a saw, and a bow drill.26
Nevertheless, it has been argued that the construction of a laced ship does not
completely correspond to the description in Homer’s passage. One step that
Homer appears to omit is the caulking of the seams.27 However, laced vessels are
not really caulked in the strict sense of the word. When a shipwright caulks
seams, he drives some type of plant, fibrous material, animal hair, resin, or other
soft material into the planking seams, usually with a caulking chisel after the
planks are nailed in place.28 If this were attempted with a laced vessel, the force

30 chapter 4
Figure 7. Cross section of the royal barge of Cheops (Khufu) (after Lipke, 1984, p. 21)

necessary to drive in the caulking material would stretch or break the cords hold-
ing the planks together. Instead, in most laced ships, rolls of organic or fibrous
material called wadding are laid along the inner planking seams and then are tied
in place by small cords before lacing begins (figure 6); the lacing then secures the
wadding.29 However, carpenters used various techniques to build these ships. A
number of traditional shipwrights hammered some type of material into the
seams but before the planks were laced into place; however, this was not a uni-
versal custom.30 Furthermore, in the Cheops I vessel, an Egyptian ship dating to
about 2566 b.c., wooden battens may have been used instead of wadding be-
cause none was found in the boat pit (figure 7).31 Some laced vessels appear to
have used both battens or laths and wadding.32
In regard to Homer’s failure to mention the laying and tying of wadding, he
may have omitted both simply because neither was required. We have several ac-
counts of laced vessels that use neither wadding nor battens. The hull planking
of the previously mentioned prahu kulis was fitted so tightly that neither was
necessary.33 In addition, John of Monte Corvino sailed on a laced ship in the four-
teenth century a.d. that appears to have lacked both.34 The frequency of use of
these materials varied, and their necessity appears to have depended on a num-
ber of factors, including the quality of workmanship and materials, the thick-

Hull Construction 31
ness of the planking, the amount of time invested in crafting the joinery and in
building such a craft, and the distances sailed before repairs would be possible.
Besides wadding, it has also been argued that Homer fails to mention the lac-
ing together of the planks. One way to finesse this omission is to argue that this
is not significant because Homer does not describe the insertion of any fasten-
ers, and the exclusion of such details should not be surprising; after all, Homer’s
intention was to entertain. Thus, if a required tool is omitted, such as Casson’s
chisel, or if the series of procedures for building a vessel seems to be incomplete,
the explanation may be that Homer was more concerned with the construction
of his poetry than he was with the particulars of Odysseus’s shipbuilding. Never-
theless, even after taking into account the possibility of poetic license, the simple
fact remains that Odysseus could have built a laced vessel with only the tools Ca-
lypso gave him. Furthermore, even if some of the steps are omitted, the order of
the remaining ones is still consistent with those that were necessary to build a
laced vessel; neither statement is true for a craft built with pegged mortise-and-
tenon joinery. It is, however, also possible that Homer does not omit any of the
needed tools and that all of the construction processes are implied in this build-
ing passage. A review of the etymology of govmfoi, aJrmonivai, and a[rassen helps
to explain this alternative interpretation.
Odysseus took the bored timbers “and fit them all together [h{rmosen ajl-
lhvloisin], and then with pegs [govmfoisin] and fasteners [aJrmonivh/sin] did he
hammer [or join, a[rassen] it together.” There is little doubt that govmfoi denotes
wooden fasteners.35 Casson interprets govmfoi as the transfixing pegs that fix the
aJrmonivai in place, and, as the planking is already fitted together, it seems un-
likely that this term refers to the fasteners used to edge-join the planking.36 Thus,
Casson’s interpretation appears to be correct.
The standard translation of aJrmonivai is “joints” or “fasteners,” but the type
of joint is unknown. Casson translates aJrmonivai as “mortise-and-tenon joints.”37
Heraclitus, however, uses it to denote the strings on bows and lyres.38 Casson
disagrees; he believes this translation is faulty, and he himself translates the rel-
evant passage as “the harmony of the universe produced by opposite tensions,
like that of a bow and lyre.”39 According to Casson, Heraclitus is using a bow and
a lyre to illustrate the opposite tensions in the universe that produce aJrmoniva, or
harmony.40 Casson is correct that this poetic fragment suggests a sense of cos-
mic unity, but his translation is flawed. The words “of the universe” do not ap-
pear in the original Greek text, and, according to Charles Kahn, no paleographic
evidence exists for such a translation. It is in fact an error in the transcription of
oJmologevein for oJmologevei in the manuscripts of Hippolytus; this then allowed
the passage to conform with a free paraphrase in Plato’s Symposium (p. 187A).

32 chapter 4
Consequently, an accurate translation of Heraclitus (51 D-K) is “[it is] an attune-
ment [or fitting together] turning back [on itself ], like that of a bow and the
lyre.”41 The beauty of this passage comes from the interplay of the various mean-
ings of aJrmoniva in comparison to a bow and a lyre. One comparison of palivn-
tropo" aJrmonivh [an attunement turning back] with a lyre is the stringing or
tuning of the strings of an instrument. In relation to a bow, a comparison is “the
fitting of the string to the bow-arms and the fitting of an arrow to the string.” The
usage of aJrmoniva in this passage is nothing more than a simplified fusion of two
or three archaic meanings, two of which are the stringing or tuning of the strings
of a lyre and the fitting of a string to a bow.42
Sutural ligaments are also denoted by aJrmonivai in the Hippocratic corpus.43
As with most other ancient texts, aJrmoniva describes a means of joining or fas-
tening, and sutural ligaments are fibrous connective tissues that unite the bones
of the skull. Eventually these joints disappear, but as they do so the bones fuse.44
In this passage Hippocrates uses aJrmoniva to illustrate a condition in which the
edges of these bones have pulled apart; in such circumstances the fibrous suture
joints would most easily be seen. Casson disagrees and translates aJrmonivai as
“the seams or joints where two contiguous members meet, in this case the seams
between the bones in the skull.”45 Yet, even using this definition, the word aJr-
monivai still best describes fibrous joints because they are the link between the
contiguous edges of the bony parts of the skull.46
Casson’s translation is also unlikely because Hippocrates and other ancient
Greek writers use both rJafhv and aJrmoniva to denote the sutures of the skull.47
The former is derived from the verb rJavptw, which is commonly used to denote
sewing and stitching.48 This suggests that both aJrmoniva and rJafhv could mean a
fibrous joint instead of a seam because both were used to denote fasteners of
thread, string, or cordage. It is also possible that both words denote the sutures
of the skull for the simple reason that these sutures have a pattern that is remi-
niscent of stitching.
Finally, if aJrmoniva is a synonym for rJafhv, this supports the contention that
aJrmonivai can denote cords that join planking. In both the Supplices and the Peri-
plus Maris Etythraei, laced vessels are respectively called rJafaiv ojstevwn and ploi-
avria rJapta;.49 The terms rJafhv, rJafaiv, and rJapta; are all derived from the verb
rJavptw.50 If aJrmoniva is associated with rJavptw in one sense, it may therefore be
associated in both.
Casson goes on to state that if aJrmoniva does mean cords, it “is totally at vari-
ance with the verb the term goes with, ‘hammered’ [a[rassen].”51 I disagree; im-
mediately before pegging the lacing in place, it is common to hammer the lacing
and wadding to compress both as much as possible to allow for tighter seams.52

Hull Construction 33
Furthermore, if the wadding consists of reeds, hammering them before pegging
them in place would make them very sticky, also resulting in tighter seams. Dur-
ing ancient times, smashed reeds were considered stronger than any glue or
pitch.53 Consequently, both the pegs that secure them and the lacings are ham-
mered in place as Homer describes.
One should also note that some doubt exists about the correct translation of
a[rassen. Casson maintains that a[rassen is from ajravssw and means “to ham-
mer”; yet it is also possible that a[rassen is a form of ajrarivskw and means “to
join together.” This translation is based on the possibility that a[rhren was an al-
ternative ancient reading for a[rassen.54 Thus, the translation is “and then by
pegs and lacings did he join it together.” This translation clearly describes one
aspect of constructing a laced vessel. Yet, Liddell, Scott, and Jones deny that
a[rhren is an alternative reading for a[rassen because a[rhren is thought to be an
intransitive verb.55 However, even if they are correct and a[rhren is an intransitive
verb, a[rassen may still be a form of ajrarivskw. Albert Lord says it is common
for oral poets to suspend such grammatical niceties during oral performances.56
The use of a[rhren as a transitive verb may therefore be a vestige of the original
oral performance.
The problem of deciding on the correct translation arises from the fact that
this form of the verb appears only in this passage of the Odyssey; as a result, there
is disagreement concerning its etymology.57 A drawback to Casson’s interpre-
tation is that the verb ajravssw does not describe a carpenter (or anyone else for
that matter) hammering anything together.58 In the context of the Iliad and the
Odyssey it means to break, smash, or destroy—not to build.59 The verb ajra-
rivskw, however, describes the joining of the decking to the frames of Odysseus’s
vessel.60 Moreover, the placement of a form of ajrarivskw directly after aJrmonivh
would mean that the verb and indirect object are two cognate words; this type of
punning is common in Homer. Furthermore, if we accept this translation of
a[rassen, we have an alternative explanation for the way in which Homer in-
cludes all of the tools and implies all of the construction stages in this passage,
as I mentioned earlier.
The placement of the dowels or tenons in their respective holes is implied
when Homer states that Odysseus “fit them [timbers] all together [h{rmosen
ajllhvloisi]. This implication is also required for Casson’s interpretation. It is
therefore possible that the same is true in the line “with pegs [govmfoisin] and
lacings [aJrmonivh/sin] did he join [a[rassen] it together.” The joining process in-
cludes the laying of the wadding, the lacing of the planks, and the hammering
of the pegs; all are implied in the verb a[rassen, just as the process of fitting
the dowels into their respective holes in the planks is implied in h{rmosen

34 chapter 4
ajllhvloisi. If we accept this interpretation, then Odysseus is able to build a laced
vessel using the few tools given to him and by following the steps the passage
outlines. Again, neither is true for the construction of a vessel built with pegged
mortise-and-tenon joinery.
Finally, another etymological fact that suggests the Greeks did not adopt the
use of mortise-and-tenon joinery until after Homer’s time comes from the Ro-
mans. The Romans called this joint a Punicana coagmentá after their Punic ene-
mies, which suggests they learned to make it from them, not from the Etruscans
or Greeks, even though the Romans had constant and close contact with both
groups long before coming into contact with the Punic people. Furthermore,
this is especially curious as most maritime terms the Romans used derive from
Greek.61 If the Greeks had been building their ships with this type of joinery as
early as Homer’s time—a time when the Greeks first started to make their pres-
ence known in Italy—they would probably have introduced it to both Etruria and
Rome.
If we take into account the tools Odysseus uses, the stages required to build
his vessel, the etymology of the words describing the fasteners, the other pas-
sages denoting laced ships in the Homeric epics, and a desire to remain consis-
tent in the descriptions of ship construction throughout both epics, everything
points to dowels and pegged lacings as the fasteners used to build ships during
Homeric times and—based on the mention of laced ships by Classical Greek
writers—probably much later as well. However, in spite of all the evidence, Cas-
son’s interpretation is still widely accepted, which until now has been so for two
good reasons. The first is the archaeological evidence. The earliest known seago-
ing ships with surviving hull planking in the Mediterranean region are all built
with pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery, but no evidence exists for laced ships.
Yet, a review of the facts demonstrates that this is misleading.
The Uluburun ship sank near the peninsula of Uluburun, Turkey, and the
evidence suggests it was a Syro-Canaanite ship that dates to about 1306 b.c.
(figure 8).62 It was approximately 15 meters in length and carried at least twenty
tons of cargo.63 Unfortunately, only three small sections of hull planking survive,
consisting of a keel plank or protokeel, garboard strakes, and a variable number
of planking pieces (figure 9). The planking is fastened with widely spaced pegged
mortise-and-tenon joints that are unusually large. These connections are so
large that mortises on the upper edge of a plank were cut into part of the previ-
ously pegged tenon on the opposite edge of the plank. The large size of these
junctures and the way they line up lends credence to the idea that mortise-and-
tenon joints act as internal frames.64 The planking and protokeel are of cedar,
and the tenons are of oak. One of the more interesting aspects of this wreck is a

Hull Construction 35
Figure 8. Map of Mediterranean shipwrecks

Figure 9. Uluburun wreck (after Pulak,

1999, figure 2)
lack of evidence for framing, bulkheads, or any items for fastening them to the
hull planking. It has been proposed that the preserved sections are neither long
nor wide enough to include them. Still, even if the sections of planking were not
wide enough for evidence of fasteners to survive, it seems unlikely that all traces
of framing would have disappeared. The sections of planking that survive did so
because they were covered by anchors or copper ingots, just as the surviving dun-
nage of thorny burnet (Sarcopoterium spinosum).65 For this reason, if framing ex-
isted, some indication of it should have endured in these areas, particularly since
the dunnage lasted. At the very least, we would expect to see some compression
scarring on the upper faces of the planking, especially considering the weight of
so many ingots stacked in these places. The most likely explanation is that the
cargo was packed between the framing. Under these circumstances the cargo
would not cover and protect the planks, leaving them vulnerable to decay and de-
struction by teredo worms. One of the best preserved remnants of the hull is 1.8
meters long, which suggests the minimum frame spacing.66
The Uluburun ship probably represents the best technology of the time. Such
a rich cargo that included ivory, gold jewelry, 10 tons of copper, 1 ton of tin, and
more than 130 glass ingots would have been entrusted to only the most seawor-
thy of ships. It is therefore possible that this ship is similar to the Syro-Canaanite
ship portrayed on the tomb of Kenamun (figure 10). Nevertheless, one curious
feature of this painting is the lacing at the bow. It has been proposed that details
such as the laced ships depicted on the walls of Kenamun’s tomb are artistic con-
ventions.67 Egyptian artists are believed to have continued portraying the old
laced ships, even though they were no longer being built, because changes in
shipbuilding techniques were not relevant to them.
What is believed to be a second Syro-Canaanite shipwreck was discovered
o¬ Cape Gelidonya, Turkey (figure 8). This vessel, which sank about 1200 b.c.,
was a merchant ship carrying primarily copper and bronze.68 Little of the hull
survives, but there is enough to suggest that this vessel was built with pegged
mortise-and-tenon joinery of a size similar to that on the Uluburun wreck.69
A considerable period of time elapsed before another wreck with hull plank-
ing was discovered, and it is believed to be Phoenician. There appears to be no
real di¬erence between the Bronze Age Canaanites and the Phoenicians of
Homer’s time. In the Bronze Age the Canaanites used the former term to de-
scribe themselves, while the Greeks used the latter term to describe these long-
distance traders after the Bronze Age.
This third wreck dates to the seventh century b.c. and was discovered at
Mazarrón, Playa de la Isla, Spain (figure 8). Only general details and a sketch of

Hull Construction 37
Figure 10. Canaanite ship from the tomb of Kenamun (after Davies and Faulkner, 1947, pl. 8)

the hull, which appears to be drawn to scale, have been published (figure 11).70
This craft was built with pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery, but these joints
seem to be considerably smaller than those of the Uluburun vessel. The frames
are circular, approximately 6.5 centimeters in diameter, are laced to the hull, and
appear to be spaced roughly 47 centimeters center to center.71 This ship also
seems to have wadding laced along the seams (figure 12); this is a rare trait for a
pegged mortise-and-tenon ship. The most important aspects of this wreck sug-
gest that this ship was Phoenician.72
Consequently, we have evidence of a Canaanite/Phoenician tradition of build-
ing ships with pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery, extending from the end of the
Late Bronze Age to the seventh century b.c. Curiously, even after such a long
time, the frames on the Mazarrón wreck are small, widely spaced, and, most im-
portant, held in place with cords instead of being treenailed to the hull. It is
therefore possible that a similar framing pattern was used in the earlier Ulubu-
run ship. Nevertheless, the frame spacing is considerably smaller than what I
suggest for the Uluburun ship. This may be the result of a combination of thin-
ner planking, smaller mortise-and-tenon joints, and a change in the placement
of mortise-and-tenon joints throughout the hull.
The lacing of the frames to the hull and the use of laced wadding on at least
some of the seams suggest that the earlier Canaanite ships were also built using
a combination of construction techniques. One discrepancy between the con-
struction of the Uluburun and Mazarrón ships is a lack of evidence for wadding
or lacing in the former. However, only the forward section of the Mazarrón ship

38 chapter 4
Figure 11. Mazarrón wreck (after Negueruela et al., 1995, figure 11)

Figure 12. Lacing and wadding on

the Mazarrón wreck (after Åkesson,
2003, ship 58, figure 515)

survives, while both extremities are missing from the Uluburun craft. Further-
more, the lacings portrayed on the Kenamun ship are seen only at the bow. As a
result, the lacing and wadding may have been confined to the extremities. If such
is the case, the Egyptian paintings of Syro-Canaanite ships may accurately por-
tray the lacings still being used on pegged mortise-and-tenoned ships.

Hull Construction 39
 The fact that we find evidence of ships built with pegged mortise-and-tenon
joinery both before and after Homer’s time does much to support the hypothesis
that Homeric shipwrights used this technique. However, we need to consider
additional archaeological evidence on laced ships.
The oldest of the seagoing, laced ships is the Giglio wreck, which was found
in Campese Bay, Giglio Island, Italy, dating to about 600 b.c. (figure 8).73 After
examining the wreck’s location, cargo, and especially the type of hull construc-
tion, Mensun Bound proposes that the craft is probably Etruscan. With regard to
the location of the wreck, he argues that the island of Giglio was well within the
“jealously guarded waters” of Etruria and that foreign ships would not have been
permitted to travel in this region.74 Nonetheless, Bound fails to cite any evidence
to prove that Greek merchant ships were forbidden to sail on the Tyrrhenian Sea
during the seventh century and most of the sixth century b.c. One may attempt
to support such an opinion by quoting Ephorus, who writes that, because of
Etruscan piracy, Greeks refused to sail in Sicilian waters before the founding of
Naxos (ca. 735 b.c.).75 Nevertheless, the archaeological evidence contradicts
this statement. The Greeks established the prosperous trading colony of Pithe-
koussai on the island of Ischia around 775 b.c. (figure 8). It seems unlikely that
such an isolated Greek settlement that depended on trade as a basis of its econ-
omy could have prospered without the relatively safe passage of Greek ships
through these waters.
The tendency among a number of ancient writers to label the Etruscans as pi-
rates has undoubtedly influenced the myth that sailing the Tyrrhenian Sea was
dangerous. The earliest description is in the Homeric Hymn to Dionysus (VII, 6–14).
In this work Dionysus is kidnapped by pirates, but disagreement exists as to the
date.76 There is also no consensus on the location of the kidnapping (either in
Aegean or Etruscan waters).77 Finally, there is contention about whether these
pirates were Etruscan or non-Hellenic peoples of Thrace, Lemnos, or Athens.78
In fact, the theme of Etruscan piracy does not become common until the fourth
century b.c.79 In the works of earlier authors such as Hesiod, Herodotus, Pindar,
and Thucydides, the mention of Etruscan piracy is conspicuously absent.
This discrepancy may be explained by the Greek defeat of the Etruscan navy at
the Battle of Cumae (524 b.c.). This crushing loss may have led to a disintegra-
tion of the Etruscan navy and coastal economy and ultimately resulted in an in-
crease in piracy.80 In truth, we have no evidence that suggests the Tyrrhenian Sea
was any less accessible or any more dangerous to Greek merchant ships than
was the Aegean Sea before the end of the sixth century b.c. In contrast, the evi-
dence of early Greek commerce in this area is plentiful. For example, we have the
legend of Demaratus, a Corinthian aristocrat who made a number of trading

40 chapter 4
voyages between Greece and Etruria. Eventually, he immigrated with various
craftspeople to Tarquinia because of political crises in Corinth (ca. 657 b.c.).81 In
addition, excavations at Gravisca, the port of Tarquinia, have revealed a rich Greek
quarter, including temples. Archaeological evidence from the site suggests that
trade between Greece and Etruria continued to grow into the sixth century b.c.82
Greek trading colonies were also established at Caere and Vulci, and the Pho-
caean Greeks established the colony of Marseille (ancient Massilia) in southern
France primarily as a port of trade around 600 b.c. (figure 8).83 This port contin-
ued to receive a variety of imports from Greece during the sixth century b.c.84
The most likely and profitable route to connect Greece and Marseille would
have been via the Tyrrhenian Sea. Even today the recommended route connecting
this port with the Aegean is by means of the Straits of Messina.85 Thus, instead
of the Tyrrhenian Sea being closed to Greek shipping, the indications are that
Greek merchants had an important trade center in the Etruscan city of Gravisca
less than 75 kilometers from where the Giglio ship sank. The evidence therefore
suggests not only that it was common for Greeks to make trading voyages along
the Etruscan coast during the seventh and sixth centuries b.c., but also that the
desire for Greek goods and technical expertise was so strong that Greek mer-
chants were welcome to immigrate to Etruria; thus, their enclaves flourished in
many Etruscan port cities.
The cargo recovered from the Giglio wreck consists of Samian, Ionian, La-
conian, Corinthian, and Etruscan fine wares. Amphorae include Samian, East
Greek, Punic, and Etruscan types and possibly Laconian and Corinthian types.
The cargo also contains lead, copper, and iron from Etruria and anchor stocks
from the island of Giglio.86 Bound argues that Greek wares could have been
transshipped to Etruscan ports and are not reliable indicators of this particular
ship’s route or home port. He states that most of the cargo consists of Etruscan
amphorae, stone anchor stocks, and metal ingots, and, as such, these items are
more indicative of the ship’s origin, which is probably Etruscan.87 Although this
is a possible interpretation and Greek wares may have been transshipped, we
must not ignore evidence that consists of exploits by early Greek seafarers, indi-
cating that Greeks commonly participated in long-distance trading at this time.
As previously mentioned, Demaratus undertook many voyages between Corinth
and Tarquinia. We also know of Colaeus, a Samian trader who, while sailing to
Egypt, was blown o¬ course and found himself at Tartessus in Spain and re-
turned to Samos with one of the richest cargoes in the island’s history.88 Sostratos,
a successful Aeginetan trader that Herodotus mentions,89 may have dedicated an
inscribed anchor stock to Apollo at Gravisca. In addition, he has been associ-
ated—by gra~ti [scratched marks] and dipinti [painted marks]—with many

Hull Construction 41
Athenian vases exported to Etruria.90 Finally, according to Herodotus, the Pho-
caeans had a reputation for making long sea voyages, one of which culminated
in the founding of Marseille.91 We should therefore examine the cargo in its en-
tirety to see whether it reflects the route this vessel traveled.
If the Giglio wreck was a Samian trader, the Samian, Ionian, Laconian,
Corinthian, and Etruscan wares recovered from it represent its ports of call. We
would expect to see such goods in a ship engaged in cabotage and on a voyage
from Samos to Gravisca (figure 8). Furthermore, if a trader began a journey with
a load of Samian products, we would presume this original cargo would diminish
the farther the ship traveled from its port of origin. Under these conditions, it is
understandable that a large part of the freight from the Giglio wreck consists of
fine wares, amphorae, and metals from Etruria. John Boardman maintains that
merchants’ marks found on many of the Athenian and Corinthian vases from
Etruria are Ionian and that ships carrying these items would have been Ionian.92
Finally, the anchor stocks recovered from the wreck site may not have been
cargo but were replacement anchors that were lost on the long voyage from the
East. Ironically, it is also possible that the practice of giving anchor stocks as of-
ferings to the gods for a safe voyage (as seen at Gravisca) may have contributed
to a shortage of anchors on board and to the ship’s subsequent destruction. If
this ship was sailing from Gravisca and en route to Marseille, then the island of
Giglio would have been a likely place to acquire extra anchor stocks in anticipa-
tion of the voyage ahead (figure 8). Accordingly, the cargo is consistent with what
we would expect to find in the hold of a vessel trading along an east-west route
from Samos to Etruria and possibly to Marseille.
George Bass maintains that shipboard items are more characteristic of a
ship’s home port than is the cargo it carries.93 Unfortunately, few such items sur-
vive from this wreckage, but those that do include three lamps and calipers, all of
which are Greek.94 In addition, a Laconian tankard, an “Ionian” bowl, and arrow-
heads of Near Eastern style may have been shipboard items.95 On the other hand,
no Etruscan shipboard items were reported. All of this evidence, including the
cargo, suggests an East Greek home port, possibly on Samos.
Finally, Bound argues that the most convincing indicator of this ship’s na-
tionality is the method of construction.96 Little of the hull survives; it consists of
some planking and an approximately 3-meter section from the stern end of a rab-
beted keel. The planks are edge-joined with wooden dowels. Triangular notches
are cut along both inboard edges of the planking, and from each notch a hole is
drilled down to and through the edge of the plank. Each hole joins with another
hole in the adjacent plank. A cord is then passed through them and secured with
pegs (figure 13). Finally, the interior surface of the hull planking is coated with

42 chapter 4
Figure 13. Giglio wreck (after Bound, 1986, 50)

pitch.97 Bound’s belief that this type of construction is Etruscan is based on

Pomey’s analyses of the first wreck at Bon Porté (called the “Bon Porté I” wreck).
The Bon Porté I wreck was found o¬ the southern coast of France near St. Tro-
pez and dates to about 550 b.c. (figure 8). Its cargo consists of Etruscan, “Graeco-
Massiliot,” and Chian amphorae and a “Rhodian” oinochoe (jug with an ovoid
body).98 The excavator was unable to determine whether this wreck is Greek or
Etruscan based on its cargo.99
The fragmented hull remains extend over an area of nearly 4 meters. They in-
clude a section of keel, four frames, a mast step, and fragments of planking. Nei-
ther bow nor stern sections were preserved. The planks, which are only a little
more than 2 centimeters thick on average, were edge-joined and secured in the
same manner as the planking of the Giglio wreck (figures 13–14). The keel is
small, lacks its extremities, and is not rabbeted. In contrast, the few frames that
survive were quite large and were spaced as much as a meter apart. The futtocks
were attached to floor timbers by means of diagonal or horizontal Z scarfs that
were pegged in place (figure 15).100
It appears that the frames were secured to the hull with lacings and pegs. The
holes for the framing cords are located closer to the center of the plank than the
seam holes; they lack triangular notches and, unlike lacing holes, have been
drilled through to the exterior of the planking (figure 14).101 The upper faces of
the frames are wide and rounded, and the lateral faces taper, resulting in the
smallest dimension at the base (figure 15). This shape would reduce wear on the
cords, as would the circular frames on the Mazarrón wreck. Furthermore, this
shape allows the cords to enter the lacing holes at roughly 90 degrees, removing
the need for the triangular notching.
In his analyses of the Bon Porté I wreck and in a later study of laced ships,
Pomey states that the triangularly notched lacing holes are unique and that this
type of assembly was almost certainly Etruscan.102 The general agreement that
this lacing technique indicates Etruscan instead of Greek construction appears

Hull Construction 43
Figure 14. Planking from the Bon Porté I wreck (after Joncheray, 1976, 29)

Figure 15. Framing from the Bon Porté I wreck (after Joncheray, 1976, 27)
to have been influenced by the belief that the Greeks had an ancient tradition of
building ships with pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery, extending at least as far
back as Homer’s time, while a long tradition of laced-ship construction contin-
ued in the Adriatic region well into the Medieval period.103 The discovery of two
vessels in the old harbor of Marseille has changed his opinion.
Recently, two Greek vessels that appear to have been abandoned at the end of
the sixth century b.c. were discovered in what was the ancient harbor at Mar-
seille, France. One vessel, Jules Verne 9, is believed to have been a local fishing
craft that was built in the same fashion as the Giglio and Bon Porté I wrecks. One
notable exception is that only the horizontal Z scarf was used to fit futtocks to
floor timbers. Near Jules Verne 9 was Jules Verne 7, a contemporary ship put to-
gether primarily with pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery; some sections, how-
ever, were fastened with cords.
Pomey describes Jules Verne 7 as a transitional type of ship that utilizes both
cords and pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery to fasten hull planking. Most of
this planking is fastened with mortise-and-tenon joints, but the tenons are small
(3 cm wide), and widely spaced (20 cm). The extremities of this craft reveal tri-
angularly notched lacing holes that are like those seen on the previously men-
tioned Archaic Greek vessels. The frames are of the same type as those recovered
from Jules Verne 9, except they are secured with double-clenched nails instead of
lacings.104 Pomey’s claim that the shipwrights who built Jules Verne 7 had yet to
master the intricacies of mortise-and-tenon joinery is supported by the use of
lacings to repair the hull planking instead of mortise-and-tenon joints as seen on
the later Kyrenia shipwreck (ca. 310 b.c.).105 Pomey now believes that the Bon
Porté I wreck is Massilian—not Etruscan.106 As noted earlier, this port was es-
tablished by the Phocaean Greeks about a hundred years before these vessels
were abandoned. This is around the time that the Giglio ship was sailing in
Tyrrhenian waters and fifty years before the Bon Porté I vessel was lost. If Greek
shipwrights at Massilia had not mastered the use of mortise-and-tenon joinery
by 500 b.c., this would suggest that the Phocaeans were building and sailing
laced ships when they voyaged from Asia Minor to southern France (ca. 600 b.c.).
The discovery of a wreck o¬ Gela, Sicily, dating to about 500 b.c. also supports a
late tradition of laced construction by the Greeks (figure 8).
The remains of the cargo from the Gela ship include Attic, Corinthian, Ionian,
and Punic amphorae, Rhodian jugs, black figure kylikes (broad, two-handled
drinking cups), red figure askoi (wineskin-shaped containers), oinochoe (pitch-
ers), and Ionian cups. Nothing of Etruscan origin was recovered from this wreck,
and there are few signs of trade between Gela and Etruria that exist at this time as
this wreck appears to have been lost after a Greek navy destroyed the Etruscan
Hull Construction 45
Figure 16. Gela wreck (after Freschi, 1990, 202)

fleet at Cumae (524 b.c.). This was a period when Etruscan ships were not par-
ticularly welcomed at ports such as Gela. Accordingly, the composition of the
cargo, like that of the Giglio ship, suggests a ship that was engaged in cabotage
beginning at an Ionian port in the Aegean.
The wreck is approximately 17 meters in length and 7 meters wide, with hull
planking joined in the same manner as in the Giglio, Bon Porté I, and Jules Verne
9 vessels (figure 16). It appears to have the same widely spaced system of framing
as the Bon Porté I and Marseille wrecks and is pitched internally like the Giglio
and Marseille wrecks. A longitudinal stringer, which consists of a mast step and
three other pieces, is set on 16 of 17 frames and has a large number of mortises
in its upper face; 15 or 16 of these mortises seem to be stanchion holes to support
deck beams or possibly a raised, longitudinal girder. The frames appear to have
a center-to-center spacing of 70 centimeters and, as in the Jules Verne 7 wreck,
are fastened to the planking with nails, a unique feature for a laced ship.107 All of
the evidence published at this time indicates that this is a Greek ship, and noth-
ing suggests it is Etruscan.
The Ma’agan Michael wreck was discovered o¬ the coast from Kibbutz
Ma’agan Michael, Israel (figure 8), and is tentatively dated to about 400 b.c. Of
the hull, 11.25 meters was preserved, and the vessel may originally have been 13.4
meters long (figure 17). The Ma’agan Michael ship and the previously mentioned
vessels share many similarities. Like that of Jules Verne 7 at Marseille, the hull
planking is edge-joined in the classical tradition by pegged mortise-and-tenon
joints, but the tenons are wider (3.8–5.1 cm wide), and the spacing of the mortise-
and-tenon joints is closer (12 cm). Both dimensions are similar to those on later
classical ships, such as the Kyrenia ship.108
The mast steps on the Bon Porté I and the Ma’agan Michael wrecks are simi-
lar in shape, the manner in which they are attached to the frames, and the pattern

46 chapter 4
Figure 17. Ma’agan Michael wreck (after Roslo¬, 1991, 223)

Figure 18. Bon Porté I mast step (after Joncheray, 1976, 32)

of mortises on their upper faces (figures 17–18). Considering the similarities be-
tween the two mast steps, it is possible that the mortise on the stern end of the
Bon Porté I mast step may have been used as a base for a stanchion as are the two
on the Ma’agan Michael mast step. The mast step on the Gela wreck appears sim-
ilar to the previous examples, especially in the pattern of mortises on its upper
face (figure 16). The mast step on the Gela wreck is flanked by two timbers, as is
the one on the Ma’agan Michael wreck. Both vessels also have a longitudinal
stringer that is notched to fit on the frames and acts as a stanchion holder, pos-
sibly to support deck beams. This longitudinal stringer cannot be classified as a
keelson because it does not extend the length of the vessel, it is not attached to
the keel, and it is too small to give the ship the structural support we associate
with a keelson.
The frames of the Ma’agan Michael craft are similar to those of the Marseille
vessels in that floor timbers are scarfed to futtocks with a horizontal Z scarf and
secured with small wooden pins (figure 19). The shape of the frames is also rem-

Hull Construction 47
Figure 19. Midship section of the Ma’agan Michael wreck.
Drawing not to scale (after Ste¬y, 1993, pp. 3–21)

iniscent of earlier ships; the upper faces are still rounded but flatter, and both
lateral faces taper toward the base. Moreover, only a few limber holes are cut
into these frames, unlike the framing on the previously mentioned wrecks. The
frames are widely separated with a center-to-center spacing of 75 cm, and, like
the frames on the Gela and Jules Verne 7 wrecks, they are attached to the hull
planking with nails. The Ma’agan Michael frames are also unique in that the cen-
ter of each floor timber is carved to be set into the space formed by the wineglass
shape of the hull; this shape is the most innovative aspect of the ship. By the time
the Kyrenia ship was built, this wineglass-shaped hull is more pronounced. Fur-
thermore, on ships earlier than the Kyrenia craft, it appears that only the ex-
tremities of the keel are rabbeted, whereas the keel of the Kyrenia ship has a
rabbet running its full length. This extension of the rabbet may have been a re-
sult of the continued lengthening of the wineglass-shaped stem, which resulted
in a sharper angle between the garboard strakes and keel. Finally, at the ship’s
extremities are lacing holes, which are triangularly notched, just as on the
Giglio, Bon Porté I, Gela, and Marseille wrecks. These appear to be vestigial fea-
tures, like the shape of the frames. By the time the Kyrenia ship was built, how-
ever, lacing had either disappeared from Greek shipbuilding or was no longer
the primary construction technique.
We must then ask what other evidence points to the origin of the Ma’agan

48 chapter 4
Michael wreck. Recovered from the wreck site were seventy pottery items from
Cyprus, Palestine, and Greece. Although a study of these objects has not been
completed at this time, they appear to have a Greek or Cypriot origin.109 The bal-
last, which has been petrographically and geochemically examined, consists
mostly of blue schist and was originally believed to have come from somewhere
on the Tyrrhenian coast. It is now believed that the Greek islands, Crete, or
possibly Cyprus is a more likely location for this schist.110
The pine and oak used to build this ship are rather common throughout the
eastern Mediterranean, but an acorn that survived from the ship’s stores is of a
variety that grows only in southwest Turkey and the Aegean Islands.111 Further-
more, the material used for the lacings in the bow and stern have been tentatively
identified as Ruscus hypoglossum, a monocotylean plant of the Liliaceae family,
which grows no farther south than Turkey.112 These lacings are important be-
cause the Ma’agan Michael vessel was a new ship when it sank. This interpreta-
tion is based on considerable evidence, such as a lack of rot in the bilges and
dunnage; a lack of wear, or scarring, on the bottom of the keel (or any external
timbers); a lack of wood-borers, moss, or other marine growth clinging to the
vessel; and patches of bark still adhering to some of the internal timbers.113 The
pristine condition of the hull suggests that this ship had a relatively short maiden
voyage prior to sinking and that the lacing was original. Since plants suitable for
making lacings grow throughout the Levant, the plants used to make them were
probably harvested near the ship’s construction site. All of this information
therefore suggests that the Ma’agan Michael wreck was most likely a Greek ves-
sel from Rhodes or a nearby Aegean port on a maiden voyage o¬ the coast of Pal-
estine. Furthermore, the archaeological evidence indicates that the Greeks had
established a thriving trade colony at Naucratis in the Nile Delta by about 650
b.c.114 At the time the Ma’agan Michael ship was lost, the documentary evidence
shows that Greeks commonly traded in this region.115
The only other vessel with hull planking from before the time of the Kyrenia
ship is the Porticello or Straits of Messina wreck (ca. 400 b.c.), which also ap-
pears to have been constructed using the pegged mortise-and-tenon method.
Unfortunately, only fragments of the hull survive. The evidence for this type of
assembly consists of one fragment of wood with two mortises cut into opposite
edges and a large number of copper nails, some of which have been double
clenched.116 These nails are similar to those from the Jules Verne 7, Ma’agan
Michael, and Kyrenia wrecks. Yet, since such nails were also found on the Gela
ship, this is no longer evidence for pegged mortise-and-tenon construction.
However, lead patches to seal leaks were also recovered from this wreck.117
We have a number of parallels for lead sheathing on hulls that exhibit mortise-

Hull Construction 49
and-tenon joinery, but no such similarities for laced vessels. Consequently, the
evidence we do have suggests this vessel was built with pegged mortise-and-
tenon joinery.
The Porticello wreck had an estimated length of 16 meters and a carrying ca-
pacity of 30 tons. Some of the coarse wares from what is believed to be the galley
are Attic. The other pieces have Greek shapes, but their origin is unknown. The
amphorae in the cargo consist of four di¬erent types: two of eastern Aegean ori-
gin from Byzantion and Mende, both of which carried wine, and two from the
western Mediterranean, which are Greek and Punic. The Greek containers held
wine, and the Punic ones fish. Shipping fish in amphorae may sound curious, es-
pecially when the countries were surrounded by a sea of fresh fish, but imported
Punic fish was very popular in Sicily at this time. The cargo also included lead
ingots and fragments of bronze statues; the former were from Laurion, and the
latter from either Greece or Magna Graecia. It therefore appears that this vessel
was engaged in cabotage that began by acquiring wine from Byzantion, more
wine from Mende, lead from Laurion, bronze statues from Greece or Magna
Graecia, more wine from unknown Greek ports, and then salted fish from a
southern Italian or Sicilian port. Regardless of the exact voyage, there is little
doubt that this was a Greek vessel.118
Although we examine individual ships and their cargoes in an attempt to des-
ignate origin and structural change through time, it is just as important to study
the geographical distribution of unique features. These characteristics include
triangular-notched lacing holes, shaped frames with curving tops and narrow
bases, and floor timbers joined to futtocks with pins and Z-shaped scarfs. Laced
vessels have been built by societies on nearly all continents and have been sailed
on most of the world’s seas and oceans at one time or another. However, as far as
we know, only these early Mediterranean shipwrights utilized these particular
construction features. Certain peoples, like the Etruscans, may have adopted
some of these attributes, as they did with other aspects of Greek culture. Never-
theless, the combination of such features and their wide distribution over time
and across the Mediterranean, especially in areas frequented by Greek seafarers,
suggest they are representative primarily of Greek ships.
A review of the archaeological evidence suggests both a Canaanite tradition of
ship construction with pegged mortise-and-tenon construction dating at least as
early as the Late Bronze Age, and a Greek tradition of laced construction contin-
uing into at least the fifth century b.c. Furthermore, a comparison of the Greek
ships reveals a rather obvious pattern of evolution from the earlier laced con-
struction to pegged mortise-and-tenon assembly. It also indicates that the tran-

50 chapter 4
sition from ships built with lacings to those with pegged mortise-and-tenon
joinery occurred rather late in Greek history. In support of such an interpreta-
tion, A. B. Lloyd points out that the manner in which Herodotus wrote his sec-
tion on Egyptian boat building is best understood as a contrast of Greek and
Egyptian techniques of lacing. Yet, he dismisses his own theory because of a lack
of evidence for the Greeks’ building such vessels so late.119 The archaeological
evidence now seems to support Lloyd’s original interpretation.
Although the archaeological and the literary evidence both imply the Greeks
were building laced vessels rather late, such proof is usually ignored. Some ves-
sels like the Giglio wreck are still classified as Etruscan without qualification.120
This brings us to the second reason that Casson’s theory of Homeric Greeks’
building pegged mortise-and-tenoned ships has wide acceptance; it is because
of the belief that such assembly produces ships that are clearly superior to laced
ships, and, as such, the Greeks would have adopted this technique as early as
possible.
It is true that Greek and Roman shipwrights were able to build a wide variety
of ships with this method. At one extreme were the long, sleek triremes, which
were designed to be fast and maneuverable. They were also light enough to be
pulled from the sea every night to dry out, and at the same time heavy and strong
enough to deliver a potent ramming blow while absorbing the stress of such col-
lisions. At the other extreme were the huge Roman grain ships, each of which
typically carried up to 1,200 tons of grain from Egypt to Rome on a single voyage.
The largest known grain ship from antiquity was the Syracusia, which was built
by Hiero II of Syracuse (ca. 240 b.c.). It could carry either 2,000 or 4,000 tons of
cargo, depending on the translation of a measure of grain. If the 2,000-ton ca-
pacity is correct, ships of such size were not built again until the seventeenth cen-
tury, while 4,000-ton craft were not seen until the nineteenth century. In addi-
tion to cargo capacity, this vessel also had excellent amenities, which included a
full library with a separate reading room, a temple, a gymnasium, a bathtub the
size of three bedrooms, mosaic floors in each cabin, and a promenade deck with
live, exotic plants. Down below were stables large enough for ten horses, and
from the main deck rose eight defensive towers, each manned by four marines
and two archers.121
In contrast, laced ships are thought of as poorly built little vessels that con-
stantly leak, require considerable repair, and are able to carry only limited cargo.
This view is in part the result of a few descriptions of such vessels published by
early European travelers. Marco Polo states that these ships “are wretched a¬airs,
many of them get lost; for they have no iron fastenings, and are only stitched

Hull Construction 51
together with twine made from the husk of the Indian nut. . . . Hence ’tis per-
ilous business to go [on] a voyage in one of those ships, and many of them are
lost, for in that Sea of India the storms are often terrible.”122
John of Monte Corvino, who lived during the fourteenth century a.d., ex-
presses similar sentiments; he states that “their ships in these parts are mighty
frail and uncouth, with no iron in them, and no caulking. They are sewn like
clothes with twine. And so if the twine breaks anywhere there is a breach! Once
every year therefore there is a mending of this, more or less, if they propose to
go to sea.” 123
One of the most commonly cited examples of a laced ship is the mtepe (pl.
mitepe), a ship built in East Africa that continued to be sailed as late as the early
twentieth century.124 African shipwrights built mitepe by first laying a keel to
which garboard strakes were edge-joined with dowels. Approximately twelve
strakes, or runs of planking, were then erected in the same manner. Once the
planking was in place, coir twine, a twine made from coconut husks, was ham-
mered into the seams from within. Wadding was then laid on top of each seam
and tied in place by small pieces of coir twine, and the hull planking was then
bound together by more coir twine. The lacing was done by two men, one on the
inside and one on the outside of the hull. These men passed the twine back and
forth through previously drilled holes on opposite sides of each seam. Once the
lacing was complete, crew members hammered wooden pegs into the holes to
fasten the twine. After the twine was securely pegged in place, a sailor cut away
all of the twine and protruding pegs on the outside of the hull. Only the twine
along the keel and at the extremities was left in place because stress on the seams
was greatest in these areas. As a result, most of the planks were held together
only by the interior twine. Shipwrights were willing to sacrifice some hull
strength to reduce surface friction.
Shipwrights did not use wales or metal fasteners to sti¬en these vessels. In-
stead, only widely spaced frames and five to seven pairs of through-beams were
necessary. All of these timbers were secured with only a few lashings of twine to
bind each to the hull. A shipwright could build a mtepe in only two to three
months, including the time it took to acquire the timber. Lumber, which was rel-
atively inexpensive, was cut from local mangrove forests.125 An important pecu-
liarity of mitepe was a very short sailing lifetime of only three or four years.126
Mitepe fit the stereotype of a laced ship. They leaked so much that two crew
members had to constantly bail, and bailing was such an important facet of run-
ning a ship that each crew member had to be able to lift a bailing basket full of
water above his head. In addition, mitepe required numerous repairs because the

52 chapter 4
 Figure 20. Table from Mycenae
with pegged tenon legs (after
Muhly, 1996, figure 3)

working of planks wore out the twine. Consequently, all of the pegs, twine, and
wadding were replaced once a year.127
In contrast to this rather bleak portrayal of laced ships, vessels built with
pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery are thought of as larger, stronger, and water-
tight. Because they apparently can also carry heavier cargos, it is no wonder that
their replacement of laced vessels is referred to as a “great forward step.”128
Furthermore, there is little doubt that the Late Bronze Age Greeks were aware
of this type of construction. As previously mentioned, Syro-Canaanite ship-
wrights appear to have been building ships with pegged mortise-and-tenon join-
ery at least as early as 1306 b.c. The cargo and personal items found among the
remains of the Uluburun wreck indicate that Mycenaean passengers of high rank
were also on board. Considering that a port in Greece was a probable destina-
tion, it is not surprising that high-ranking Mycenaean o~cials would be aboard
to accompany such a rich cargo.129 In addition, Mycenaeans knew of at least one
type of pegged mortise-and-tenon joint. A table from grave V of circle A (sixteenth
century b.c.) at Mycenae has legs that are carved at the upper extremity in the
shape of a tenon and then pegged to the table top (figure 20).130 The evidence
implies that the Mycenaeans knew of this type of construction and had the tools
and ability to build ships in this tradition. They also had the social structure nec-
essary to support craftspeople to build such complex vessels.131 Therefore, it is
di~cult to answer the question that if the Mycenaean Greeks knew of such ships,
why did they wait so long to adopt an obviously superior technique? It is possible

Hull Construction 53
that they did so during the Mycenaean period, but with the collapse of their so-
ciety at the end of the Bronze Age, they were no longer able to support the spe-
cialized craftspeople necessary to build such vessels.132 Nevertheless, during the
ninth century b.c., the Greeks appear to have established a trading colony among
the Phoenicians at the site of Al Mina, Lebanon.133 At the same time, Phoenicians
and their ships seem to have been a common sight in Crete.134 So, how do we ex-
plain the fact that, when the Giglio ship sank about 300 years later, laced vessels
were still common among the Greeks instead of the obviously preferable pegged
mortise-and-tenoned ships? Because scholars have been unable to answer this
question, they seem reticent to accept the possibility that Greeks were building
laced ships during Homer’s time; thus, they assume these later laced ships must
be of Etruscan or some other origin. The first step in solving this problem is to
point out that the inferiority of laced construction is exaggerated. The supposed
disparity between the two techniques results because we compare one of the
simplest types of laced vessels with one of the more sophisticated ships built
with pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery.
In fact, laced ships exhibit a wide variation in their size, strength, and overall
quality. This is because few structures that people build require as many com-
promises as a ship. A shipwright may be forced to find a middle ground because
of the tools or materials available. Furthermore, both the cargo a vessel hauls
and the waters in which it sails influence the choice of hull shape, size of ship,
and type of joinery. The framework for all of these concessions is the society in
which a shipwright learns the craft.135 We can better understand this situation by
comparing an African mtepe to an Arabian boom. A boom was built to sail on long
voyages from the Persian Gulf to India. It was made of teak instead of mangrove,
which is resistant to teredo worms. Booms were sailed for at least fifty to a hun-
dred years before being abandoned or broken up, instead of the three to four
years for a mtepe. Shipwrights still used coir twine to lace the seams of a boom,
but it was a more expensive, specially processed, and higher-quality twine im-
ported from the Laccadive Islands. Lacings lasted for several years if crew mem-
bers properly oiled them every few months. Oiling therefore resulted in lower
operating costs.136
Unlike a mtepe, a boom was virtually watertight as a result of better materials
and more time invested in crafting tighter seams and joinery. Shipwrights spent
nearly a year building a boom as opposed to the two to three months for a mtepe.
A boom was also the stronger of the two vessels because the exterior twine was
not cut away. Leaving this exterior twine in place would normally result in in-
creased hull friction, but this problem was resolved by cutting grooves between
opposing holes that allowed the twine to lie flush with the hull surface.137

54 chapter 4
Although carpenters spent many extra hours cutting these grooves, the ship was
able to carry heavier cargoes and weather rougher seas without sacrificing speed.
In e¬ect, a well-built boom was a long-term investment; more time spent in the
initial construction resulted in a much longer sailing life and lower, long-term
operating costs.
In the 1940s, Robert Bowen Jr. reported that it was common to see laced ships
that were at least a hundred years old in Arabia.138 This longevity is partly due to
the teredo resistance of teak.139 Arab shipwrights also coated the exterior of teak
hulls with a mixture of lime and tallow, which rendered a ship even more teredo
resistant. This coating was applied because teak had to be imported and was very
expensive. The most substantial repairs consisted of replacing rotting planks
and timbers.140 As a result, ship owners were willing to invest considerable time
in the assembly of seagoing ships because wood was so rare in Arabia and be-
cause teak was so expensive, durable, and impervious to teredo worms. In con-
trast, the relative abundance of inexpensive timber in East Africa meant that the
natural inclination was to build a mtepe as quickly and as cheaply as possible. We
must therefore be aware of the di¬erent influences that a¬ect the decisions of
ship owners and shipwrights.
One can still argue that ships built with pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery
produce a superior hull in size, carrying capacity, and strength, but the facts do
not support this impression either. Each type of joinery has inherent limitations.
Unfortunately, we know little of these restrictions due to a dearth of working ves-
sels built with either type of joinery. John Coates, however, estimates that a laced
seam may resist shear stress as well as one joined with pegged mortise-and-
tenon joints, although it is not as rigid.141
In addition, we know that large laced vessels can be built. Mitepe were ap-
proximately 16 to 30 meters in length.142 The boom Sohar was all of 30 meters
long.143 The largest of the ocean-going dhows was a baghla; reports give lengths
from approximately 30 to 42 meters and displacements between 150 and 400
tons. A few of unknown length had displacements of 500 tons. However, the
500-ton ships built in Sur, Oman, were constructed later and were considered in-
ferior to baghlas that had originally been built in Kuwait, and this raises an im-
portant point.144 The known sizes of laced ships, as with most of our detailed
information, comes from a time when even small laced vessels were rapidly dis-
appearing, which was long after the largest ships made annual voyages from
Arabia to China. Furthermore, none of these large laced ships have been found
and excavated.
With regard to carrying capacity, the laced vessels that sailed the Persian Gulf
had 40 to 60 tons burden.145 Larger oceangoing vessels had reported carrying

Hull Construction 55
capacities of 200, 250, and 400 tons.146 The Egyptians have left the earliest writ-
ten records of Mediterranean seagoing vessels. Ships of 40, 60, and 100 cubits
(or approximately 20, 31, and 52 meters) are listed in texts dating to the reign of
Snefru (ca. 2613–2589 b.c.).147 These dimensions are comparable to those of the
previously mentioned laced vessels, suggesting that such descriptions of large
laced ships are accurate.
Charles Jaques Poncet was surprised by such craft after returning from the
capital of Abyssinia early in the eighteenth century. He states that “I had no mind
to hazard myself in the ships of the country, which appear’d to be very slight
and unsafe; the planks, altho’ pitch’d and tarr’d, being only fasten’d together
with pitiful cords. . . . Notwithstanding, these vessels . . . carry a great weight,
and . . . they are of great use in all that sea.”148 In contrast, the Uluburun ship
(ca. 1300 b.c.), which is the earliest known vessel built with pegged mortise-
and-tenon joinery, is estimated to have been 15 to 16 meters long and been able
to carry at least 20 tons.149 The Kyrenia ship was nearly 15 meters long and could
carry between 20 and 30 tons, which is similar to the Porticello wreck.150 Finally,
the Alonnesos ship, which is the largest known ship from the Classical period
(ca. 400 b.c.), was able to carry more than 120 tons of amphorae.151 This great
weight is, however, less than the capacities for laced ships mentioned earlier. By
the last quarter of the fifth century, Thucydides (before 454 to 404/400 b.c.) de-
scribes the largest known merchant ship as a 10,000 carrier.152 Unfortunately, we
are not sure what this means since he fails to mention the measure of weight be-
ing used aboard ships during his time. It may or may not refer to medini, talents,
or amphorae, but as Casson points out, there is considerable variation in the
interpretation of these weights.153 For example, there was no standardization
in the size, weight, or shape of amphorae. Variation in the weights of medina, or
grain, also appears to have been considerable, as illustrated previously in the de-
scription of the burden of the Syracusia. Consequently, Thucydides tells us little
of the size of the large merchant ships of his day. Casson believes these ancient
ships could carry very heavy loads (the smallest from 70 to 80 tons burden), and
ships carrying 350 to 500 tons of cargo were not rare.154 Nevertheless, most of
these weights are based on data from Roman times, and the previously cited ar-
chaeological evidence suggests that most ships before 400 b.c. were less than 20
meters long and carried between 20 and 30 tons of cargo.
Casson has published a list of tonnages carried by ships that appear in the lit-
erature, dating as late as the third century b.c. The heaviest recorded tonnage by
the end of the fourth century is 165 tons, which is still below the recorded burden
for laced ships. The evidence we have therefore indicates that, from the Bronze
Age to at least the end of the fourth century b.c., ancient shipwrights could eas-

56 chapter 4
ily have built laced ships that were large and strong enough to carry their required
cargo.
Pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery appears to have one advantage over laced
joinery: It produces a sti¬er hull, which allows sailing in rougher seas. In con-
trast, Marco Polo, John of Monte Corvino, and others commonly describe laced
ships as susceptible to breaking up in bad storms.155
From Greek and Latin literature there appears to be only one account of an an-
cient ship coming apart at the seams due to the pounding of waves in an open
sea. In the Metamorphoses Ovid describes a ship in trouble. The sail has been
reefed and the yard lowered; the sound of the wind is so deafening that the crew
cannot hear the captain’s orders. Men are shouting; cordage is creaking; one
second the ship is lifted on waves as high as mountains, and the next it is
dropped deep into the pit of hell. Finally, the hammering of the waves on the hull
is too much.156 “[N]ow the cunei give way; spoliataque tegmine cerae is stripped away;
and the opening seams let in the deadly sea.”157 The main obstacle to under-
standing this passage is the translation of cunei, which normally refers to an ob-
ject that is tapered or wedge-shaped.158 Casson proposes that Ovid is using cunei
to denote wedge-shaped tenons holding the hull planking together, but even he
states that the word in this context is “enigmatic.” He goes on to point out that
wedge-shaped tenons were found on the Yassi Ada wreck, which dates to the sev-
enth century a.d.159 Nevertheless, this ship was built more than six hundred
years after Ovid’s work, and no such fasteners dating back to his time are known.
It is also possible that Ovid was describing a laced ship. Cunei could refer to
the pegs securing the lacing that joins the planks. Spoliataque tegmine cerae has
been translated as “waxen caulking,” which allows for a possible translation of
waxen wadding.160 Ovid may be describing the loosening of the pegs, the strip-
ping away of the waxen wadding, and, finally, the breaching of the seams. Fur-
thermore, he is setting his story in the mythical past, and laced ships were still
common around the Adriatic Sea in his lifetime.161 Even the Romans built such
vessels in this era. One such ship dating to Ovid’s time (43 b.c. to a.d. 17) has
been discovered. The Comacchio ship sank during the reign of Augustus (27 b.c.
to a.d. 14), and the planking on this vessel was edge joined with mortise-and-
tenon joints and secured with pegged lacings.162 Since such vessels were so com-
mon, Ovid may have been using it to evoke a feeling of the distant past. In
contrast to the descriptions of laced vessels, we have no descriptions of ships
with seams joined with pegged mortise-and-tenon joints coming apart in stormy
weather.
This is not to say that laced ships cannot withstand storms. The men that
sailed these early craft were traders, not suicidal zealots. Weathering such tem-

Hull Construction 57
pests was merely one of the risks of trading, and for all the ships that were lost,
many more completed their voyages. For several centuries Arabs sailed laced
ships across the Indian Ocean, even as far as China.163 Voyages to China could
take up to eight months without any repair facilities along the way, and it was
common for up to 10 percent of the ships attempting the journey to be lost. Ac-
cording to the story of Sinbad the Sailor, this long expedition was so dangerous
that a captain who returned was considered a great navigator. In addition, one
successful trip would ensure wealth for a lifetime.164 In contrast, the Greeks were
loath to sail on the Aegean Sea during the stormy winter months—even on ships
built with pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery.165 Nevertheless, all else being
equal, there is little doubt that more laced ships would be lost in maritime squalls
than those built with pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery. Of course, the loss of
vessels could be minimized by hugging the coast when possible and running for
a safe haven at the first sight of a storm.
Just as the rigidity of a hull built with pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery has
an inherent advantage, so too does the flexibility that a laced hull imparts. If a
ship with a rigid hull hits a reef, the impact will probably damage the hull and
possibly result in the loss of the ship. In contrast, if a laced craft hits a reef under
the same conditions, there is less chance of damage. James Bruce describes this
attribute: “[T]he planks of the vessel were sewed together, and there was not a
nail, nor a piece of iron, in the whole ship; so that, when you struck upon a rock,
seldom any damage ensued.”166
Bruce expresses this opinion after surviving a sailing accident in the Red Sea.
One night his ship hit a large shoal while under full sail. The impact lifted the
bow out of the water, requiring considerable e¬ort to free it. Bruce writes: “I had
always some fears a plank might have started; but we saw the advantage of a
vessel being sewed, rather than nailed together, as she was not only unhurt, but
made very little water.”167
Bertram Thomas mentions a similar situation while sailing in an Arab dhow.
He describes a beach along the southern coast of Arabia where “[a] ground
swell, even in the mildest weather, runs vigorously along these gentle shelving
beaches, and sends huge rollers crashing inshore. A whaler or other English-
built boat would surely capsize and break up, but the local banush [of sewn tim-
bers], craftily handled by the fisher folk, comes riding safely through, despite
moments when it seems to stand giddily on end and one looks on apprehen-
sively, knowing that the sea, a boiling cauldron in the vicinity, would show small
mercy to a swimmer.”168 Finally, Ibn Jubayr, a Spanish Moor, made his first voy-
age on a laced ship en route to Mecca in a.d. 1183. During this voyage hitting

58 chapter 4
reefs appears to be a rather common occurrence. He states that “At times the
bottom of the jilabah would run against a reef when passing through them, and
we would listen to a rumbling that called us to abandon hope. Many times we
died and lived again—praise be to God.”169 Vessels sailing in waters with many
reefs, shoals, and sandbars would therefore risk less damage if laced. The flexi-
bility of these craft results from few internal timbers, thin planking, and widely
spaced dowels to edge-join the planking. These characteristics make the lacings
the primary fasteners, which are more likely to flex on impact, allowing a hull to
more easily deform and then recover from the collision.170 However, constant
bending during a bad storm can lead to the breaking of the lacing along a seam,
making a laced ship more likely to come apart under such conditions.
If a laced ship was not inferior in the previously mentioned attributes, one can
argue that the need for new wadding, lacing, and pegs every year would be an in-
centive for change among the Greeks. This is possible, but we lack evidence to
substantiate the hypothesis. As previously mentioned, the length of time be-
tween replacement of the lacing depends greatly on the quality of the lacing
material, the amount of time spent in maintaining lacing during a voyage, and
the quality of construction. Instead of oiling their lacings, the Greeks coated
their hulls with pitch, as they did with their pegged mortise-and-tenoned hulls.
Thus, there was little di¬erence between the two types of ship construction in
this aspect of maintenance. Still, the triangular notched lacing holes, lacing
holes running inside the planking instead of to the outside of the hull, and the
shaping of the framing all suggest that considerable time was spent crafting
these hulls to reduce the wear on the lacings. Yet, even if the lacing had to be
changed every year, the fact that the Greeks sailed in the Aegean at most from
March 10 to November 10 means that there were four months to refit a ship.171
Refitting would therefore take place at a time when a ship is normally idle and
would not cost its owner.
The labor to refit a ship might not have cost an owner either. Alan Villiers
points out that an Arab ship owner did not directly pay the crew members. Arab
sailors received a small percentage of the profits made from each voyage, but the
food they ate during a passage was deducted from their share. In addition, they
could make more profit by personal trading at foreign ports. The only cost to the
owner was the small space on board that the sailors were given to store their
trade goods. Crew members could also make additional money from items they
acquired during a voyage and then sold at home.172 Villiers points out that crew
members’ responsibilities were not limited to the beginning and ending of a trip.
They fitted out a ship before an expedition, which included sewing the sails and

Hull Construction 59
rigging the ship. At the end they beached the ship, removed all of the gear, and
oiled down the hull. The cost of meals the crew ate during both of these periods
was also deducted from their share of the profits.173
The vessels Villiers describes were built with nails, not lacings. Thus, he is un-
able to comment on this aspect of refitting. However, James Hornell observes
that on a mtepe the captain and crew performed these chores; they could change
the wadding and lacing on a mtepe in two weeks.174 It is therefore likely that the
refitting of a vessel was considered part of the work responsibility of each crew
member. Furthermore, we see roughly the same system of remuneration and
statement of duties for crew members in the Rhodian Sea Law, which dates in its
present form from a.d. 600 to 800 but is probably based on much earlier mate-
rials.175 Under such a system a ship owner would incur few expenses other than
acquiring the necessary lacing and wadding materials, and the crew may also
have made these from local materials, like those on the Ma’agan Michael vessel.
Accordingly, it seems unlikely that owners and shipwrights would have been
motivated to abandon one tradition of ship construction for a new method only
because the lacing had to be changed every year. If the lacing were as durable as
that on a boom and several seasons passed before it needed changing, then the
expense would have been minimal. Under these conditions the refitting of a ship
may not have imposed a burden on an owner in either time or resources.
Much has also been made of the tradition-bound nature of sailors and ship-
wrights. This may have been a reason for resisting changes in ship-building tra-
ditions because shipwrights are probably similar to other craftspeople in this
respect. In 1960, George Foster studied the people of Tzintzuntzan, Mexico, a
community of farmers, shopkeepers, and fishers. Sixty percent of the population
of approximately eighteen hundred people were either full- or part-time potters.
Foster noticed that the potters were by nature conservative. He took a poll of the
village’s population to see which individuals were the first to adopt innovative
ideas, such as latrines, raised plank beds, modern types of lighting, and new
sources of water. The villagers’ economic situation appeared not to influence
either their willingness or reluctance to adopt these innovations. Among farm-
ers, fishers, shopkeepers, and day laborers, the potters were the least likely to in-
troduce these novelties in their homes.176
Foster believes this conservatism is an outgrowth of the pottery-making
process itself, which is di~cult at best. A slight variation in the raw materials,
glazes, paints, or firing temperatures can lead to the loss of perhaps several
months’ work. As a result, economic security depends on duplicating as closely
as possible the use of materials and techniques that an experienced potter knows
are least likely to result in failure. If a potter has the basic skills and uses tradi-

60 chapter 4
tional methods, it is possible to predict the outcome of each firing. Furthermore,
potters consider themselves artisans, not artists. Accordingly, they expend little
e¬ort in surpassing common standards. In contrast, farmers are at the mercy of
the weather and insects, while fishers must also contend with the climate and the
mysterious nature of fish. Since luck is more of a way of life and innovations are
less likely to result in economic disaster, these groups accept new methods and
objects more readily.177
Shipwrights are more like potters than farmers. Luck has little influence on
the expensive process of building a ship; therefore, shipwrights generally oper-
ate rather conservatively. A slight variation in planking width or thickness or the
use of inferior materials can lead to a serious loss of time and money. As previ-
ously mentioned, these early ships were built with few tools and with few aids.
An inferior piece of timber, a poorly set plank, or an area of weakness in the hull
may mean the forfeiture of a cargo, a ship, and possibly a crew. Even in a well-
built vessel such as the Kyrenia ship, we still see evidence of rather obvious errors
on the part of one of two shipwrights.178 Economic security and peace of mind
therefore depend on duplicating as closely as possible the materials and tech-
niques that a shipwright knows from experience are least likely to result in fail-
ure. A skilled shipwright using traditional methods may be able to predict the
outcome of each vessel under construction. Furthermore, since shipwrights con-
sider themselves craftspeople, they, too—like potters—have little desire to im-
prove on the norm.
Another factor contributing to the conservatism of potters is the time neces-
sary to master new techniques, like the use of a potter’s wheel. Time spent learn-
ing is time in which pots are not being made and money is lost. Under these
circumstances, Foster argues, when requirements change and traditional tech-
niques no longer produce a product that sells, only then will a potter accept in-
novations. In many cases, even under pressure, master potters refuse to accept
new devices, methods, and materials. Instead, younger potters are more likely to
adapt to market changes.179
Shipwrights, like potters, must also invest considerable time in mastering
new techniques, such as using di¬erent types of joinery and the latest tools. Time
spent learning is time that a ship is not being built. It also takes time to correct
mistakes, which are more likely to occur when a shipwright is still unfamiliar
with the nuances of a new procedure. In consequence, only when requirements
change and traditional techniques are inadequate to produce a craft that meets a
ship owner’s needs will a shipwright accept new ways.
We must understand that ancient artisans spent their lives mastering their
crafts. To propose that a shipwright would abandon one tradition of ship con-

Hull Construction 61
struction to learn a completely di¬erent method is unrealistic. Such a drastic
change would require shipwrights to have a very strong incentive because they
must not only learn new techniques of assembly but also adopt a new philosophy
of construction.
At first glance, pegged lacings and pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery appear
very similar, but the parallels are superficial. The shipwrights who built vessels
like the Bon Porté I and Giglio ships would design their craft to be flexible. They
used thin planking reinforced with heavy, sculpted, and widely spaced framing
that was lightly fastened to the hull. To suddenly start building ships with pegged
mortise-and-tenon joinery requires more than merely learning how to fashion a
new type of joint. Shipwrights would be expected to understand the workings of
a more rigid hull, one that required thicker planking, wales, and more internal
stringers. They would also have to understand how to correctly space the joinery
for optimum strength and then fasten the framing to the hull with treenails and
nails. They must be aware of how a rigid hull will react when the cargo shifts or
how it will handle in rough seas. All the intricacies that a shipwright has mas-
tered over a lifetime to build a laced ship must be replaced by a thorough under-
standing of the compromises that are necessary to build a working vessel with
pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery.
Of course, the type of society in which a shipwright works can also influence
how quickly this craftsperson adopts new techniques. A shipwright who owns a
shipyard in ancient Greece would be more likely to follow the pattern of a local
artisan as described by Foster. In contrast, a shipwright in Egypt who is em-
ployed by the pharaoh is less likely to be influenced by the same conditions.
Pharaonic Egypt was a rich, highly centralized, and stratified kingdom with a
large population. This society supported specialized craftspeople who could
build a wide variety of vessels depending on what the pharaoh required. One year
they might construct a warship and the next year a transport barge to carry an
obelisk down the Nile. The shipwrights were, in e¬ect, supported to solve prob-
lems, not just to build one or two ships a year. In addition, materials and time
spent building a vessel that failed to meet specifications could more easily be ab-
sorbed by the state than by an individual. These craftspeople were likely to adopt
new techniques more quickly than a shipwright who built the same types of ves-
sels over and over again for local buyers. Many of the economic pressures on
Greek shipwrights of the Geometric and Archaic periods were therefore not a
concern to Egyptian shipwrights under the pharaoh.
If laced construction, then, was roughly equal to pegged mortise-and-tenon
construction, what could have forced Greek shipwrights to replace one type of
fastening with another? The transition from one to the other appears to have oc-

62 chapter 4
Figure 21. Sketch of a laced ship laden with amphorae

curred primarily during the sixth century b.c. This era coincides with two major
changes: The first is a decrease in mixed cargoes and an increase in the shipping
of bulk cargoes, especially in amphorae.
A two-handled, terra cotta storage jar with a small base, an amphora was the
standard shipping container during classical times. To illustrate how common
these containers were in the in fifth-century Greece, Herodotus describes the ca-
pacity of two metal containers based on the amphora. The first was a silver bowl
holding 600 amphorae that Croesus sent as an o¬ering to Delphi. The second
was a bronze vase that could hold 300 amphorae and was sent by the Lacedae-
monians to Croesus.180 The smaller of the two has a volume that would match the
capacity of a small merchant ship.
The advantage to using such a container for some bulk cargoes, especially
wine, is its shape, which allows it to be stacked in several layers in the hold (fig-
ure 21). Therefore, sea captains could store more cargo in a smaller space than
they could with mixed cargoes of pottery, metals, luxury items, and finished
goods as were found in vessels like the Giglio ship. This is important because
these mixed cargoes would bring greater profits than bulk cargoes of grain and
wine. For this reason, the shift from one type of cargo to the other forced cap-
tains to maximize the space in the holds of their ships.
Stacking amphorae, however, presents a major problem. The small base that
allows amphorae to be securely loaded in more than one level also results in the
concentration of a considerable amount of weight in many very small areas on a
hull’s surface. For example, if a ship is carrying 20 metric tons of grain in bags
and the hold has 25 square meters of storage space, the weight of the cargo
on the hull planking will be a relatively uniform .8 kg/cm2. On the other hand, if

Hull Construction 63
Casson is correct and the smallest seagoing ships were carrying 70 to 90 tons in
the same area, then this would yield 2.8–3.6 kg/cm2. Both types of ships could
carry this weight and type of cargo. If a ship were carrying 200 amphorae with
base sizes of 5 or 10 centimeters, stacked in two levels, weighing 20 metric tons,
and stored in the same area, then the weight of the cargo on the hull planking will
range between 20 and 40 kg/cm2 at 100 di¬erent points on the hull surface.181
If a third level of amphorae is added, the range would increase from 30 to 60
kg/cm2 per point. Again, if the weights were 70 to 90 metric tons in the same
space with the same size of amphorae, which suggests higher stacking, the
range would be 70 to 180 kg/cm2.
Another problem with lading amphorae was that they came in a wide variety
of shapes and sizes. On the Porticello wreck (ca. 400 b.c.) four di¬erent shapes
and sizes were recovered, which makes it di~cult, if not impossible, to ensure
that the bases of at least some will not be placed directly on a seam.182 This results
in having the most pressure at the weakest point of a hull. In addition, even
though the cargo is secured, these bases are going to shift slightly but continu-
ally throughout a voyage, and the rougher the seas, the more they will work, put-
ting even more stress on the seams when a laced ship is most vulnerable.
As previously mentioned, a laced seam appears to be equal to a pegged mor-
tise-and-tenoned seam in absorbing shear stress, which is stress that is exerted
along the plane of the hull planking. However, stacked amphorae would exert
normal stress on a hull, which is stress that acts at a right angle to a surface. For
cargoes of amphorae that exert concentrated normal stress at a number of points
on a hull, pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery is superior because the pegs, mor-
tises, and tenon all constitute one joint. Consequently, it is possible to move
joints closer together for a stronger seam. In larger ships with very thick plank-
ing, such joints can actually be staggered. The main di~culty was to retain
enough wood between the joints to prevent splitting. In contrast, a laced seam
consists of two separate fasteners: the dowels that edge-join the planking and
the pegged lacing. On the laced ships described earlier, shipwrights could place
the dowels only between lacing holes (figure 6). Therefore, to make seams bet-
ter able to absorb an increase in normal stress, it is necessary to add more dow-
els. However, by doing so the shipwright must reduce the number of lacing
holes, which makes them more susceptible to failure.
This shift to bulk cargoes and a reliance on amphorae as the primary storage
containers took place over much of the sixth century. As a result, shipwrights
building laced ships had time to institute some modifications to make their hulls
stronger. Drilling the lacing holes to the middle of a seam instead of to the out-
side of the hull and cutting triangular notches around lacing holes reduced wear

64 chapter 4
on the cordage and resulted in a stronger hull. The use of heavy, sculpted frames
also reduced wear on cords and strengthened the hull. Later, the replacement of
cords with copper nails to hold the frames in place further added to a hull’s abil-
ity to absorb normal stress. However, all of these changes came with increased
costs in construction, maintenance, and major repairs.
The expense of using this type of construction is further increased by a shorter
sailing life for these ships. This type of cargo accelerated the wear on fasteners
and decreased the length of time between lacing replacements. Furthermore,
with each change of the lacing, the nailed framing had to be removed, which
risked damage to the planking and framing while adding considerable cost for
new nails. Even with additional maintenance, the older the ship, the greater the
likelihood of a breeched seam. Under these conditions, ships like the Giglio
vessel could not compete with ones like the Ma’agan Michael craft in this type
of trade. Shipwrights could have continued to make changes that produced
stronger hulls, such as thicker planking, more framing, and heavier stringers.
Yet, a sti¬ hull loses its main advantage—its flexibility. It also becomes more and
more expensive to build and maintain such ships without ever equaling a pegged
mortise-and-tenoned craft in its ability to carry amphorae. In e¬ect, the captain
of a laced ship would probably avoid carrying a full cargo of amphorae, making
it di~cult to take full advantage of the available cargo space. The di~culty in
hauling such a cargo is also seen in the further improvements that were required
to reinforce the hulls of pegged mortise-and-tenoned ships.
The Ma’agan Michael ship has widely spaced framing similar to that on the
Gela ship, but even with a sti¬er, stronger hull provided by the pegged mortise-
and-tenon joinery, this does not appear to be su~cient. By the time of the Kyre-
nia ship, which sank about a hundred years later, the frame spacing had de-
creased from 75 centimeters to 25 centimeters (figures 5 and 16). This change in
spacing may be a direct result of the extra framing required to carry a full cargo
of amphorae. The substitution of the standard framing in Greek laced ships,
consisting of futtocks scarfed and pegged to the floor timbers, with framing con-
sisting of closely spaced floor timbers with unattached futtocks alternating with
half-frames, was a simpler and stronger system that took advantage of a wider
variety of timber shapes (figures 5 and 22).
In addition to the new framing system, ceiling planking covered the frame-
work and relieved the pressure the amphorae exerted on the hull (figure 5). An-
other important feature is the hull’s wineglass shape. Even on the Kyrenia ship,
the keel had little backbone strength. The weakness of this timber is illustrated
by the fact that this keel had actually been broken and was repaired only by cut-
ting out the damaged section and nailing in a new piece of timber. Therefore, the

Hull Construction 65
Figure 22. Classical framing (after Ste¬y, 1994, figures 3–34)

V-shaped trough of planks that was reinforced with pegged mortise-and-tenon

joints and braced by heavy, closely spaced chocks constituted this ship’s prin-
cipal source of strength, a feature that the earlier laced craft lacked. This struc-
ture continued in use until it was replaced by a heavy keelson that was bolted to
the keel.183 These improvements in hull construction resulted in a stronger hull
and allowing a ship’s captain to take greater advantage of an amphora’s shape by
stacking more layers of amphorae in the hold. Again, if these structural changes
were made to a laced ship, they would only make it sti¬er, more expensive to
build, and more di~cult to maintain. Therefore, the only way to adapt a laced
ship to carry as many amphorae as a mortise-and-tenon joined ship would be to
build a much larger ship, but this would necessitate longer building times, more
raw materials, more expensive maintenance, and a larger crew, which would still
result in a ship that was able to carry only a partial cargo of amphorae. Such a
vessel would be ine~cient. A laced ship is simply not well adapted to carry this
type of cargo.
The relatively short time it took to change from laced to pegged mortise-and-

66 chapter 4
 Figure 23. Evolution of mortise-and-
tenon joinery: (A) the Kyrenia ship;
(B) the fourth-century Yassi Ada ship;
(C) the seventh-century Yassi Ada
ship; and (D) the Bozburun wreck
(after Ste¬y, 1994, figures 4–8b)

tenon construction also suggests that a second influence accelerated the demise
of the laced ship. The classic example of evolution in ship construction is the
gradual transition from ships built with a pegged mortise-and-tenon design to
craft assembled with hull planking nailed onto preerected framing (figure 23).
This change is first noted in the fourth century a.d. and appears to have been
complete by the ninth century a.d. This long period is marked by progressively
smaller mortise-and-tenon joints and an increasing reliance on closer framing
and more internal timbers as the foundation of ship construction (figure 23).184
One of the most striking aspects of this era is the long time it took shipwrights
to shift from one type of construction to another. The conservatism of ancient
ship construction is usually represented by extended stable periods with only in-
cremental changes as outlined earlier. Although we have only three Canaanite/
Phoenician ships, the continued use of both pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery
and lacing in the Mazarrón vessel, which sank more than six hundred years after
the Uluburun vessel, is another example of the long stretches of stability and
gradual change. Granted, the small number of vessels leaves many questions
unanswered, but enough information survives for us to discern a basic pattern.
Furthermore, if the pegged mortise-and-tenon method is the primary type of
ship construction in use by the beginning of the fifth century b.c., then the use
of this technique by the Greeks and Romans continued relatively unchanged for
around nine hundred years. In contrast, the Greek ships dating to between 600
and 500 b.c. undergo three major changes in construction. The first is the adop-
tion of the Canaanite/Phoenician system of pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery,
except at a ship’s extremities, where the triangular notching of lacing holes con-
tinues. Second, the Greek system of heavy, sculpted framing seen in laced ships
is adapted to a hull’s pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery, and third, copper nails
replace lacing to secure framing to a hull.
The integration of these characteristics into one vessel suggests a hybrid ship

Hull Construction 67
that combines two di¬erent techniques from two di¬erent cultures, and these
changes take place in about a hundred years. Furthermore, this rapid transfor-
mation continues. By the time the Ma’agan Michael ship was launched around a
hundred years later, the wineglass-shaped hull suddenly appears, and in only
another fifty years, lacing at the extremities disappears, the keel is rabbeted from
bow to stern, a completely new framing system has been developed, and ceiling
planking is used for the first time, as is lead sheathing on the hulls’ exterior. Any
one of these would be considered a major modification, which we would expect
to take place over several centuries. Yet each stage of multiple changes is com-
pleted in a hundred years or less. The speed of these alterations therefore sug-
gests a strong influence that broke the conservative pattern outlined earlier for
shipwrights.
This influence may come from the construction of large, state-supported
naval fleets. During the sixth century b.c., trieres or triremes, which were special-
ized warships, started to replace the general-purpose pentecontors, which were
often privately owned.185 The appearance of these new navies begin to accelerate
during the latter half of the sixth century and especially in the early fifth century
b.c. This was also a time when the shift from laced ships to pegged mortise-and-
tenoned craft was well under way. Furthermore, Greek city-states were rapidly
building large numbers of these warships, sometimes as many as two hundred
at a time.186 This situation would have created a large and immediate demand for
shipwrights who had the skills to build such vessels and also for the training of
new shipwrights.
In e¬ect, large infusions of state money and demands for ships that per-
formed specialized functions turned normally conservative shipwrights into
state-supported, specialized craftspeople who were paid to solve problems,
leading to more rapid innovations. The new framing pattern of floor timbers and
futtocks alternating with half-frames was stronger and could be finished in less
time than under the old system and possibly resulted from the need to build
many warships in a short time. Closer framing allowed for ceiling planking,
which protected the hull. The extreme length-to-breadth ratio of these new tri-
remes put considerable stress on a hull and especially the keel, possibly result-
ing in the new framing system, the use of nails instead of lacing to secure frames,
and the introduction of the hull’s wineglass shape. Once such modifications
had proved successful in these new warships, they would have been adapted
relatively quickly for use in merchant ships.
It therefore appears that the Greeks continued to build primarily laced ships
until sometime in the sixth century b.c., when a shift to bulk cargoes shipped
primarily in amphorae forced a gradual change to pegged mortise-and-tenon

68 chapter 4
construction. As this transition was occurring, a large and continuous demand
for specialized warships built exclusively with pegged mortise-and-tenon join-
ery probably accelerated this evolution and led to a number of innovations that
were rather quickly adapted to merchant ships. Nevertheless, some laced ships
probably continued to sail the eastern Mediterranean and the Aegean in dimin-
ishing numbers long after Homer’s time and possibly long after the fifth century.
Yet, by the time Apollonius Rhodius wrote the Argonautica at the beginning of the
third century, laced vessels were apparently no longer being built or at least were
rarely seen in these waters. However, they continued to thrive for a considerable
period in the Adriatic Sea, as did literary descriptions of such ships in Roman
works. Consequently, the ancient Greek and Roman belief that their ancestors
sailed the sea in laced ships appears to be confirmed, and the epics of Homer ap-
pear to be describing only this type of ship.

Hull Construction 69
 5
Odysseus
Builds å
Seågoing
Vessel

Homer has interspersed various names, hints, and descriptions of ship

timbers throughout the Iliad and the Odyssey. However, we must usually deduce
the function of these assorted timbers, construction techniques, and other nau-
tical aspects with little more than the etymology of a word to guide us. Homer
comes to our aid in Book 5 of the Odyssey by relating how Odysseus builds a
seagoing vessel. This account allows us to place some terms in a more compre-
hensible context, but some are, nevertheless, still obscure.
Odyssey 5.234–57 is important because it is a relatively detailed description of
how Odysseus builds his seagoing vessel. The translation of the relevant lines of
the Odyssey passage is as follows:

She gave him a large double axe of bronze, fitted to the palms, sharpened on
both sides. Furthermore, in it was a very beautiful, well fitted, olive handle,
and she gave him a well-polished adze, she then led the way to the end of the
island where tall trees grew, alder and poplar and fir that reached to the heav-
ens, long ago dry, very dry, so they would float buoyantly for him. . . . [H]e
felled the timber. And he completed the task quickly. And he felled twenty in
all, and then he roughly shaped them with the bronze axe, and he skillfully
adzed and made them straight to his line. Meanwhile Calypso, the beautiful
goddess, brought borers. He bored all the pieces and fit them to one another,
and then with pegs and lacings he joined it together. As wide as a skilled car-
penter marks o¬ the curvature for the bottom of a broad merchant ship, so
wide of beam did Odysseus build his ship. And setting up the deck, joining it
to the closely spaced frames . . . And finished it with long pieces. He fenced
it continuously with withies to protect against the waves of the sea and then
filled it with brush.1
 One of the longest-running nautical debates has been over the type of craft
Odysseus builds. E. Warre proposes that he builds a raft instead of a ship. In his
view Odysseus’s raft is large and complex but not very seaworthy. It consists of a
stern deck built high above a broad platform, and in the center of this platform
Odysseus builds a framework of timbers to support a mast, sail, and rigging. Fi-
nally, he places brush around the perimeter of the platform to ward o¬ the sea
(figure 24).2
Thomas Seymour supports Warre’s interpretation.3 He argues that this vessel
cannot have been a ship in the ordinary sense of the word. He points out that it is
not called a ship, or nhu'", but a scedivh. Odysseus also builds it in only four days,
which is too short a period to build a ship, and he shrinks from sailing it across
the sea.4 Finally, Homer describes the destruction of the scedivh by stating “the
waves scattered it as the wind scatters a heap of cha¬.”5 Seymour believes these
passages more consistently describe a raft than a ship.
In contrast, Frank Brewster argues that scedivh denotes a ship. He points out
that the care Odysseus takes in shaping, smoothing, and fitting all of the timbers
is superfluous for building a raft but necessary for a ship. Furthermore, to build
a raft Odysseus needs only to trim and square his logs with his axe. However, he
then uses an adze to finish the surfaces of his timbers, but only after the logs have
been shaped. Such a step is not required in building a raft.6 Lionel Casson agrees
with Brewster. In addition, he points out that a raft does not have framing or a
stern deck as a ship does.7 William Stanford also mentions that the word scedivh
may denote an “improvised” boat instead of a raft because Odysseus builds his
craft in a relatively short time and without any planning.8 He cites Plato as using
scedivh in the Phaedo to denote an improvised boat instead of a raft. Yet, this pas-
sage is so vague that scedivh can have a number of interpretations.9 Furthermore,
although “improvised boat” is a possible interpretation in this later work, in
most of the translations that I have surveyed that have been published since Stan-
ford, the most common translation of scedivh continues to be “raft.”10 This vari-
ation in translation appears to be due to a lack of context as seen in the Phaedo.
Another di~culty with this interpretation is that Homer also uses the phrase
eujrei'an scedivhn to describe Odysseus’s craft, and Theocritus uses the identical
phrase to describe Charon’s boat.11 In this context “improvised” simply does not
describe what is an immortal craft used to ferry souls across the River Styx.
In fact, scedivh appears to have a fairly broad range of meanings, including
a raft, boat, ship, or even a frame built on wheels used to move objects.12 Yet, a
close examination of the various citations shows that in many cases, as with the
translation of Plato’s Phaedo, writers usually fail to give a detailed account of the

Odysseus Builds a Seagoing Vessel 71

Figure 24. Odysseus’s raft (after Warre, 1884, 219)

structure. The di~culty in interpreting this word is best illustrated by Xenophon,

who describes how the people of Caenae would bring bread, cheese, and wine on
“leather scedivai"” over the Tigris.13 In this passage scedivh has been consistently
translated as “raft.”14 However, the ethnographic evidence allows for more than
one possibility. The people living along the Tigris and Euphrates built large
leather rafts called keleks, which consisted of a deck supported by long poles
lashed to a number of inflated skins (figure 25). However, such rafts were typi-
cally used to carry heavy cargoes downstream, and the only source of propulsion
appears to have been the river’s current. Boatmen used long poles but only to
steer.15
To load and unload keleks, people used qu¬as, which were circular boats with
flat bottoms (figure 26). The framing consisted of bent branches that were cov-
ered first with basketry and then leather. In the eyes of the Greeks, such vessels
would qualify as improvised or quickly built boats, and qu¬as were commonly
used to carry food short distances, just as Xenophon describes.16 Although a
qu¬a seems to conform more closely to the earlier description, a lack of contex-
tual information from Xenephon requires us to guess the true meaning of sce-
divh in this passage and in most other sections where it appears, like the Phaedo.
Consequently, the word’s etymology cannot help us determine whether Homer
is describing a raft or a ship. Instead, we must interpret scedivh in the specific
context in which it appears. In this passage the evidence of how it was built, so
far, suggests it is some type of ship.
Nevertheless, it is also true that Seymour’s other comments have been ig-

72 chapter 5
Figure 25. Kelek (after Hornell, 1946, figure 4)

Figure 26. Qu¬a (after

Hornell, 1946, figure 10)

nored. He is correct in that the four days Odysseus takes to build his vessel is too
little and that the platform of a raft can be assembled more quickly than the hull
of a vessel. Yet, Seymour fails to consider a few aspects of shipbuilding.
It is far more di~cult to build a solid framework for a mast and especially a
high deck on a flat raft than to do so within the curved hull of a ship. This is es-
pecially true of a raft that must be sailed on the open seas. Odysseus could have
built a bipod or tripod mast relatively easily, but we have no archaeological or

Odysseus Builds a Seagoing Vessel 73

ethnographic evidence to suggest that the Greeks built masts in this way. Fur-
thermore, Odysseus needs to build a larger, heavier raft to sail in seas a smaller
vessel could weather. The time Odysseus would save in preparing and joining the
timbers for the raft’s platform is therefore lost in the time required to cut, shape,
and transport the extra lumber required to build a larger raft with a secure mast
and raised deck.
The argument that it takes Odysseus only four days to build his vessel is com-
monly cited to support the raft theory, but it has little merit. Another literary
figure, Utnapishtim, has craftspeople build a vessel large enough to carry him,
his family, their kin, all his possessions, the children of the craftspeople, and
a sample of all living creatures in only two days. Moreover, Noah completes a
similar feat in seven days.17 Considering these literary traditions, we should not
make too much of Odysseus building a smaller vessel in only four days, espe-
cially when Homer typically endows his heroic characters with superhuman at-
tributes. Diomedes, Hector, and Aeneas could all easily throw stones that two of
the mightiest mortals of Homer’s day had di~culty lifting, let alone throwing.18
Furthermore, Aias is able to jump from deck to deck wielding a naval pike 22
cubits (duwkaieikosivphcu"), or 10 meters, long.19 Odysseus’s ability to build a
seagoing vessel in only four days should therefore be seen as nothing more than
a literary device, illustrating the superior abilities of Homeric heroes.
Finally, Seymour’s last two arguments that address Odysseus’s fear of sailing
this vessel and Homer’s description of the destruction of the scedivh, which best
conforms to the sailing of a raft, also lack merit. It seems unlikely that Odys-
seus’s fear of sailing a scedivh is the result of either his being forced to sail on a
raft or the “improvised” nature of the vessel. If Odysseus’s only apprehension
was of traveling on a raft instead of a ship, then why not take a few extra days to
build a proper ship? He is under no pressure to leave quickly. Furthermore, the
evidence does not support the argument that Odysseus lacks the skills necessary
to build a seaworthy ship.20 Homer describes him as a skilled warrior, speaker,
sailor, hunter, storyteller, and carpenter.21 He is also the favorite of Athena, the
goddess who guides the hands of craftspeople.22 Just because he builds his vessel
quickly and without advanced planning does not necessarily mean that it is a
poorly built craft. In contrast, Odysseus knows he has incurred the wrath of Po-
seidon for blinding his son Polyphemus, and he has already su¬ered much on
the open seas because of it. His return voyage across Poseidon’s domain would
therefore be dangerous and di~cult even in a large, fully crewed ship, let alone
by himself.23 His fears may be more the result of his precarious relationship with
Poseidon than the type of vessel he must sail. After all, his crew and ship were
lost because the crew killed and ate the sacred cattle of Helios.24

74 chapter 5
 Furthermore, Odysseus must travel across unknown waters that well-built,
swift ships do not sail, and, considering all of his adventures, he understands
better than anyone the perils associated with sailing alone in uncharted waters.25
Seafarers of his day had no sea charts, navigational tools, or written guides.
Homer creates a scenario in which Odysseus is at the mercy of the gods and the
sea in every sense. Calypso adds to his concern by telling him that if he had any
idea how much misery he must endure on his journey, he would stay with her.26
Under the circumstances, no one can argue that Odysseus’s dread of a return
voyage is solely the result of his having to sail on an makeshift ship or raft. His
life is simply too complicated for such an interpretation.
Finally, with regard to the breakup of Odysseus’s vessel, laced ships have a
reputation for coming apart during bad storms.27 If the cords securing the hull
planking started splitting under the conditions Homer describes, the waves may
have indeed scattered pieces of the hull much like wind scatters cha¬. Conse-
quently, none of the objections Seymour raises favor an interpretation of a raft
over a ship. Instead, the literary evidence indicates that the elements necessary to
construct this craft and the manner in which Odysseus assembles it favor the
building of an improvised ship.
We also lack ethnographic or archaeological information that suggests that
Greeks built and sailed rafts made of timber around the Aegean. Artistic repre-
sentations of rafts from Greek art are rare. It has been proposed that rafts of
goatskins were relatively common in the Aegean, and pot rafts may have been
used by the Minoans.28 All other depictions of rafts are from Greek and Etruscan
sites in Italy. These seals date between the sixth and third centuries b.c. and por-
tray Hercules riding on a pot raft (figure 27).29 Nevertheless, this kind of raft is
not designed for long sea voyages.30 The only mention of such rafts being used
in this manner is by Metellus in 252 b.c., who ferried 140 elephants across the
Straits of Messina on pot rafts.31 In 72 b.c. some of the men that Spartacus com-
manded were trapped by Roman forces and made pot rafts also to cross the
Straits of Messina.32 However, these rafts were constructed out of desperation
and were meant to travel only a relatively short distance. Very large seagoing rafts
made of timber were constructed on occasion, usually to ferry lumber and ele-
phants, but the earliest recorded date for such Greek structures is the fourth
century b.c.33
Finally, a purported raft painted on a pot dates to about 440 b.c. This illustra-
tion has been cited as a portrayal of “Boreas blowing at the raft of Odysseus”
(figure 28).34 It is safe to say this interpretation is incorrect. A raft of pots always
has the openings of the pots placed at the highest point to reduce the likeli-
hood of their filling with water, even if they are sealed (figure 27). Furthermore,

Odysseus Builds a Seagoing Vessel 75

 Figure 27. Herakles jar raft (after
Brommer, 1984, abb. 33.6)

Figure 28. Odysseus’s raft of jars? (after Aghion et. al., 1996, p. 70)

Odysseus is wearing nothing but what appears to be the veil of Ino, and by the
time he strips o¬ his clothing and ties the veil around himself, his vessel has bro-
ken up and he is floating on wreckage.35 It is therefore likely that this depiction
portrays Odysseus on the flotsam of his vessel instead of on a pot raft. Finally,
none of these rafts is even remotely similar to the craft Homer describes.
In contrast, we have many depictions and models of ships and boats dating
from at least the third millennium (figure 29). Consequently, the best evidence of
the type of craft Odysseus is constructing comes from Homer’s shipbuilding
narrative, which was discussed earlier in this chapter. Therefore, of all of the in-
terpretations proposed so far, the steps described and the lack of preparation are
consistent with the construction of an improvised ship. However, advanced
planning is rarely a factor in the design of traditional ships. With regard to tradi-

76 chapter 5
Figure 29. Clay boat model from Molchos, ca. 3100 to 2600 b.c. (after Göttlicher, 1978, figure 313)

tional Arabic ships, a buyer would tell a shipwright the capacity of the ship in
packages of dates and the type of vessel the buyer wanted—either a boom, baglah,
or something else—and no other measurements were required. Other ship-
wrights might ask for the length of the keel instead of the capacity, but that was
all the planning that was necessary.36 Also, Calypso is a goddess who appears
able to supply whatever tools may be needed, and the island seems to be rich in
timber. Therefore, in this context, the di¬erence between a standard ship, or
nhu'", and a scedivh does not appear to be in the design of the vessel, the experi-
ence of the shipwright, or the access to tools and resources. As previously men-
tioned, scedivh can have a number of di¬erent meanings. For a Homeric audi-
ence, the word may have been merely a cue with no specific meaning other than
to signify some type of vessel or craft. Once an audience heard the word, it would
expect a clarification as to the type of craft. The same appears to be true for later
classical texts in that scedivh most closely equates to our words “craft” and
“vessel,” which can denote a wide range of floating structures. Therefore, in the
context of this passage, Odysseus’s ship appears to vary from a normal ship in
the speed at which it was built and the size in relation to some of the construc-
tion techniques, as I clarify later.
Odysseus begins to build this ship by felling alder (klhvqrh), poplar (ai[gei-
ro"), and fir (ejlavth) trees.37 According to Russell Meiggs, Homer should be
allowed some poetic license when he mentions three or more trees per line be-
cause as the number of objects increases, their relevance decreases. He cites the
passage describing Calypso’s home, which is surrounded by alder, poplar, and
cypress, as opposed to the alder, poplar, and fir Odysseus cuts down to build his
vessel. Meiggs believes that these two sections should be seen as literary devices,
and we should not attempt to use this information to try to understand ship-
building. He points out that these trees are not found together in nature. Alders
and poplars grow near streams in mountain valleys and at medium elevations. In
contrast, fir trees need less water and grow at higher elevations. Meiggs pro-

Odysseus Builds a Seagoing Vessel 77

poses that Homer is substituting fir for cypress only because it is the best timber
for ship construction and that we should ignore the other two species. Yet, he
also observes that Homer has an intimate understanding of the habits and uses
of di¬erent trees.38
Homer’s eye for detail is apparent in the segment describing the Achaeans’
gathering of wood for Patroclus’s funeral pyre. They travel to Mount Ida with
mules and woven ropes to bind and haul timber and drive their mules in a sinu-
ous pattern to the shoulder of the mountain, where they cut oak trees.39 Oak is a
species that grows on Mount Ida and is a strong burner, well suited for crema-
tions. If the Achaeans had traveled any higher on the mountain, they would prob-
ably have been at an elevation where conifers grow, trees that are not so suitable
for a funeral pyre.40 Homer also states that the shafts of spears are always made
of ash (melivh), which is a tough, elastic, and relatively light wood that is well
suited for this purpose.41 The spear is so closely associated with this particular
wood that it is commonly called an ash.42
Homer’s keen sense of detail is also revealed in this building passage. The axe
handle is olive (ejlaivh), which is a wood that wears well, is very hard, and was
used for tool handles.43 He seems to have an innate feeling for such aspects of
life. Even if Meiggs is correct and this line is a literary device, Homer may still
have constructed it to accurately reflect life as he did with other lines of his po-
etry. It has been proposed that when Homer portrays the area around Calypso’s
home, he envisages alder and poplar in a valley and cypress on a hillside above.
Meiggs rejects this interpretation because such subtleties are beyond Homer’s
ability as an oral-traditional singer.44 The flaw with Meiggs’s reasoning is that if
fir is the only tree that is relevant to the song in either line, why include cypress at
all? If Homer created these epics by singing them, we would expect him to use the
same three types of trees to describe both Calypso’s home and the trees Odysseus
fells to build his ship. To do so would preserve the economy of the poem. In ad-
dition, Odysseus would still have access to the fir necessary to build his vessel.
Moreover, it is not universally accepted that these epics were created orally, and
Homer may indeed have written them, in which case we would expect to see the
subtleties that Meiggs rejects. No evidence supports Meiggs’s contention that
there is an inverse association between the increasing number of items Homer
describes in a line and the accuracy of those descriptions. The fact that Homer
continually changes the types of trees to fit di¬erent situations suggests each is
significant. Homer therefore mentions alder, poplar, and fir in this context for a
specific reason, which is that carpenters used all three to build seagoing vessels.
A survey of each type of wood adds weight to this observation.
Homer appropriately depicts fir as reaching “to the heavens” because it can

78 chapter 5
have straight sections of more than 30 meters. A fir, which is a conifer, will grow
few lower branches under the right conditions, producing long lengths of wood
with a small number of knots.45 It is also light, strong, easy to split and work, re-
sistant to decay, and durable in water.46 These characteristics made it a favorite of
shipwrights.47 In contrast, alder and poplar are deciduous trees.
Alder is a fine-grained hardwood that is durable under water. It is dense and
elastic, seasons without di~culty, and is easily split and worked.48 In addition,
carpenters used alder for ship planking. Alder, pine, and fir were used for the
hull planking on the St. Gervais 2 wreck.49 In fact, alder was so commonly used
by shipwrights in Italy that Roman poets referred to a ship as an alnus, or alder.50
Poplar is also a fine-grained hardwood that is easy to work, but it is only mod-
erately durable. It is commonly used in carpentry and statue carving, and because
it is a hardwood, it has a definite advantage over fir.51 Fir is ideal for planking but
poorly suited for fasteners in vessels built with pegged mortise-and-tenon join-
ery (figure 4). If a shipwright used fir for the planking and fasteners, both would
absorb water and swell after the ship was launched, possibly causing the planks
to distort or even split. This could be avoided by using a combination of larger
mortises or smaller tenons. Yet, for a number of reasons, this would result in a
weaker hull, primarily because the tenons would not fit as tightly into the mor-
tises. If hardwoods were used for both, neither would swell enough for a tight
joint. In addition, few locations in the Mediterranean would have had hardwood
forests extensive enough with trees su~ciently large to support ship construc-
tion on any scale for any length of time. In contrast, when a softwood is used for
planking and a hardwood for fasteners, the possibility of damage is reduced be-
cause the hardwood swells far less when wet. Moreover, the swelling of softwood
planking around hardwood fasteners actually results in a very tight joint and, as
a result, a stronger hull.52 This is especially true because timber from deciduous
trees in general is stronger than timber from conifers. So, fasteners of a hard-
wood would be stronger. For this reason most Greco-Roman ships were built
with softwood planking and hardwood fasteners.
Homer may therefore have mentioned poplar because it was used for fasten-
ings, and we have evidence that it was used in ancient ship construction for this
purpose. A ship with poplar tenons and built in the Greco-Roman tradition was
found north of the Roman harbor of Caesarea.53 Furthermore, Homer uses
poplar in a simile to describe how Asius falls to the ground after being struck by
a spear: “He fell like an oak (dru'") or white poplar (ajcerwi?"),54 or stately pine
(pivtu"), which the carpenters fell in the mountains with sharpened axes for a
ship’s timber,”55 which suggests that Homeric shipwrights used all three.
Oak, pine, and fir were common shipbuilding timbers in ancient times, but

Odysseus Builds a Seagoing Vessel 79

poplar may have been more commonly used for ship construction than originally
thought.56 The archaeological evidence indicates that ancient shipwrights used
many di¬erent types of wood besides fir, oak, and pine; these include walnut,
carob, elm, linden, dogwood, olive, ash, pistachio, cedar, cypress, larch, spruce,
alder, and poplar.57 Unfortunately, what usually survives from most ancient
wrecks consists of the keel, lower planking, lower framing, and sometimes the
mast step and lower stringers. We know little of the di¬erent types of woods used
for crossbeams, decking, bulkheads, and ornamentation because these struc-
tures rarely survive and are hardly ever mentioned in historic texts. However, a
few of the earliest authors mention some of the types of lumber shipwrights
used, including ash, acacia, alder, beech, cypress, elm, lime, mulberry, and
plane.58 Of course, one reason such a wide variety of species is mentioned in the
texts and seen in the archaeological record is the availability of di¬erent species
of trees at di¬erent locations. Therefore, the fact that Homer consistently men-
tions only woods commonly used by carpenters indicates that he mentions
poplar and alder because they were used to build the ships of his day.
Homer describes the trees Odysseus cuts down as au\a pavlai, perivkhla or
“long ago dry, very dry.”59 This phrase suggests that the trees had seasoned for
a long time before Odysseus cut them down, and ancient woodcutters did usu-
ally season their wood before cutting. They did so by girdling a tree, allowing the
sap to drain.60 The reason for this practice is that seasoned wood is light, hard,
and durable, but it also has some disadvantages.61 Seasoned wood is more dif-
ficult to split and work, especially when using an axe or an adze. Yet, tools remain
sharper when working seasoned wood, reducing the time spent sharpening
them. Furthermore, carpenters can bore seasoned wood more easily because the
wood dust is dry and is easy to bring up.62
The ancient texts also mention other forms of treating wood. In the Argonau-
tica, trees are felled and then laid along the beach to be treated in seawater before
construction starts.63 Salt leaching into wood may prevent too much moisture
from leaving too quickly and thus reduce the possibility of premature rotting.64
This practice may even help to lessen splitting and warping.65 However, even if
this technique were used, it was still necessary to season timbers by drying them
either before or after a vessel was built. Nevertheless, classical shipwrights were
careful to keep their timber from becoming too dry. This is pointed out by
Theophrastus, who advocates the use of lumber with some moisture because
such wood can be bent more easily, and once a ship had been completed, the hull
was allowed to season so the joints could set.66 However, if a shipwright used
wood that was somewhat green, the joinery could be too loose even after the hull
was allowed to season, resulting in a weak hull. On the other hand, if the wood

80 chapter 5
was too dry, the shipwright ran the risk of splitting the planking and timbers
when driving in the fasteners.67
Curiously, the description of the trees as “long ago dry, very dry” suggests
that, unlike classical shipwrights, Homeric shipwrights may have preferred
drier timber for building ships. There is no doubt about the meaning of au\a
pavlai, perivkhla because the only other time Homer uses this phrase is to de-
scribe dried firewood, which burns best when completely dried out.68 This again
may be an indication of the di¬erence in the shipbuilding requirements of laced
versus pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery. Most of the splitting probably took
place during the cutting of the mortises and the driving in of the closely spaced
tenons. In contrast, in a laced vessel, split planking is less likely as the dowel
holes are bored, and the fasteners are smaller and more widely spaced. This
means that there is more wood between the fasteners; thus, less hammering is
required because there are fewer fasteners. Under these conditions, the main
disadvantage to using such dry timber is that it does not bend readily. Neverthe-
less, there are traditional techniques for softening timbers, which include put-
ting a plank under tension and leaving it in the surf.69 Furthermore, if large
timbers are readily available, planks can be carved with an adze to the necessary
shape instead of being bent. Finally, according to Homer, another advantage of
using such dry wood is that these trees would float “buoyantly” (ejlafrw'").70 Re-
gardless of whether the trees were seasoned by workers, nature, or the gods, we
know that Odysseus used very dry wood to build his vessel.
After felling the trees, Odysseus roughly shapes the planking and timbers
with his axe. Although the saw was known as early as the Third Dynasty in Egypt
and advances in its design are seen among the Minoans, no evidence exists to
suggest that it was used in Greece during Homer’s time.71
After using an axe to fell and split timber, Odysseus used an adze (figure 30)
to accomplish the final form, thickness, and smoothing. The adze is rarely used
by carpenters today, except for those interested in traditional tools. However, in
ancient times it was one of the most common and versatile devices used by car-
penters and shipwrights. An adze appears similar to a hoe, with the head resem-
bling a slightly curved axe head at a right angle to the handle (figure 30). This tool
came in all sizes; large ones were used to rough out the shape of a timber (figure
31) and small ones for finer shaping and smoothing (figures 31 and 32). Conse-
quently, when Homer states that a carpenter had “skillfully smoothed . . . a
post,” he is probably referring to the use of an adze instead of a plane, which is
the common translation, but the plane was invented much later by the Romans.72
In addition, Homer rather often mentions—in the form of a simile—a line,
or stavqmh, which guides Odysseus in shaping the timbers. To be able to shape

Odysseus Builds a Seagoing Vessel 81

 Figure 30. Adze (after Petrie,
1974, p. 111)

Figure 31. Egyptian shipwrights with various sizes of adzes (after Wild, 1953, pl. 129)
Figure 32. Greek carpenter using an adze to shape a timber to the line (after Goodman, 1978, figure 10)

an object “to the line” denotes a person’s skill while performing any di~cult
task.73 One can use a number of techniques to create a straight line. As an ex-
ample, stavqmh may denote a chalk line, a tool that carpenters today still use.74
The line consists of only a string coated with chalk, which is pulled tight over the
surface to be marked and then plucked, causing it to strike the surface, leaving a
straight chalk line. If chalk was not available, other substances were used, such
as ochre or even ink. Japanese carpenters actually preferred ink instead of chalk.
Shaping an object to the line may have also been done with only chalk or some
other substance. For the building of a boom, Arab shipwrights developed an ef-
fective method of smoothing out some of the surfaces. Before adding the next
hull plank to a ship under construction, shipwrights would smear blue chalk
over the exposed edge of the uppermost plank already set in place. The next
plank would be set on this surface and then removed. Any blue adhering to the

Odysseus Builds a Seagoing Vessel 83

edge of the removed plank would reveal high spots, which were then carefully
adzed away. The process would then be repeated until the edge was a uniform
blue color. Even skilled shipwrights sometimes made five attempts before a
plank fit tightly.75 This is a simple yet time-consuming method that allowed ship-
wrights to form very tight seams with only chalk and an adze. Because of this, it
was not necessary to hammer reeds into the seams before lacing the planks to-
gether, which was a required step on ships (such as mitepe) as a substitute for
crafting tight seams.
It is also possible that a ruler may have been used to draw lines, depending on
the project, as is done today. We simply do not have enough information to know
the full extent of a Homeric toolkit, but we do know that it was high praise to
be compared to a carpenter who could shape a timber “straight to the line.” Of
course, this is an understandable accolade if Homeric carpenters shaped straight
timbers with only an axe, an adze, and a chalk line.
Another valuable tool that is omitted from this passage but appears elsewhere
in the epics is the plumb bob, or stafuvlh.76 This tool consists of only a line with
a weight attached to one end, but it was important because it allowed a carpen-
ter to determine the perpendicularity of an object. However, Odysseus apparently
does not require this tool to build his ship.
After Odysseus has split, carved, and adzed his planking and timbers, he
bores holes for fastenings. One of the more visual similes in the Odyssey de-
scribes a large type of drill for boring ship timbers: “They snatched the olive
stake, sharp at the end, and leaned on it, into his eye, while I, throwing my weight
on it from above, twirled it around, like a man who bores a ship’s timber with
a borer, as his men below keep it constantly spinning with a thong they grasp at
either end. So we took the fiery-pointed stake and spun it around in his eye.”77
This passage describes a large bow drill, which consisted of a chuck that held
a bit, a spindle, a loosely rotating handle at the top, and a bow. The wooden bow,
which at this time was straight instead of curved, was strung with a leather thong
that was wrapped once around the spindle. The carpenter pressed down on the
handle of the drill with one hand and then pushed and pulled the bow with the
other (figure 33).78 The main di¬erence, other than size, between a small bow
drill (tevretron) and the larger drill (truvpanon) that Homer alludes to is that a
carpenter would substitute a long, thin piece of leather for a bow. A few or sev-
eral men (depending on the size of the hole being drilled and the thickness of the
timber) would pull this thong back and forth. The handle at the top of this larger
drill would be replaced with a transverse piece of wood, which was shaped to fit
the carpenter’s chest and was usually padded. The carpenter would rest his chest
on this piece while guiding and pressing down with his body weight on the drill.

84 chapter 5
 Figure 33. Greek carpenter using a bow
drill (after Hale, 1965, p. 261)

A bow drill relies on reciprocal motion. This type of motion is less e~cient at
transferring power from the bow to the bit than is an auger, which transfers more
force because it consists of a handle attached directly to a shaft fitted with a bit
(figure 34). Therefore, a bow drill is better suited to drilling through thinner
pieces of wood or thick wood with small holes. In contrast, an auger is more
efficient for drilling holes greater than 2 or 3 centimeters in diameter. A single
carpenter can more easily bore larger holes in thicker pieces of wood with an
auger because the bit turns continuously in one direction, directing more power
to each turn of the tool.79 However, builders could adapt a bow drill to the job
by merely using a larger drill with more men. So, when labor is cheap and plen-
tiful, there is less reason to replace the bow drill with an auger. Furthermore, a
bow drill, although less powerful, gives a carpenter more control when drilling
deeper holes.80
Most scholars interpret tevretron as “auger,” which is unlikely. The earliest
auger was discovered in Egypt and dates after Homer’s time to the seventh cen-
tury b.c.81 All ancient iconography before this time depicts carpenters and ship-
wrights using only bow drills. In addition, the remains of at least three bow drills
were part of a toolkit recovered from the Ma’agan Michael wreck (ca. 400 b.c.).82
Augers, however, were not found.
Bow drills may have continued in use for so long because of the size of the
holes workers were drilling. The surviving pegs and dowels used to build ships
during the Bronze Age through the Archaic period are rarely more than 2 cen-
timeters in diameter. A carpenter could therefore bore the necessary holes with a
bow drill and, if it was necessary to bore larger holes, could use the large bow
drill Homer describes. In fact, the Romans were still commonly using the bow
drill, and the auger does not appear to become the preferred tool until medieval
times, which roughly coincides with the appearance of the spoon-shaped bit.83

Odysseus Builds a Seagoing Vessel 85

 Figure 34. Auger

Therefore, the shape of the bit may also have influenced the e~ciency of each
tool. Accordingly, the evidence suggests that Calypso gives Odysseus more than
one bow drill. The di¬erence between them is probably the size of the bit. Dif-
ferent bits would be needed depending on the size of the desired hole.
After boring the timbers, Odysseus fits and joins the planking together with
dowels (govmfoisin) and fastenings (aJrmonivh/sin). As discussed at length in the
previous chapter, the evidence indicates that the word govmfoi refers to pegs for
fastening the cords (aJrmonivai) that bind the hull planks in place.
After the hull planking has been joined, Homer states that “As wide as a
skilled carpenter marks o¬ the curvature for the bottom of a broad merchant
ship, so wide of beam did Odysseus build his ship.” This passage suggests that
Odysseus has built himself a large and beamy vessel and that he appears to be
more concerned with stability and safety than speed. Nevertheless, we should
not make too much of the size of his ship. As previously mentioned, Homeric he-
roes are typically portrayed as superior to their descendants in most respects.
Consequently, we should accept Odysseus’s ability to build such a large vessel
by himself as hyperbole, just like his ability to build it in only four days.
Another important aspect of this section is the comparison of Odysseus to a
skilled carpenter. In actuality, no specific name for a shipwright appears in ei-
ther the Iliad or the Odyssey. Tevktwn is the word commonly translated as “ship-
wright,” but it is used to describe any type of woodworker. If qualifying material
is added, it can also denote a craftsperson in another medium, such as kerao-
xovo" tevktwn, or horn worker.84 Homer does not di¬erentiate among woodwork-
ing crafts in Homeric society, suggesting an absence of specialization. Never-

86 chapter 5
theless, Homeric society revered its master carpenters. The importance of a
carpenter’s position is obvious in view of the fact that only carpenters, healers,
seers, and singers are ever invited from foreign lands.85 Furthermore, carpenters
were not confined to the lower classes. Odysseus, who is loved by Athena, not
only builds a seagoing vessel by himself but also—on the Island of Ithaca—
alone crafted his own bed from a tree stump and then built his bedroom around
it.86 Phereklos, who could make anything because he was also a favorite of
Athena, was both a carpenter and a warrior and built the ships on which Paris
and Helen sailed to Troy. Even Paris helps to build his own house. Curiously, he
is the only person mentioned in the Iliad who is both hated by Athena and re-
quires the assistance of the best craftspeople in the land to build his house and
ships.87 Homer may be using this comparison as a device to make a statement
about Paris’s lack of character. It also emphasizes Athena’s value to the craft be-
cause carpenters were guided by her hand, and since Odysseus was a favorite, no
doubt his ship was well built.88
Another tool mentioned in this passage is a tornovomai, which carpenters use
to find the curvature of large ships. This description of a tornovomai is unique in
that it suggests advanced planning to determine a hull’s curvature. We lack con-
firmation of such planning until medieval times, when ships were built frame
first. During Homer’s time, this device appears to be little more than a string for
striking o¬ circles.89 It is also used to mark the circumference for the burial
mound of Patroclus.90 In this second instance, the implement consists of little
more than a stake hammered into the ground to which a cord is tied; at the other
end of the cord is a sharp object to scratch a circle in the dirt. Divining how ship-
wrights adapted this device to find the curvature of a large ship is not as simple.
Since Homer inserts this line as a simile to emphasize the size of Odysseus’s
vessel, we receive no hints from him as to how this tool was used. Furthermore,
using it as it is described for marking o¬ the shape of a burial mound is unsuit-
able for finding the curvature of a ship. Doing so will produce too much rise in
the bottom of a vessel, resulting in a top-heavy hull (figure 35). However, this
tool can be used to find the curvature at various points, especially at the turn of
the bilge on a master frame or other predetermined frames, or to make molds for
such frames.
Frame-first construction refers to the method of building ships by nailing plank-
ing onto previously erected framing. The framing defines a vessel’s body shape.
To build such a ship, workers assemble and erect the keel, stem, and sternpost
first. Next, shipwrights commonly raise what is called a master frame at the loca-
tion where the vessel will have the greatest beam, or width. At other critical points
from bow to stern, builders then raise additional frames with predetermined

Odysseus Builds a Seagoing Vessel 87

 Figure 35. Creating an arc with a line
and stake (midship section of the Kyrenia
wreck) (after Ste¬y, 1985, figure 6)

shapes designed specifically for those locations on the keel in order to define and
control the shape of a hull. The number of frames they raise depends on a num-
ber of factors, such as the length, breadth, and desired shape of the hull. Small
vessels with full and gentle curves may require a master frame and few if any
other predetermined frames, whereas a large ship may require several frames. By
carefully shaping the framing, erecting the necessary number of frames, and
then attaching battens to the exterior faces of the frames from stem to sternpost,
a shipwright defines the shape of a ship and knows the exact shapes of the re-
maining framing. Once the remaining frames are in place, the shipwright bends
the planking to this framework and nails it into place. This technique gives con-
siderable control over the shape of a vessel, allowing for detailed planning be-
fore construction begins. In addition, being able to bend the planking around a
frame makes it easier for a shipwright to get the proper planking shape and to set
the planks.
However, laced ships and those built with pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery
are constructed by first joining the hull planking, then adding the framing to a
completed shell of planking, which is why it is commonly referred to as shell-first
construction. On Greco-Roman ships, the framing consists of floor timbers with
futtocks that alternate with a set of half-frames (figure 22). These framing ele-
ments are not attached to each other or to the keel; instead they are joined to the
planking. Casson believes that some type of mold or predetermined frame was
erected after the keel, stem, and sternpost were set up.91 On most Greco-Roman
ships, however, the wineglass shape of the lower hull planking would make it
di~cult—if not impossible—to use molds because the framing is set three or

88 chapter 5
four planking levels above the keel and does not come in contact with it. This
area was commonly filled in with chocks (figure 22).
A significant di¬erence between the later Greco-Roman tradition of ship con-
struction and the Archaic laced ships that preceded them was the framing. The
framing in the Kyrenia ship is closely spaced, and none of the framing elements
are attached to each other or the keel. An advantage to this type of disarticulated
framing over the earlier type is that it allowed easier, faster construction. How-
ever, it could not be used to control the shape of a vessel as mentioned earlier be-
cause none of these elements were attached to the keel or each other, but only to
the hull planking. For example, the port and starboard sides of the Kyrenia ship
are asymmetrical, indicating that molds or preerected frames were not used to
control the hull’s shape.92
There are two important di¬erences between Archaic laced ships and clas-
sical ships: The planking on Archaic ships is laced, and the floor timbers are
scarfed and pegged to the futtocks. In other words, the frames are all of one
piece, much like master or predetermined frames used in frame-first construc-
tion. These Archaic frames could be assembled and placed in a vessel before
planking was added, which made it possible to shape one or a few key frames
with a tornovomai and to control the hull’s curvature. It is true that the frames in
these laced ships were not attached to the keel. However, unlike most classical
ships with wine-shaped hulls, the frames in Archaic ships sat directly on the keel
(figure 15). Therefore, Archaic shipwrights could use master and predetermined
frames by employing either “druvocoi,” which may be props supporting a ship
under construction, or e{rmata, which were long props placed against the side of
a ship, to secure the frames while the hull was formed.93 It is also possible that by
attaching a few strakes of planking to the keel, a shipwright could set up the
framing and lash the base of the frame to the planking and keel by using the lac-
ing holes already drilled for the frames. A third possibility is a combination of
these two techniques.
The only ship built with pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery that does not fol-
low the classical tradition is the Ma’agan Michael wreck.94 This vessel had fram-
ing similar to that on the earlier laced ships (figure 19). However, the base of the
frame does not touch the keel, but the master and predetermined frames may
have originally rested there, and when the planking was completed and the
frame had to be moved to finish pegging the joinery, the base was cut to its final
form and replaced once the pegging was finished. This may be the reason the
framing was formed to fit the wineglass shape of the hull, instead of using
chocks as seen in later wrecks.
In most laced ships, the cords were laced and pegged in place after the hull

Odysseus Builds a Seagoing Vessel 89

planking was fitted; then, only half of a ship was laced at a time. It is therefore
possible that the master and other predetermined frames were either removed
from the ship or stored in the section of the vessel not being laced, usually either
in the forward or aft half. This may sound like a lot of extra work, but we must
remember that every time these ships were relaced, which could be as often as
once a year, all of the framing had to be cut free of the hull and moved out of the
way. Thus, unlike shipwrights who worked in the Greco-Roman tradition, ship-
wrights who built and maintained laced ships gained considerable experience in
using and shifting frames in this manner.
Other reasons for using a tornovomai may be that it not only gave a shipwright
more control over a hull’s shape but also allowed this aspect of the building pro-
cess to advance more rapidly. Again, erecting some of the framing before the
planking was fitted made it easier for a shipwright to shape the planks to the re-
quired hull curvature and to assemble the planking, thereby reducing the time
necessary to complete this stage. In addition, if Archaic shipwrights typically
built ships of similar size and shape, then they could make molds of these com-
posite frames, further decreasing the time needed to make master and predeter-
mined frames for future projects. Finally, the larger the ship, the more di~cult it
was to control the shape of a hull by eyeballing alone; thus the construction pro-
gressed more slowly. This is especially true of Homeric carpenters, who were
as likely to build a house as a ship.
With smaller ships, it was common to build shell-first ships by simply scruti-
nizing them. As previously mentioned, the port and starboard sides of the Kyrenia
ship were asymmetrical, indicating that it was built in this manner. With regard
to laced ships, a passage from Field: The Country Gentlemen’s Newspaper describes the
construction of a mtepe. The reporter writes: “When it is considered that no mea-
surements are taken, that the building of the whole structure is directed solely by
the chief fundi’s eye, and the tools used are crude and few in number, it is re-
markable how beautiful and symmetrical are the lines and how true they remain
to the type.”95 Although the reporter praises this shipwright’s abilities, if lines
were taken o¬ this ship, there would no doubt be some variation in shape between
the port and starboard sides. How much variation is impossible to predict be-
cause a number of factors were at work, including the size and shape of the craft
and the speed at which it was built. Unfortunately, because of a lack of detailed
recording of ancient ships and a tendency to publish measurements from only
one side of a vessel, we do not know how much variation existed among di¬erent
types of ships or among craft built even within the same tradition.
Homer does not actually describe Odysseus’s use of this tool to build his
vessel, even though he is building a craft as broad as a large merchant ship. It is

90 chapter 5
therefore possible that an audience would recognize these construction steps as
those for the production of a small vessel, but Odysseus is able to build his ship
by following these steps and solely by eyeballing the components. This may be
another example of hyperbole that highlights his abilities, which are superior to
those of ordinary shipwrights, who need such tools to build the largest ships.
After the hull planking has been completed, Odysseus sets up the deck
(i[kria) and joins it to the closely spaced frames (stamivnessi). There is little
doubt that i[kria denotes decking, as Homer uses it repeatedly and the contexts
are clear.96 It is also clear that the deck is attached to the stamivne". Unfortunately,
stamivne" is a rarely used nautical term. It is a form of i{sthmi and denotes an
object that stands upright or is vertical.97 Considering the etymology of the word
and the construction sequence in the passage, we can be reasonably certain that
it denotes some aspect of the framing.98 The di~culty lies in trying to understand
how individual deck planks can be attached directly to the framing. We would
expect the decking to be fastened to crossbeams, which would then be attached
to the framing. Some scholars translate i[kria as crossbeams for this reason.99
This translation actually makes more practical sense, but we lack etymological
evidence to support such an interpretation, and it does not agree with other con-
texts in the epics and later works in which it is found.
It is possible that i[kria denotes an assembled deck. Homer may be describ-
ing a platform of both planking and crossbeams. This would explain why he
consistently uses the plural form of i[kria to denote one deck. In this way, the
decking could be directly joined to the stamivne", or frames.
Warre objects to the translation of stamivne" as “frames” and argues that if
that construal were valid, they would be curved.100 If stamivne" does denote the full
frame, then obviously this argument has some merit because frames can exhibit
considerable curvature (figures 19 and 22). However, Casson’s interpretation fits
the evidence best. He points out that frames consist of a floor timber, which runs
across the bottom of a ship, and futtocks, which run up the sides of a vessel
(figures 15, 19, and 21). Floor timbers were called ejgkoivlia, and stamivne" prob-
ably refers to the futtocks, which were attached to the side planking. In a large,
deep ship, which Odysseus seems to be building, the futtocks would appear to
stand either upright or close to the side planking.101 This is especially so if a hull
was so deep it required a second level of futtocks. Therefore, stamivne" probably
denotes the futtocks or top timbers rather than a complete frame.
Georg Autenrieth argues that druvocoi also denotes “frames.” 102 His reason-
ing appears to be that druvocoi is a compound form derived from two words,
dru'", which can refer specifically to oak or to a tree in general,103 and e[cw, which
means to hold, bear, carry, or support.104 Thus, the framing is the oak or wooden

Odysseus Builds a Seagoing Vessel 91

structure that holds the hull planking in place. Furthermore, in later times druvo-
coi denotes a keelson that holds the framing in place.105 This interpretation is
flawed in that the hull planking was the primary support structure in these an-
cient ships, not the framing, even in the Archaic ships. Of course, to be fair, Aut-
enrieth had no information on ancient ship construction. Moreover, he fails to
cite any sources to support his reading of druvocoi as “keelson.” Casson inter-
prets druvocoi to mean “oak holders” because the keels of galleys were usually
of oak, and these wooden posts held them in place.106 Homer uses dru'" to des-
ignate oak, but a woodcutter is a drutovmo".107 This suggests that when dru'" is
in a compound form it may have a generic meaning of “timber,” which gives a
translation of “timber holders.”108
This discussion on the variations in the way scholars have translated both
scedivh, which appears several times in di¬erent contexts, and druvocoi, which
appears only once without even a hint as to its meaning, highlights the obstacles
to understanding some of these early terms. Both words are important in that
each appears to denote rather simple structures that had a specific meaning that
was obvious to an audience. Homer uses druvocoi only once—when Odysseus
plans to set up the axes in a line for the archery contest. The line of axes resembles
“druovcou" w{",” which has a literal meaning of “like wooden supports” or “like
timber holders.”109 If Homer wanted audiences to be able to automatically visu-
alize how the axes were arranged, druvocoi must have had a specific meaning,
like “props supporting a keel”110 or “props supporting a ship.”111 The sense of a
keel is not found in any of the elements of this word and appears to be drawn
from later texts, such as those of Aristophanes and Plato.112 Casson’s association
between the oak of the oak holders and that of the oak keels (mentioned earlier)
supports this analysis somewhat.
In contrast, Liddell, Scott, and Jones propose that dru- comes from dovru,
which is a post, beam, plank, or timber usually associated with a ship, rather
than from dru'".113 If this is correct, then a sense of wooden supports for a ship
under construction is implied. Druvocoi may refer to only short supports for a
keel, while e{rmata may have been long props used during construction. On the
other hand, druvocoi may refer to all of the supports for a ship under construc-
tion including those supporting the keel, and e{rmata may have been used only
when ships were beached. It is also possible that Homer used druvocoi to mean
wooden supports for some other type of construction, such as a house. However,
since the etymology is in doubt and it appears only once in the epics, the original
meaning is also in doubt. A general reader of the epics must be aware that, in
many cases, words (e.g., druvocoi) have no simple translation and that transla-
tors have a number of choices. Nevertheless, we can state with some assurance

92 chapter 5
that no evidence exists that confirms the translation of druvocoi as the framing of
a ship.
Once the framing and decks are in place, Odysseus finishes his vessel with
“long pieces” (ejphgkenivde").114 These pieces are commonly translated as either
the planksheer, sheer strake, or gunwale of a ship.115 “Planksheer” and “sheer
strake” are di¬erent names for the same element, which is the uppermost level
of planking that extends the full length of a ship. Of course, this interpretation is
only conjecture and does not fit with the construction sequence because, if
ejphgkenivde" does denote a planksheer, it would have been in place before the
decking was added to the ship.
As previously mentioned, ships built with either lacings or pegged mortise-
and-tenon joinery are referred to as shell-first construction. This is because the
shell of planks is the primary structure, and most of a ship’s strength comes
from the hull planking instead of the framing. When using either type of joinery,
hull planking must be in place and fastened together before the framing is finally
attached to the hull. Therefore, since the planksheer must be in place before the
framing, which must be secured in place before the stern deck, ejphgkenivde"
cannot denote the planksheer. Finally, there is no reason to use longer pieces for
a planksheer than for any other strake, and there is no archaeological evidence to
support the use of such long planks. Instead, the most important aspect of as-
sembling hull planking is to ensure that the scarfing is staggered in relation to
the scarf directly above and below it. If planking scarfs are located one above the
other, then a plane of weakness is created, which increases the possibility of fail-
ure. A translation of ejphgkenivde" as planksheer does not appear to be a viable
interpretation.
John Morrison argues that as ejphgkenivde" is derived from ajgkwvn, which de-
notes an elbow. He proposes that it may be a longitudinal timber that the person
at the helm used as an elbow rest.116 This explanation seems unlikely because Mor-
rison ignores the full meaning of ajgkwvn. It designates an elbow only because an
elbow is something that is bent.117 It also signifies two headlands that form a bay
and a rib that supports the horn of a kithara.118 His interpretation is also doubtful
because the person at the helm usually sat toward the middle of the deck, out of
reach of these internal timbers. Ships of this era typically had two quarter rudders.
Usually both were used at the same time when navigating in a confined space, like
a harbor or a narrow strait; doing so gives greater control of a ship. As a result, the
tillers had to be long enough for the person at the helm to reach and operate both
at the same time. Furthermore, Morrison fails to cite any evidence to support his
interpretation. He also states that ejphgkenivde" may refer to longitudinal planks
or timbers in the interior of a vessel. This also seems improbable because such

Odysseus Builds a Seagoing Vessel 93

long pieces located in the hold would have been installed before the crossbeams
and decking were in place, unless such planks and timbers were attached only
above these elements. This, however, also seems doubtful because it is uncom-
mon to have upper internal timbers and not lower ones.
Another possibility is that ejphgkenivde" may denote the gunwales. Gunwale is
a poor term to use when describing any part of an ancient ship because it evolves
from the wale that supported gun decks and has since been used to describe any
number of ship features. Therefore, if an author does not define the term, it can
be di~cult to understand exactly what part of a ship is being depicted. In this
context, a better term would be caprail, which is a timber that covers the upper
faces of the framing and usually the upper edge of the planksheer also. Holes
would then be drilled into a caprail to take the thole pins for the oars. The longer
the pieces, the more securely anchored they would be and the better able to
handle the stress of rowing. Furthermore, the longer the pieces, the more flexi-
bility they would have to follow the shape of a hull. Nevertheless, this is only a
guess, but as Casson points out, it is not easy to see what else it would be at this
stage of the building process.119 Once the ejphgkenivde" were in place, the con-
struction of Odysseus’s vessel was complete.
When the hull is done, Odysseus collects withies, which are slender branches
or roots that were tough and flexible; from these he weaves a fence to protect
himself and the inside of the ship against the sea. What appears to be a similar
structure was recovered from the Uluburun shipwreck. Withies seem to have
been woven together and then attached to rounded stanchions about 1.7 meters
long.120 A depiction of a similar wickerwork fence appears on a Canaanite ship
from the tomb of Kenamun in Egypt (figure 10).
Finally, Odysseus fills the bottom of his ship with brush.121 Seymour points
out that brushwood covered by a goatskin was used for seating in the hut of Eu-
maeus.122 Casson proposes that this brush was to keep Odysseus’s feet dry and
protected from the water that collects in the bilge.123 George Bass submits that it
was used as dunnage, which was laid down to protect the hull planking from the
cargo stored on it, and the archaeological evidence supports this last explana-
tion.124 Of course, all of these analyses are probably correct, and this brush may
have had another purpose. As mentioned earlier, a rather common practice was
to coat the interior and exterior of ships with pitch. Pitch can harden when it is
relatively cold, but, when the weather turns hot, it can become tacky. Dunnage
would allow a sailor to walk around the hold without stepping on sticky pitch and
would also allow the pitch to remain on the planking where it was needed instead
of on crew members’ feet; protecting the pitch with dunnage would conse-
quently increase the time before a hull would have to be coated again.

94 chapter 5
 On a number of occasions colleagues have expressed skepticism about the ac-
curacy of this construction passage. Most of them believe that Homer must have
made a number of omissions in regard to the tools and steps, while a few went
so far as to suggest that, since Homer was a poet, little of the passage was accu-
rate. It is possible that Homer has made some slips, but they are probably minor
ones. I believe that most of what we assume to be lapses are in fact implied in the
passage, and when Homer sang this section his audience easily followed along
from beginning to end. If one could watch a Homeric shipwright build a small
laced ship, one would probably be surprised at the accuracy of this poetic seg-
ment. What we assume are oversights may be due more to our ignorance of
Homeric colloquialisms and shipbuilding practices of his day than to major
deficiencies in the song. For example, the following is a description of the build-
ing of a prahu kulis:

Their small canoes are beautifully formed, broad and low in the centre, but
rising at each end, where they terminate in high-pointed beaks. . . . They
are . . . built of planks running from end to end, and so accurately fitted that
it is often di~cult to find a place where a knife-blade can be inserted between
the joints. The larger ones are from 20 to 30 tons burden, and are finished
ready for [the] sea without a nail or particle of iron being used, and with no
other tools than axe, adze, and auger. These vessels are handsome to look at,
a good sailer, and admirable sea-boats, and will make long voyages with per-
fect safety, traversing the whole Archipelago from New Guinea to Singapore
in seas which, as every one who has sailed much in them can testify, are not so
smooth and tempest-free as word-painting travelers love to represent them.
The forests of Ké produce magnificent timber, tall, straight, and durable, of
various qualities, some of which are said to be superior to the best Indian teak.
To make each pair of planks used in the construction of the larger boats an en-
tire tree is consumed. It is felled . . . cut across to the proper length, and then
hewn longitudinally into two equal portions. Each of these forms a plank by
cutting with the axe to a uniform thickness of three or four inches, leaving at
first a solid block at each end to prevent splitting. Along the centre of each
plank a series of projection pieces are [sic] left, standing up three or four
inches, about the same width, and a foot long; these are of great importance
in the construction of the vessel. . . . A foundation-piece, broad in the middle
and rising considerably at each end, is first laid on blocks and properly shored
up. The edges of this are worked true and smooth with the adze, and a plank,
properly curved and tapering at each end, is held firmly up against it, while a
line is struck along it which allows it to be cut so as to fit exactly. A series of

Odysseus Builds a Seagoing Vessel 95

 auger-holes, about as large as one’s finger, are [sic] then bored along the op-
posite edges, and pins of very hard wood are fitted to these, so that the two
planks are held firmly, and can be driven into the closest contact; and di~cult
as this seems to do without any other aid than rude practical skill in forming
each edge to the true corresponding curves, and in boring the holes so as ex-
actly to match both in position and direction, yet so well is it done that the best
European shipwright can not produce sounder or closer-fitting joints. The
boat is built up in this way fitting plank to plank till the proper height and
width are obtained. We have now a skin held together entirely by the hard-
wood pins connecting the edges of the planks, very strong and elastic, but
having nothing but the adhesion of the pins to prevent the planks gaping. In
the smaller boats seats, in the larger ones cross-beams, are now fixed. They
are sprung into slight notches cut to receive them, and are further secured to
the projecting pieces of the plank below by a strong lashing of rattan. Ribs are
now formed of single pieces of tough wood chosen and trimmed so as exactly
to fit on to the projections from each plank, being slightly notched to receive
them, and securely bound to them by rattans passed through a hole in each
projecting piece close to the surface of the plank. The ends are closed against
the vertical prow and stern posts, and further secured with pegs and rattans,
and then the boat is complete; and then fitted with rudders, masts, and
thatched covering, is ready to do battle with the waves.125

The construction sequence of this vessel is similar to that described by Homer

in that both require few tools and not many steps to build, and the result is a
seaworthy vessel. It is even possible that Homer is describing the building of a
lashed-lugged vessel like a prahu kulis. Such vessels have been discovered not
only in Indonesia (as described earlier) but also as far north as England.126 At the
very least we must be cognizant of the possibility that Homer’s description may
be more accurate than originally thought. I hope that future archaeological dis-
coveries will further elucidate these passages. However, the di~culty of inter-
preting building techniques in a passage with relatively detailed descriptions
(compared to other ancient texts) and some context underscores the challenge of
interpreting other aspects of ship construction with little or no context. For this
reason we must rely on the various names, hints, and descriptions to attempt an
understanding of other elements of ancient ships that are interspersed through-
out the Iliad and Odyssey.

96 chapter 5
 6
Homeric
ships

Homer uses many epithets to describe ships. Some are too general to re-
veal much about them, such as “swift” (qoov"), which reveals little because it is a
relative term.1 A similar yet more poetic description is “chariots of the sea,” or
aJlo;" i{ppoi.2 Compared with other forms of Homeric transport, not only were
ships the fastest means, but they could also carry the heaviest cargoes.3 Yet, even
by Classical standards, Homeric ships may have been quite slow.
Homer also makes use of the epithets glafurov" and koi'lo", which are very
general terms that indicate only that there is space inside a ship, suggesting a
translation of “hollow” for both words.4 Lionel Casson, however, translates both
as a vessel without a deck, but these terms describe caves, streams, bays, and the
Trojan horse, which suggests such a narrow translation is unlikely.5
Ships are also referred to as korwniv", or “curved.”6 Korwniv" normally refers
to the upward curve of a ship at the bow and stern.7 Thomas Seymour believes that
it denotes a curved tip or end, especially the curved ends of a ship.8 John Morrison
suggests that it is the upward curve of the stern that is portrayed on Mycenaean
and Geometric paintings (figure 36). If korwniv" is connected with korwvnh,
“sea-bird,” it may also allude to the beaklike bow on Geometric ships.9 This last
interpretation seems unlikely since Homer appears to use the word stei'ra to de-
note the beaklike bow or, more properly, the cutwater or forefoot of a ship.
Shelley Wachsmann maintains that this similarity between korwniv" (“having
curved extremities”) with korwvnh (“sea-bird”) may be a play on words. He be-
lieves that korwniv" should be translated as “having curved extremities that are
bird-shaped.”10 Wachsmann claims that the hornlike ornaments at the bow and
stern of Geometric ships are stylized or abstract birds’ heads; korwniv", there-
fore, describes these abstract ornaments.11 John Lenz disagrees with this inter-
pretation. He points out that korwvnh has two possible meanings, either a curved
extremity or a seabird or crow, and Homer exploits both. Yet, these two defini-
Figure 36. Geometric ship

tions have di¬erent etymological roots. He points out that a crow’s beak has little
curvature, and the Indo-European word for “crow” reflects the onomatopoeic
root kor. This is similar to the English “crowbar,” which retains the sense of
“bent” but has no connection to a crow. The adjective korwniv", therefore, derives
a meaning of “curved” from korwvnh. Objects called korwvnh are curved extremi-
ties that cap or crown another object.12 Homer uses korwniv" to describe a door
handle and a gold tip on a bow.13 The epithet may therefore denote curved ele-
ments that cap or crown the stem and stern of a ship, such as a horn (figure 36).
Lenz concedes that Homer enjoys wordplay and that he may use korwniv" to
evoke the sense of a seabird.14 Regardless of Homer’s poetic wordplay, the ety-
mology of korwniv" suggests that Homer may be using this word as a general de-
scription of the curved ornaments at the bow and stern of Mycenaean and
Geometric ships, but we cannot be certain.15
Like korwniv", eji?sa" (eji'sai) is a general description of a ship that means
“equal”16 or “balanced.”17 Morrison suggests that it means “bilaterally symmet-
rical,” but he fails to cite any parallels to support his interpretation.18 According
to Richard Cunli¬e, it denotes a ship that is well balanced or trim while sailing.
His explanation is supported by Homer’s use of the same epithet to describe a
“well-balanced shield,” meaning a shield that responds freely to each movement
of the arm.19 A well-balanced ship or one that responds quickly would be a prized
object.
More ambiguously, ships are called ajmfievlissa, which Liddell, Scott, and
Jones point out always refers to ships.20 They translate it as either “curved at both
ends,” “curved on both sides,” or “wheeling either way,” depending on whether
the word is active or passive.21 Cunli¬e translates ajmfievlissa as “wheeling both
ways,” meaning that a ship that is easy to handle.22 The prefix ajmfiv means “both
sides.”23 The verb e[lissw means to “turn” or “twist.”24 Homer uses e[lissw to
indicate the twisting of a snake and the turn of a chariot.25 Morrison proposes
that the ships were “twisted round at each end,” possibly meaning that both ends
are curved or spiral shaped.26 Roderick Williams proposes that ajmfievlissa

98 chapter 6
means “revolving on both sides.” He argues that the “eye” on Geometric ships is
almost always painted as a wheel with a varying number of spokes (figure 36). He
believes that the motion of a Geometric ship made the spoked eye produce an il-
lusion of revolving.27
I believe Williams alludes to either the “waterfall” or “windmill” e¬ects.28 The
first is produced by looking steadily for several seconds at a moving object (like
a waterfall) and then quickly looking at a stationary object. The stationary object
will then appear to move in the opposite direction. This is impossible in relation
to a Geometric ship because neither sea nor ship is a stationary object. In con-
trast, the windmill e¬ect is the result of looking at a revolving object, such as the
vanes of a windmill or the spokes of a wheel, when the direction of rotation ap-
parently reverses.29 This is also impossible as Williams describes because the
spoked eye must revolve independently of the ship. In addition, we lack parallels
or etymological evidence to support such an interpretation.
In contrast, Richard Lattimore translates ajmfievlissa as “oarswept,” possibly
to describe the turning or twisting action of a ship’s oars.30 This is an interesting
and poetic reading, but no evidence exists to support it. Homer does little to help
clarify the meaning of ajmfievlissa, and its context is always too general to en-
able us to understand its meaning. Yet, because Homer uses e[lissw to describe
the turning of a chariot, the most likely interpretation is that it indicates a ship’s
ability to turn quickly. It may therefore be a synonym of eji?sa".
The epithet “black” or “dark” is common in both the Iliad and the Odyssey in
describing ships.31 This may be because ships were probably blackened or dark-
ened (mevlainai) with pitch.32 As chapter 4 mentions, pitch is commonly found
on hull remains of ancient ships. It is a dark, viscous substance that was spread
over the inner and outer surfaces to waterproof and protect the vessel against
the elements and some forms of marine life.33 It is extracted almost exclusively
from the resins of conifer trees and in Mediterranean regions collected mainly
from pines.34
Once a ship had been coated with pitch, the bow, or “cheeks,” of at least
the galleys were painted a bright color. Homer calls them miltopavrh/o", or
“red cheeked.”35 He also uses foinikopavrh/o", which may denote either “red
cheeked” or “purple cheeked.” The two adjectives are interchangeable.36 This
practice of painting a bow may be traced back to Mycenaean times as the prefixes
of both words appear in certain Linear B tablets. Mi-to is part of the compound
mi-to-we-sa (Kn 269), “painted with red,” and po-ni-ki-ja (Kn 266, 267, 268, 270,
and 274) or po-ni-ke-a (Kn X1017), “painted” or “dyed crimson.”37 Both are syn-
onyms that describe the colors of chariots and, like the Homeric epithets, are
interchangeable. Furthermore, Homer always uses both terms in the plural and

Homeric Ships 99
suggests that painting the bows of ships in bright colors was common. He re-
fers to the Cyclopes’ lack of civilization by pointing out that they have no “red-
cheeked ships.”38 Also, for Odysseus to perform penance to the gods, he must
travel far from the sea until the people “know nothing of ships with purple
cheeks.”39 Therefore, painting the bows of the galleys bright colors must have
been a common practice during Homer’s time. Unfortunately, few descriptions
of merchant ships appear in the epics.
Homer also describes the ships as kuanovprw/o". Kuanovprw/o" is most com-
monly translated as “blue prowed” or “dark prowed,” which seems unlikely since
the bows are painted either red or purple.40 Furthermore, Odysseus’s ships are
described as both red prowed and kuanovprw/o", suggesting that miltopavrh/o"
and foinikopavrh/o" describe a feature that is di¬erent from kuanovprw/o".41 Cun-
li¬e proposes yet another interpretation: He believes that it means a “prow or-
namented with designs in kuvano".”42
Generally, the word kuvano" is thought to denote either an enamel applied to
a metal or a glass that is cobalt or dark blue.43 In both epics it appears to refer
mainly to a dark-blue enamel, especially since Achaeans usually use it to decorate
armor. Agamemnon’s breastplate has ten bands of kuvano", as well as twelve of
gold and twenty of tin. Six serpents of kuvano", three on each side of his breast-
plate, appear to crawl toward Agamemnon’s neck. His shield is decorated with
ten circles of bronze and twenty of tin, and a circle of kuvano" is in the center with
the head of a Gorgon mounted on it.44 As only metals are described, and it is un-
likely that a glass or lapis lazuli inlay would survive the repeated impact from
swords, spears, and arrows, kuvano" must be a dark-blue enamel.
Kuvano" also modifies qrigkov", which is a feature in the palace of Alcinous.45
A qrigkov" is thought to be an interior frieze running along the uppermost course
of a wall.46 Friezes made with a cobalt-blue pigment have been recovered from
the Minoan palace of Knossos and the Mycenaean palace at Tiryns.47 This ar-
chaeological evidence is supported by texts. Kuvano" appears in the form ku-wa-
no in Linear B tablets from Pylos.48 Ku-wa-no is an inlay that, like gold and ivory,
is used to decorate a stone table, a wooden chair, and a footstool.49 In addition,
kuvano" is a prefix in kuanovpefa, which describes the feet of a table with either a
blue enamel or a cobalt-blue glass inlay.50 Michael Ventris and John Chadwick
point out that ancient Egyptians decorated their furniture with a similar glass in-
lay, suggesting this practice has a long tradition.51 In classical times kuvano" de-
notes lapis lazuli or a synthetic imitation.52 Yet, in the context of the Alcinous’s
palace, the frieze appears to be an enamel decoration applied to a metal instead
of glass because all other features of Alcinous’s palace, like Agamemnon’s

100 chapter 6
 Figure 37. Oculi on Archaic ships (after
Casson, 1995, figure 82)

armor, are made of metal: The walls are bronze; the doors are gold; and the door
posts are made of silver.53
The evidence is consistent with Cunli¬e’s interpretation of kuanovprw/o" as
some type of inlaid ornament or design made of kuvano" on the bow of a ship.
“Eye” motifs are rarely seen on Aegean ships before the Geometric period (when
they become common), and during this period they are primarily in the shape of
a spoked wheel (figure 36). This type of insignia appears to be the forerunner
of the oculus on Archaic and Classical Greek ships (figure 37). There are few if
any seafaring traditions as widespread as painting or a~xing oculi onto ships.
The practice appears at least once, and usually independently, in nearly ever sea-
faring culture. It has been proposed that this tradition springs from the belief
that these eyes represent the protecting deity who will safely guide mariners on
their voyages.54 There is some evidence to support this theory among Greek sea-
farers. Homer uses the epithet kuanw'pi", or “dark-eyed,” to describe Amphi-
trite, a sea goddess who appears to be a personification of the sea in the epics
and in classical times was the wife of Poseidon.55 Furthermore, Aeschylus uses
kuanw'pi" in the same way as Homer uses kuanovprw/o" to describe ships.56 Con-
sequently, sailors may have used these protective motifs in the hope of acquiring
the goodwill of this goddess, or they may have believed that through these eyes
she would safely guide their ship.
According to Cecil Torr, seafarers attached oculi to a ship because they looked

Homeric Ships 101

 Figure 38. Oculus from a Classical
merchant ship (after Nowak, 2001,
figure 1)

upon their vessel as a living entity that needed eyes to find its way.57 In a sense this
sentiment survives even today: Seafarers, both professional and weekend, typi-
cally speak of their ships as being almost human and usually female. Regardless,
it appears that Homer uses kuanovprw/o" to denote a dark or blue eye of inlaid
glass or enamel on the bow. However, the use of such rare and expensive materi-
als to create what must have been large motifs seems unlikely. Instead, oculi may
be the product of Homer’s imagination, like Alcinous’s palace. More likely these
motifs were painted directly on the hull using a dark-blue pigment.
Nevertheless, we cannot rule out the possibility that some type of inlay was
used because marble oculi that date to the Classical period have been recovered.
These pieces of marble were usually round on merchant ships and of a more nat-
ural form on warships (figures 38 and 39). They were incised with the desired de-
sign, painted, and then attached to a hull with a lead spike that was run through
a hole drilled into the center of an oculus.58 These oculi could be rather large; one
surviving example from a merchant ship is about 13.5 centimeters in diameter,
and one thought to be from a warship is more than 50 centimeters long.59
However, not all oculi were attached in this manner. In the painting of a war-
ship, a sailor’s knee can be seen in a hole through the center of the upper eye,
which indicates it was either a painted or inlaid decoration (figure 40). Conse-
quently, large inlaid “eyes” made of an expensive material, although unlikely,
cannot be dismissed. Black warships with red or purple painted bows and large,
dark-blue enamel oculi seen sailing on the wine dark seas would have had a pow-
erful e¬ect on any observer, especially an enemy.
Homer also describes ships as “ojrqokrairavwn.” According to Seymour,
ojrqovkrairai may denote the ends of a yard and is analogous to the cornua antem-

102 chapter 6
 Figure 39. Oculus possibly from a
Classical warship (after Nowak,
2001, figure 14)

Figure 40. Sailor’s knee through an oculus (after Morrison and Williams, 1968, p1. 20d)
narum that Virgil mentions in his Aeneid.60 Georg Authenrieth acknowledges that
this is a possible translation, but he believes it is more likely that ojrqovkrairai
refers to the pointed ends of the bow and stern.61 Liddell, Scott, and Jones dis-
agree; they propose that the two extremities of a ship curve up to resemble
horns.62 Morrison proposes that it might describe a hornlike ornament.63
Homer uses ojrqovkrairai to describe only oxen and ships in the Iliad and the
Odyssey. When describing oxen, it indicates “straight” or “upright horns.”64 Sey-
mour’s interpretation of it as a yard is flawed. Homer uses ovrqokrairavwn only
twice in relation to ships.65 In both passages the ships are beached, and the con-
text of the lines is “in front of the ojrqovkrairai ships.”66 In the epics, mast, yard,
and sail are always taken down and stowed before a ship is beached. As a result,
it seems unlikely that ojrqovkrairai describes the ends of a yard. Furthermore,
when looking from ground level up at the bow of a beached ship, the horns
would be the most prominent feature. In this context ojrqovkrairai must be the
hornlike ornaments that were common on the galleys of Homer’s time (figure
36); there does not appear to be a viable alternative interpretation. On the other
hand, we lack any evidence to suggest that this term applies to a stern ornament.
Homer appears to use the word stei'ra to denote the beaklike bow or, more
properly, the cutwater or forefoot of a ship (figure 36).67 According to Cunli¬e, it
may also denote the stem of a ship, but considering the context of stei'ra in the
Homeric passages, a meaning of cutwater fits best.68 Homer writes that once a
ship is underway the waves rise and sing around the stei'ra.69 Considering the
size of cutwaters on Geometric paintings, Homer is probably describing this
structure because most of the wave action is produced at this part of a ship. It is,
however, possible that the stei'ra is an extension of the keel. Both Theophrastus
and Nonnus use a form of stei'ra to denote the keel of a ship.70 In contrast, we
lack any evidence to suggest that stei'ra was ever used to denote a stem.
Not only does the stei'ra act as an instrument so that the waves can sing as a
ship sails, but it was probably a substantial timber protecting the joint at the stem
and keel from wave action and beaching. In addition, it was used as a boarding
ramp (figure 41), and even as a head from which to defecate (figure 42), suggest-
ing it was a substantial structure. As previously mentioned, qoov" means “swift,”
but it can also mean pointed or sharp. Homer uses qoov" to describe islands as be-
ing pointed, and he may therefore be making another play on words.71 Qoov" de-
notes primarily the swiftness of a ship, and, as a secondary meaning it may refer
to the pointed cutwater, which contributes to a ship’s swiftness.
It has also been proposed that these Geometric ships were outfitted with a
ram. Curiously, Homer fails to mention a ram in either the Iliad or the Odyssey.

104 chapter 6
Figure 41. Warrior standing on the cutwater of a Geometric ship
(after Morrison and Williams, 1968, pl. 1e)

Figure 42. Sailor defecating on the

cutwater of an Archaic ship (after
Morrison and Williams, 1968, pl. 1a–d)
A ram is a strong wooden protrusion, sheathed in metal, that was integrated into
the bows of warships during classical times; it was used as a weapon to strike,
disable, and even sink enemy ships.72 Although Homer appears to have com-
posed as early as 750 B.C., he never alludes to this weapon.73 Yet, according to
Casson, it was a prominent feature on ships of his day. Casson proposes that
Homer omits any mention of a ram because “the poet seems to have been care-
ful not to commit an anachronism.”74 He supports this view by arguing that not
only was the ram a prominent weapon during Homer’s time but it also appeared
considerably earlier.75 A flaw in his argument is the lack of evidence for a ram
even as late as Homer’s day. Therefore, it appears that we have two choices for
Homer’s failure to mention this weapon: Either he thought it was anachronistic
(as Casson suggests), or it simply did not exist. The latter possibility is supported
by a complete lack archaeological examples of rams dating to Homer’s time or
before. So, we must rely on models, iconography, and written sources to evalu-
ate these two alternatives.
Representations of ships with waterline projections are rather common be-
fore 1000 B.C. Lionel Cohen argues convincingly that most waterline projections
earlier than that date are too small to be e¬ective rams.76 Yet, two di¬erent rep-
resentations of ships from this period are thought to have bow projections large
enough to be rams. The first is a painting on a stirrup jar from Asine (1200–1000
B.C.; figure 43).
Geo¬rey Kirk claims that the long, thick line projecting from the hull is a
ram.77 George Bass proposes that it is a quarter rudder.78 Williams is unsure; he
points out that the shape of the projection is more like a quarter rudder than a
ram but is unlikely to be the former because it appears to be an extension of the
keel. After considering all the details, he believes this projection is most consis-
tent with a ram. In addition, he states that the checkered rectangle is a sail and
the line at the lower left is a mast.79 Kirk also believes the checkered rectangle is
a sail, and the thick line at the lower left corner of the sail is either the mast or a
support for the deck. Wachsmann maintains that the projection is a quarter rud-
der. He points out that quarter rudders are depicted in a horizontal position on
other paintings, and the placement of the mast and sail appears to represent a
billowing sail.80 The interpretation of a billowing sail closely parallels a ship
painting on a contemporary pyxis from Tragana Pylos (figure 44). Little doubt
therefore exists that the bow is to the right and the stern to the left, which indi-
cates that the projection cannot be a ram. However, William’s observation has
some merit in that a quarter rudder, even one that is hung out, should not be lo-
cated this low on the hull. Another possibility is that the artist was attempting to
illustrate a ship under sail. To illustrate the speed of this ship, the artist added the

106 chapter 6
Figure 43. Ship painting on a vase from Asine (after Casson, 1995, figure 29)

Figure 44. Ship painting on a pyxis from Tragana (after Korrés, 1989, p. 200)

thick black line to represent a wake. Regardless of whether this is a quarter rud-
der or the wake of a ship, it is not a ram.
The second depiction of a vessel with a large, ramlike projection comes from
Kition in Cyprus, where nineteen ship gra~ti were discovered on the southern
wall of Temple 1. These gra~ti are roughly contemporary with the previous two
depictions (ca. 1200–1100 B.C.). According to Lucien Basch and Michel Artzy, one
gra~to, number 13, represents a ship with a ram (figure 45). Yet, they concede
that no parallels exist for the type of ram they have reconstructed until a consid-
erably later period.81 Gra~to number 13 is also badly weathered, making mul-
tiple interpretations possible.82 For example, one can argue that since the sail in
these early ships usually sets amidships or forward of amidships and since the
stern ornament is as high as or higher than the bow, then the high end must be
the stern, and the projection below the high end is a quarter rudder. In e¬ect, it
is a stylized vessel that needs no reconstruction. We also have no way of judging
the size of this vessel. It may be either a small fishing vessel or a large warship.
Even if this is a large ship and Basch and Artzy’s reconstruction is correct, the au-
thors still fail to explain why this projection is a ram and not a cutwater. There are

Homeric Ships 107

Figure 45. Gra~to no. 13 from Kition (after Basch and Artzy, 1985, figures 8b–8c)

simply too many variables and no real evidence to indicate this depiction is evi-
dence of a ram.
According to Casson, the ram probably made its debut during the transition
from the Bronze to the Iron Age, sometime after 1000 B.C. He believes that its in-
troduction had a revolutionary impact because a warship was no longer merely a
fast transport to ferry troops or bring marines into fighting proximity with en-
emy ships. Instead, it was “a man-driven torpedo armed with a pointed cutwater
for puncturing an enemy hull.”83
The earliest depictions after this date are on a Cretan krater found at Fortetsa.
It is decorated with two ships and dates from about 950 to 900 B.C. (figure 46).
Kirk, Basch, and Casson all believe the protrusions on the left end of each vessel
are the blades of quarter rudders.84 In contrast, Williams argues that the ends

108 chapter 6
 Figure 46. Ship paintings on a
krater from Fortetsa, Crete (after
Van Doorninck, 1982, figure 6a)

with the protrusions are drawn squarer and thicker than the opposite ends. He
proposes that these thick, square sections are high, solid, side screens that are
characteristic of bows instead of sterns. He also argues that there is a parallel for
a downward-pointing ram on the Aristonothos krater (figures 1–2).85 His argu-
ment has a number of flaws, however. Even Williams concedes that both ends of
each ship are so similar that it is di~cult to distinguish the bow from the stern,
and he admits that the shape and angle of each protrusion are similar to the blade
of a quarter rudder.86 His comparison with the “ram” painted on the Aristo-
nothos krater is not a close one because the “ram” on this vessel is too high above
the waterline to be e¬ective.87 Even if Williams is correct and the Aristonothos
ship has a ram, it is still much higher on the hull and must have had a function
di¬erent from that of the protrusions on the Fortetsa vessels. Finally, his main
objection to this protrusion’s being a quarter rudder is the lack of a loom. He
maintains that Geometric painters always show rudder blades with looms.88
Williams’s position is weak because he is arguing that these lines cannot be
quarter rudders because of a lack of parallels; at the same time, he is contending
that these same lines are rams, for which we also lack contemporary parallels.
Furthermore, we have at least one parallel for a similar protrusion at the stern of
a Geometric ship. The quarter rudder in figure 47 lacks a loom, and as the sail is
unfurled it cannot be a gangplank, indicating the ship is sailing. Finally, Gray

Homeric Ships 109

Figure 47. Geometric ship with quarter rudder (after Gray, 1974, abb. 19)

points out that the Fortetsa hull shapes appear very full, which is indicative of
ships that depend on sails and are therefore not even warships.89
Frederick van Doorninck supports William’s interpretation by pointing out
similarities between these silhouette paintings and a terra-cotta model from
Oropos, Attica (figure 48). Yet, there is little resemblance between the shape and
angle of each protrusion. Even if van Doorninck is correct, he refers to the pro-
trusions on each Fortetsa vessel as a forefoot, not a ram.90 Considering the shape
and inclination of each protrusion on the Fortetsa vessels and the fact that
the closest parallel is at the stern of a Geometric ship, these protrusions must
be quarter rudders. Nevertheless, even if the end with the protrusion is the bow,
the inclination and small size indicate a forefoot or cutwater, but no evidence
exists to suggest it is a ram.
Casson continues by maintaining that the development of this new weapon
during the Geometric period resulted in far-reaching changes in ship design and
construction. Ships with rams were built more powerfully and with heavier
materials to withstand the shock of ramming; the bow area had to be as massive
as possible to absorb this impact. He believes such changes are visible even in
simple profile drawings on Geometric pottery (ca. 850–700 B.C.), which are
painted in silhouette.91 On the one hand, Bronze Age artists render the bow area
of ships without rams as open or with a latticed design. On the other hand, Geo-
metric artists render this same area as a solid, heavy mass.92
Casson is supported by van Doorninck, who proposes that the earliest repre-
sentation of a ship outfitted with a ram is etched on the catchplate of a bronze
fibula from the Kerameikos cemetery in Athens (figure 49). This fibula dates

110 chapter 6
Figure 48. Boat model from Oropos, Attica (after Van Doorninck, 1982, figure 6b)

Figure 49. Ship engraved on a catchplate of a fibula from Kerameikos,

Athens (after Van Doorninck, 1982, figure 7)

firmly to about 850 B.C. based on the pottery recovered with it.93 Van Doorninck
claims that the use of the ram must precede the making of this fibula, and the
ram was probably introduced around 900 B.C. He concedes that the shape of the
forefoot alone is not in itself evidence that it is a ram, and he also admits that
there is an absence of supporting evidence for the ram and ramming techniques
during the Geometric period.
Scenes of ships and fighting are common on Geometric pottery, but Geomet-
ric artists painted mainly warfare scenes with beached ships.94 Of all of the

Homeric Ships 111

Figure 50. Proposed ramming scene (after Morrison and Williams, 1968, p1. 2b)

scenes depicting ships and combat that survive from this period, only three frag-
ments are thought to depict naval warfare.95 The two smallest fragments are so
diminutive that it is di~cult, if not impossible, to discern what is painted on
them. The third fragment portrays the forefoot of one vessel very close to the
stern of another vessel, with two bodies beneath the ships (figure 50). A hand
and arm are painted above the forefoot, and the hand appears to be reaching out
to touch the bow or has just let go of it. Originally, there must have been a war-
rior standing on the forefoot. Fortunately, we have a close parallel to this depic-
tion. On the forefoot of a Geometric ship stands a warrior carrying a large shield;
in one hand he grasps one or two spears and in the other what appears to be the
strap to his shield (figure 41). As previously mentioned, the forefoot was used as
a boarding ramp, and this individual is either attempting to board an enemy ship
or he is defending or disembarking from his beached ship. There is no evidence
of any ship attempting to ram another ship on any known Geometric pottery. In
contrast, depictions of warriors using the forefoot as a boarding ramp are rather
common.96
Van Doorninck concedes that his interpretation is based solely on the obser-
vation that any such structure on a warship must be a ram.97 This line of reason-
ing is not supported by the evidence. Such structures have been built on modern
warships. For instance, the French built ramlike structures on the armored
cruiser Dupuy de Lôme, the battleship Masséna, and the armored cruiser l’Entre-
casteaux at the end of the nineteenth century.98 A similar structure was a feature on
the Dreadnought class of ship in the United States navy. Such a structure built
deep at the forefoot produces less wave drag and results in hydrodynamic supe-
riority.99 Instead of the ram theory, it is possible that the forefoot began as a knee

112 chapter 6
to reinforce the keel and stem post. As larger ships were built, bigger structures
were required to protect and reinforce this joint. At some point it was discovered
that this structure was strong enough to be used as a latrine and to board or dis-
embark from a ship. However, repeated use probably dictated that this structure
be built larger and heavier, resulting in even less wave drag and a faster and more
maneuverable ship. Over time, this framework became even larger and stronger
to allow more troops to board and leave a ship quickly, which again resulted in a
more hydrodynamic vessel. It is probably for this reason that such structures
steadily increase in size from the Bronze Age thru the Geometric period.
In contrast, neither Casson nor van Doorninck provides any real evidence to
indicate that these structures are rams. It is impossible to look at a small etching
on a fibula or a silhouette painting on a pot and deduce that bow timbers are
structurally sound enough to withstand the shock of ramming. Casson actually
weakens his own argument by stating that even small, open galleys, or aphracts,
are also fitted with rams. These are ships with lighter hulls and less massive bows
that were built to carry dispatches and transport troops (figure 51).100 Casson
thus disregards the criteria he uses to di¬erentiate Bronze Age ships without
rams from Geometric ships with rams. In fact, the evidence suggests only that
ships are larger and heavier in the Geometric period than in the Bronze Age and
that as ships increase in size, so do the length and overall size of the forefoot. To
argue anything else clearly overstates the evidence.
Another di~culty with the view that the ram existed during the Geometric pe-
riod is that Homer does not mention this weapon. The only recourse for propo-
nents of the ram theory is to argue that Homer did not refer to the ram because
he wanted to avoid the inclusion of an anachronistic weapon in his epics.101 As
discussed at length in chapter 2, nothing in the oral-formulaic literature sug-
gests that epic singers make a conscious e¬ort to avoid anachronisms. In fact,
they appear to embrace them.102 Albert Lord summarizes it best by stating that
“tradition is not a thing of the past but a living and dynamic process which began
in the past, flourishes in the present, and looks forward into the future as well.
While it does not seek novelty for its own sake, it does not avoid the new in the
life around it.”103 His conclusions, which are based on years of fieldwork, are
supported by the research of Walter Ong and Ruth Finnegan.104 By labeling oral
epics as traditional poetry, we fail to di¬erentiate between the structure of a song
and its content. The structure and general story endure, but the singer continu-
ally changes and reworks the details. In The Wedding of Smailagić Meho epic, which
is set during the reign of Suleiman the Magnificent, people travel on steamships.
Other anachronistic examples from other songs include replacing short mes-

Homeric Ships 113

Figure 51. Geometric aphract (after Casson, 1995, figure 62)

sages with telegrams and the queen of Baghdad with the queen of England.105
These are obvious chronologically erroneous, but such details did not concern
the singer because it did not influence the story.
Another flaw in the anachronism theory concerns the limitations of our mem-
ory. It has been pointed out that there are limits to a human’s long-term memory.
As a result, a period of three generations, or about a hundred years, is the span of
time knowledge appears to remain stable in a family or society.106 Consequently,
if Homer lived around 750 B.C. and is describing heroes from a remote past who
lived long before him,107 how would he know that the ram, a weapon that is sup-
posed to have been introduced between 150 and 200 years before his time, is an
anachronism? Furthermore, a ram that is sheathed in bronze would appear to be
less of an anachronism in the Heroic Age than would iron axes and other iron im-
plements that Homer commonly mentions108 because bronze is the metal asso-
ciated with this period. A large bronze ram would be an ideal representation of
this era much like the bronze-covered walls in the palace of Alcinous.109 In addi-
tion, Williams points out that the high, curving horns on the Geometric war-
ships that Homer describes are also anachronisms (figures 36 and 41).110 If
Homer is willing to add horns to his ships, why not bronze rams? The simple
truth is that we lack credible evidence to suggest that oral-traditional poets were
ever concerned with chronological errors in their songs. In fact, the evidence
suggests that epic singers typically included them, especially technological in-
novations, and by doing so made it easier for audiences to relate to their stories.111
Since Homer does not describe a naval engagement in either epic, there is no rea-
son why the mention of a bronze ram should do so. Therefore, no evidence ex-
ists from archaeological, iconographic, or literary sources for the ram either
before or during Homer’s time.
At the stern of Homeric ships is the a[flaston.112 In the battle by the ships, the
Achaeans retreat to their vessels and are fighting from the stern platforms when
Hector grasps Protesilaus’s ship and holds “the a[flaston in his hand.”113 Mor-

114 chapter 6
rison argues that this stern piece is thought to be the forward-curving horn vis-
ible on all Geometric paintings of ships’ sterns. He infers that the a[flaston of a
beached ship stood a little over 2 meters above the beach.114 Unfortunately, Mor-
rison fails to inform us how he arrives at this height. His calculations are prob-
ably based on the ease with which Hector grasps the a[flaston from the ground.
The problem with this interpretation is that when the Achaeans beach their ships
they pile up stones around each vessel, and we have no idea of the height of these
mounds.115 Hector may have been able to grasp the a[flaston only because he
climbs up the stone pile around the ship, making it impossible for us to calculate
its height.
Cunli¬e and Seymour maintain that a[flaston116 and kovrumbon117 are synony-
mous.118 In contrast, Liddell, Scott, and Jones translate kovrumbon as the “upper-
most point” of a stern and a[flaston as a “curved poop of a ship with its
ornaments.”119 The meaning of kovrumbon is clear. Hector wants to cut the kov-
rumba from the sterns of all Achaean ships as trophies, indicating they are the
curving stern ornaments.120 All we know of the a[flaston is that Hector grasps
this part of the stern with both hands as he calls for fire to burn the Achaean
ships.121 Herodotus uses a[flaston in the same context.122 Accordingly, it must
refer to either the sternpost or ornament. Based only on the previous passages,
we cannot be certain which of these interpretations is correct. Apollonius
Rhodius, however, uses both terms in one sentence. The clashing rocks shear the
kovrumbon from the a[flaston without seriously damaging the hull, suggesting
that the kovrumbon is an upper extremity of the a[flaston or a separate timber
attached to it, which extends above the hull.123
If all of these interpretations are correct, then Homer appears to use
kuanovprw/o" to denote the dark eye at the bow, which would have been high-
lighted by the bow’s red (miltopavrh/o") or purple (foinikopavrh/o") cheeks.
Stei'ra is the forefoot; ojrqokrairavwn, the horns at the bow; kovrumbon, the
high, curving stern ornament; ajfvlaston is the sternpost to which it is attached,
but not necessarily its uppermost point as Liddell, Scott, and Jones suggest; and
korwniv" is a general description of both bow horns and stern ornament or the
general curvature of Achaean ships (figure 36).
The i[kria is a raised platform or small deck located at the stern and bow of
Homeric ships (figures 36 and 52).124 Because of the various contexts in which
Homer uses i[kria, there appears to be unanimous agreement for this interpre-
tation, unlike for some previous terms.125 Homer describes Aias quickly crossing
from i[kria to i[kria with great strides to fight the Trojans.126 We know they are
fighting at the stern because the Achaean ships were pulled from the sea stern
first. Furthermore, Hector grabs the a[flaston (which is located at the stern) of

Homeric Ships 115

Figure 52. Possible plan view of a Homeric galley

an Achaean ship while fighting, and the stern deck would be the highest and best
location from which to defend a ship beached in this manner. During Odysseus’s
shipwreck, the mast falls on the head of the helmsman, and he plunges from the
i[kria like a diver. The helmsman’s seat must therefore be located on the stern
i[kria.127 Odysseus also sleeps on the stern i[kria during his passage on board a
Phaeacian ship, while Athena sits next to Telemachus on the stern i[kria when
they leave Ithaca, as does Theoclymenus on the return voyage.128 These scenes
suggest the stern i[kria is reserved for people of high status.129 In fact, Homer
mentions the stern i[kria quite often but refers to the bow i[kria only once.
Odysseus arms himself and then stands on the bow i[kria to look for Scylla.130
Both bow and stern i[kria were also storage areas for spears (figures 53–54).131
Morrison points out that some type of storage area must exist under these decks,
but during the escape from the island of the Lotus Eaters, Odysseus binds his
men under the crossbeams instead of putting them below the i[kria.132 This ac-
tion indicates that he had no room under the bow or stern decks for them.133
Homer’s audience probably knew that the storage areas below both i[kria were
for spare tackle, cords, sails, tools, extra weapons, and other numerous items
that should remain as dry as possible. They would realize it was much easier and
faster to tie the men to the timbers than to clean out the storage areas and secure
them there. All we know of the size of a stern i[kria is that it was at least long
enough to accommodate one sleeping man and wide enough to comfortably seat
two men, or one man and a goddess.
We also know that some type of decking must connect the bow and stern
i[kria. Homer does not name this gangway directly, but he alludes to it when he
describes how Odysseus moves along the ship while encouraging his men.134
Little consensus exists as to the type of decking that Homer mentions. Seymour
is not sure whether the gangway was between the oarsmen or beside the plank-
sheer. This latter interpretation seems unlikely since it would be di~cult if not
impossible to walk the length of a vessel while the rowers were rowing. He goes
on to argue that it might have been between the rowers from the bow to the mast;
however, toward the stern, the lowered mast seems to have required this space.135

116 chapter 6
Figure 53. Storage of spears at the bow of a Geometric ship (after Casson, 1995, figure 64)

Figure 54. Stern storage of spears on a

Geometric ship (after Calligas, 1990,
figure 1)

Still, this is not necessarily so. When a mast was being lowered, it could have
been angled to the port or starboard sides or removed from the mast step com-
pletely and stowed on either side of the gangway. Nothing in the epics suggests
it was stored down the center of a vessel.
In addition, Dorothea Gray points out that raised gangways on representa-
tions give ships an extremely top-heavy look. She assumes that the artist is rais-
ing the deck higher than normal so it can be seen over the heads of the rowers.136
Figure 1 in chapter 1 would seem to support her point. Yet, the same scene in
figure 2 also shows ships with raised decks, but they lack a top-heavy appear-
ance. Thus, the higher gangways may have been common on larger, beamier
warships, whereas smaller vessels had gangways at the planksheer level.
By interpreting Geometric paintings, some scholars claim that these ships
had an overall deck, but Morrison counters that when a Geometric artist draws

Homeric Ships 117

what appears to be a deck the artist is really drawing the far planksheer above
the near planksheer by a kind of “primitive” perspective that was discussed in
chapter 1.137 Of course, this interpretation of primitive perspective has been chal-
lenged.138 If, however, it is correct, it would explain the high decks and top-heavy
appearance of some craft.
Morrison also maintains that neither epic mentions overall decks, and during
Odysseus’s shipwreck, when the mast falls, all of the tackle drops into the bottom
of the ship.139 He supports his interpretation by citing Thucydides, who states
that Themistocles’s ships lacked complete decks throughout their length and that
the earliest evidence for such a deck dates to 467 B.C.140 Thucydides uses the words
“pavsh" katastrwvmata,” suggesting a deck that completely covers the length and
breadth of a ship.141 However, this still does not rule out a narrow deck that con-
nects the bow and stern i[kria, which is suggested by the description of Odysseus
moving throughout the vessel rallying his men and which also appears in Geo-
metric art (figure 2). A deck running down the center of his ship would allow him
to move quickly and easily without disrupting the rowing. Even in a relatively nar-
row craft, a deck wide enough for one person to walk on could easily run down
the center of a ship. Most sections could be pegged to the cross beams, but sec-
tions in the area of the mast step or used as hatches to lade the vessel could be set
in grooves cut into the beams, allowing them to be removed when necessary.
Most of these analyses are dependent on the perceived length-to-breadth
ratio of a Homeric vessel because if Odysseus is sailing in a rather beamy craft, a
wider deck could be pegged in place with open slots for the mast and an adequate
cargo hold on either side of the gangway.
Below the decking are zugav. Homer describes a ship in the Iliad as poluvzugo",
with many zugav, and twice in the Odyssey as eju?zugo", with good zugav.142 After
visiting the land of the Lotus Eaters, Odysseus binds his struggling crewmen un-
der them, and in the Phaeacian ship Odysseus’s gifts are stowed in the same
place.143 Alcinous inspects this cargo to ensure it is properly stowed so it will not
hinder the oarsmen. According to Seymour, this suggests that there was no-
where else to put it. Morrison concurs with Seymour’s interpretation.144 This ex-
planation is corroborated by a passage in which Odysseus fails to tell his men of
Scylla because they would hide themselves within (ejntov").145 Seymour believes
that Odysseus feared they would crawl underneath the benches.146 On the other
hand, he notes some inconsistencies. The Phoenician slave who kidnapped Eu-
maeus falls from the deck into the bilge water, indicating a large open space.147
In addition, such a space was needed for the hecatomb that Odysseus took to
Chrysa, but not for the sheep that he took to Hades.148 However, on closer exam-
ination we can explain these seeming inconsistencies.

118 chapter 6
 As the Phoenician slave was traveling with traders instead of raiders or war-
riors, she may have been traveling on a large merchant ship with an open hold
that was not found in a galley. Second, a hecatomb, or eJkatovmbh, is a sacrifice of
a hundred oxen, which would require a large cargo hold as Seymour suggests,
and a very big, deep ship.149 Of course, it is possible—and likely in this situa-
tion—that an eJkatovmbh was a smaller gift with the value of a hundred oxen,
negating the need for a deep hold.150 All of the evidence therefore supports
Seymour, who maintains that the zugav serve as seats and as beams that run the
width of a ship.151 He is also supported by Herodotus, who writes that zugav are
the crossbeams that join the sides of a vessel, and Sophocles associates zugav
with rowing.152 Homer also uses zugovn to denote a yoke for oxen and a crossbar
that joins the horns of a lyre.153 There is little doubt that a zugovn was some type of
crossbeam that reinforced the hull. These crossbeams appear to be the primary
internal timbers that join the two sides.
Moreover, Homer portrays a ship with a hundred crossbeams, or nhu'" eJka-
tovzugo".154 This may be hyperbole—but maybe not. Laced ships such as mitepe
have two levels of beams (figure 21). The lower ones are heavy crossbeams that
join the two sides. Upper beams, if strongly attached to the hull, also increase a
hull’s strength and served as a platform from which to row.155 Zugav may there-
fore denote both the upper and lower crossbeams of a ship. If so, then a ship with
a hundred crossbeams is feasible. Furthermore, if Homeric galleys were rela-
tively deep, the crossbeams would be staggered with the lower crossbeams be-
tween the upper ones to give rowers a solid, level platform to push from while
rowing. Regardless, zugovn appears to denote a structural timber that runs the
width of a vessel.
Ships were also eju?sselmo", which is usually translated as “well benched” or
“well decked.”156 The word eju?sselmo" is frequently an epithet for ships in the
Iliad and the Odyssey. It implies that Homeric ships had well-built sevlmata, but
this latter word does not appear in either epic. Morrison claims that a sevlma
probably denotes a bow or stern platform and is a synonym for i[kria. He cites a
phrase in the Hymn to Dionysus in which sevlma might denote such a structure.157
His interpretation is possible but not convincing. The passage describes Diony-
sus creating a lion that stands on the “sevlmato" a[krou.”158 The key words “sevl-
mato" a[krou” translate as either the highest or farthest sevlmato". Sevlmato" in
this phrase may indeed refer to decking in the bow and stern, but the context
is so vague that we are unable to be certain that this interpretation is correct. It is
also possible that the lion was standing on the farthest or highest rowing seat
or crossbeam. Morrison continues by stating that all later nautical occurrences
of this word appear to refer to bow and stern platforms.159

Homeric Ships 119

 Luckily, sevlma appears in a number of di¬erent passages and contexts. Cas-
son points out that in Classical texts sevlma appears to refer to either a type of
beam or decking, depending on the situation.160 This interpretation is consistent
with sevlma when used to describe objects on land. Liddell, Scott, and Jones point
out that it can denote a seat or throne, sca¬olding, or any general timber work.161
This is probably the reason we see such a wide range of meanings for eju?sselmo"
in the various Homeric translations. As previously mentioned, Morrison trans-
lates it as a bow or stern deck, while Cunli¬e and Seymour maintain that it means
“well benched,” referring to rowing benches.162 The di~culty with any particu-
lar reading is the versatility of this word. In my opinion, it is doubtful that the
bow and stern decks, which make up such a small part of Homeric ships, would
be emphasized so often. In contrast, the uppermost timbers that would be vis-
ible for most of a ship’s length and that were used for rowing benches are a more
representative description of such a ship, and the lower, heavier beams may be
the zugav, which seems to fit best the context of both words from ancient texts.
Nevertheless, it is necessary to be careful. In some contexts eju?sselmoi may be a
synonym for zugav. On the other hand, eju?sselmoi may also be nothing more
than a general description of a “well-timbered” or “well-built” ship, which also
fit several of the contexts. It is relatively common for some words to have more
than one meaning, especially to a closely related object; this becomes clearer
later on.
Another structural beam may run the width of a ship. As Aias fights from the
stern of an Achaean ship, Trojan missiles force him to step back onto the “seven-
foot threnus” (qrh'nu" eJptapovdh"). When he does so, he steps o¬ the i[kria of
the ship.163 According to Morrison, a qrh'nu" is probably a stout beam that pro-
jects from each side of a hull below and forward of the helmsman’s seat. This
beam can be seen on paintings of later ships.164 Ajax would have stepped down to
this beam when he was driven from the stern i[kria. In addition, it would have
been in the right position to serve as a footrest for the person at the helm. Morri-
son supports this interpretation by citing Homer, who uses qrh'nu" to denote a
footrest.165 He also proposes that the qrh'nu" may have been the fulcrum for a
quarter rudder as well as the seat of the helmsperson inside the hull.166 He has
some reservations about this last interpretation, however. He feels that it is un-
likely that a “seven-foot” (eJptapovdh") beam used as a seat would have been
located at a point where the stern tapers so rapidly. Furthermore, if it served as a
seat for the person at the helm, it must have been forward of the i[kria and not a
part of it at all.167 Yet, we know that when the mast falls on the head of Odysseus’s
helmsman, he plunges from the i[kria, suggesting his seat was located on the
stern i[kria and therefore cannot be the qrh'nu".168

120 chapter 6
 Cunli¬e proposes that the qrh'nu" was a deck connecting the bow and stern
that was raised by 7 feet (ca. 2 meters).169 Nothing in the context of the Homeric
passages or from later texts suggests that qrh'nu" denotes such a structure. Al-
though a raised deck may have joined the bow and stern i[kria, 7 feet seems
much too high for such an area. Geometric iconography depicting such plat-
forms usually place them just above the heads of the rowers (figure 2). In addi-
tion, there is no etymological, literary, or iconographic evidence to support this
analysis.
In contrast, Torr proposes that the qrh'nu" was the aftmost crossbeam and be-
lieves a length of 7 feet would be expected this far astern.170 Yet, as qrh'nu" most
commonly denotes a footstool, it is unlikely that it would be the sternmost beam
supporting the deck. Instead, it appears to have been a timber or beam about 7
feet wide that a helmsman rested his feet on while steering.171 Such a timber
would also strengthen the hull and could possibly be used to tie o¬ mooring ca-
bles at the stern or rigging lines manipulated by the person at the helm. However,
if this is accurate, it is unlikely that it could act as a fulcrum for a quarter rudder
as Morrison suggests because it would be too far forward to be e¬ective.
Needless to say, oars (ejretmav) were a vital component of these early craft.172
These long oars for propelling the ships were carved from pine or fir.173 The blade
is phdovn, and the handle is kwvph.174 Homer uses kwvph to denote the hilt of a
sword, the handle of a key, and at times the oar itself.175 Although phdovn denotes
the blade of an oar, it can also refer to a complete oar.176 Oars are also “well pol-
ished” or “fashioned with skill” (ejuxevsth") and have sharp or thin edges on the
blade (prohvkea).177
According to Seymour, oar blades were wider than in modern times. He cites the
directions of Teiresias, who tells Odysseus that in order to appease the wrath of
Poseidon, he must carry his oar on his shoulder and journey inland until he
meets men who are ignorant of the sea, who do not eat salt with their food, and
who think his oar is a winnowing shovel; then he must make a sacrifice to Posei-
don. Seymour believes that people living inland would confuse an oar for a
winnowing shovel because both are similar in shape and size.178 This is not
necessarily so. Instead, Homer may be trying to illustrate how far from the sea
Odysseus must travel. Homer is describing a people who live so far from the sea
that they lack access to salt, have never seen red-cheeked ships, and would mis-
take any long-handled object with a blade for a winnowing shovel, regardless of
how odd it may appear to them, because it is the only article they have that would
remotely resemble an oar. In this way Homer emphasizes to his audience that
Odysseus must complete a very long journey to appease Poseidon.
Every person on board, except the commander and perhaps the crew member

Homeric Ships 121

at the helm, was expected to ply an oar in a calm sea. Odysseus’s comrade
Elpenor even wanted his oar placed on his grave.179 A leather thong or strap
(tropov") was placed around each oar and then fastened to a tholepin (klhi?").180
The tholepin acted as a fulcrum for the oar, and the strap kept the oars from be-
ing lost overboard if dropped.181 Homer also uses the word klhi?" to denote a key
or a collarbone, suggesting it is a hook-shaped object.182 Hook-shaped pins are
clearly visible on depictions of Geometric ships (figure 36), and the hook prob-
ably kept the straps from sliding o¬ the tholepins.
Oars are sometimes set in place before departure.183 On one occasion a crew
make fast their oars to the tholes and then go ashore so they will be ready to sail
after dinner.184 Oars may even have been put in place hours before departure.185
In later times this was an early preparation for battle.186
The phdavlion denotes a quarter rudder (figure 36).187 During ancient times,
quarter rudders were mounted on one or both stern quarters. These rudders
have the appearance of large oars and are commonly, but incorrectly, called steer-
ing oars.188
Morrison points out that Odysseus equips his quickly built ship with only a
single phdavlion, which would normally suggest the improvised nature of his
craft. Yet, this may not be the case since the use of a single-quarter rudder ap-
pears to be a common practice elsewhere in the Odyssey.189 Two may have been
fitted but were not mentioned because usually only one was used at a time.190
Homer’s use of only one quarter rudder is logical. Using just one reduces the
drag on a vessel and also lessens wear and damage to the rudder blades without
compromising handling.191 Another reason for using only one at a time is to re-
duce water absorption and keep the rudders as light as possible, which also
reduces drag. The advantage to using both rudders is that it greatly increases a
ship’s ability to quickly maneuver in small areas, such as harbors and narrow
passages, and possibly during combat.192 Two quarter rudders would also be
used when sailing as close to the wind as possible. Such a maneuver with only
one quarter rudder results in an increased drift to leeward and magnifies the
stress on a quarter rudder.193 Because it was common for these structures to
break, craft that carried only one quarter rudder were probably small and rarely
sailed far out to sea.
Quarter rudders are removed when a ship is beached, and Hesiod hangs his
above the hearth at the end of a sailing season.194 Of course, he was probably sail-
ing a rather small vessel as suggested by the fact that he had only one rudder to
hang and he was able to fit it over the hearth. Morrison is correct that Odysseus
makes only one quarter rudder even though the vessel he built appears to be
as large as a large merchant ship; consequently, his need of only one quarter rud-

122 chapter 6
der may again be a means of conveying his superiority over seafarers of Homer’s
time.
The use of the plural oijhvia has been thought to denote the tiller of a quarter
rudder.195 A parallel word, oi[hke", which in later times does indeed describe a
tiller, is used in the Iliad to denote the guides on a yoke or for reins.196 Morrison
agrees that oijhvia denotes a tiller.197 In contrast, Cunli¬e and Liddell, Scott, and
Jones interpret it as a quarter rudder.198 Autenrieth, on the other hand, proposes
that it denotes both.199
Morrison concedes that his interpretations of oijhvia and phdavlion do not fit
with the passage in the Odyssey that describes Polyphemus throwing boulders at
Odysseus’s departing ship. Two boulders thrown by Polyphemus miss the ship
and land in the sea near the oijhvi>on.200 Although the first of the two passages pres-
ents several problems, the second suggests that the oijhvi>on was the section of the
quarter rudder in the sea, which would be the rudder blade.201 This second action
indicates that oijhvia is not a tiller but rather the blade itself. Morrison argues that
in this case oijhvia refers to the quarter rudder as a whole instead of just the
tiller.202 He is correct that Homer tends to use more than one meaning for a word,
as seen earlier. Kwvph denotes an oar handle and phdovn an oar blade, but both
also denote an oar. Furthermore, a spear is sometimes called an ash, after the ash
shaft.203 Oijhvia and phdavlion may therefore denote all or part of a quarter rudder,
depending on the context.204
Homeric ships had a single mast, or iJstov", of fir.205 In Geometric paintings,
the mast was depicted equal in height to the bow and stern ornaments. Morrison
points out that it looks as though mast and sail were reduced to fit the available
space on a pot. Gray makes a similar observation with regard to the number of
oars on Geometric ships.206
Morrison attempts to estimate the length of the mast for Odysseus’s ship.
After leaving the island of Helios, lightning strikes the ship, and the mast falls,
hitting the helmsman on the head.207 A ship with twenty-five oarsmen per side
could not have been less than 28 meters in length. This is based on the assump-
tion that each rower requires about 1 meter of rowing space plus a minimum of
3–3.5 meters for both the bow and stern platforms. If the mast was stepped at the
midpoint between bow and stern (as the word mesovdmh suggests), then the mast
was at least 13 meters high, depending on how far back on the i[kria the helms-
person was seated.208
Before a ship was pulled ashore, the mast was always lowered toward the
stern and placed in a mast crutch, or iJstodovkh.209 Morrison points out that on the
François vase the mast is shown resting in a mast crutch with the top well short
of the helmsman.210 He believes that Homer’s story is a fabrication because this

Homeric Ships 123

painting shows that the mast was too short to strike the helmsman, and he rea-
sons that a height of approximately 11 meters is more realistic.211 Morrison fails
to take into account the fact that, once it has been lowered, a mast can easily be
pulled forward or moved to the port or starboard sides of a vessel. A mast long
enough to strike a person at the helm when it falls would probably be a hindrance
to anyone on the stern deck if it were not shifted forward or moved to the side as
it was placed in the crutch. Furthermore, if the mast was in fact too short to strike
the person at the helm, it is the type of nautical error that would be obvious to an
audience and, as such, avoided by a singer. Therefore, a height of at least 13 me-
ters appears to be reasonable for Odysseus’s mast.
The only evidence for the length of a mast on a merchant ship comes from the
passage describing the olive tree that is used to put out the eye of Polyphemus.
Polyphemus’s sta¬ is compared in length and thickness to the mast of a large,
twenty-oared merchant ship. Unfortunately, we have no idea how tall Polyphe-
mus was, nor do we know how long a sta¬ he needed.212
When raising a mast, it may have been leaned into a deep notch (called a
mesovdmh) in a large crossbeam at amidships.213 Of course, other interpretations
of mesovdmh have been proposed. Liddell, Scott, and Jones translate it as either a
tie beam or a box amidships in which a mast was stepped.214 Cunli¬e translates
mesovdmh as a boxlike structure in which the mast was set and probably synony-
mous with iJstopevdh.215 Yet, considering that in the Homeric epics mesovdmh also
denotes a beam, rafter, or column in a house, Seymour’s interpretation of
mesovdmh as a crossbeam supporting the mast is the interpretation the evidence
best supports.216 Seymour also points out that Homer uses the expression
“within the hollow (koi'lo") cross timber,” which lends weight to the idea that
the mesovdmh was a crossbeam amidships. He also proposes that this expression
implies that the mast was dropped through a hole in the center of the main cross-
beam on Telemachus’s ship. He believes that, on a twenty-oared ship, this is
entirely practicable for a mast, which should be about 6 meters long. Although
such an arrangement would be di~cult in a large ship with a 13-meter mast, it
may be possible to lift and set in place a 6-meter mast after it is freed from the
weight of sail and yard. Even so, it seems unlikely that the crew members would
attempt such a maneuver while entering and leaving harbor, as Homer consis-
tently describes. Furthermore, according to Seymour, Homer’s use of ajeivrante"
seems to imply lifting the mast from the mesovdmh.217 However, he admits his ex-
planation is inconsistent with lowering the mast simply by loosening the fore-
stays (provtonoi), which are two lines running from the top of the mast to the bow
(figure 55).218
Seymour’s reading has two problems. Koi'lo", or hollow, is not limited to de-

124 chapter 6
Figure 55. Sail and rigging

noting a circular hole; another possible interpretation is a cut or depression.219

Therefore, a mesovdmh with a semicircular cut to accept a mast does not violate the
meaning of koi'lo". In addition, since ajeivrante" has a general meaning of
“raising,” it does not necessarily imply that the mast was picked up and dropped
into a mesovdmh as Seymour claims.220 Raising a mast by pulling on the forestays
is consistent with the meaning of ajeivrante". Consequently, Seymour’s analysis
of mesovdmh as a large notched crossbeam at amidships is consistent with the
evidence.
Seymour continues by claiming that the mast of Odysseus’s improvised vessel
was broken because he either did not lower it or because the storm approached
too quickly for him to lower his sail.221 He points out that it must have been se-
curely stepped because it was broken in the middle, not torn from its fastenings.
In contrast, when a storm breaks the forestays on Odysseus’s ship, the mast falls
backward, killing the steersman.222
It is possible that various types of vessels had di¬erent arrangements for se-
curing a mast. Smaller ships, like the one in which Telemachus sails to Pylos,
may have had a more secure mast that was dropped into a hole in a large beam as
Seymour suggests. This is supported by the fact that mesovdmh is mentioned only
in relation to twenty-oared ships. In addition, a similar structure on the ship

Homeric Ships 125

Odysseus built would explain why the mast broke o¬ instead of falling back-
ward. Nevertheless, this system seems unlikely because, even for short stops of
only a few hours, the mast of Telemachus’s ship is still lowered when entering a
harbor.223 It also seems improbable that a mast on a smaller ship would require
a heavier structure to support it than on a larger ship. A more likely scenario is
that, regardless of a vessel’s size, except possibly for large merchant ships in
which masts are almost always stepped regardless of whether they are at sea or
in port, Homeric sailors raised and secured a mast in the same manner by lean-
ing it into the notched thwart, or mesovdmh, and then fastened it in place with at
least the two forestays.
Trovpi" would seem to present few problems as most scholars agree that it
should be translated as “keel.” This is so only because it is commonly translated
as a keel in the Classical period.224 The drawback to this interpretation is that
it makes little sense in the context of the Homeric epics. Only one passage in
either epic is long enough to give the reader a feeling for the meaning of trovpi"
based on context. A standard translation of this passage is “But I went on my way
through the vessel, to where the high seas had worked the keel free out of the
hull, and the bare keel floated on the swell, which had broken the mast o¬ at
the keel.”225 This translation obviously makes little practical sense. Since a keel
runs the length of a ship, it is unnecessary to move to a specific location to wait
while it comes free of the hull because if it came free it would do so throughout
most of the length of the vessel. Furthermore, if the seas were so violent that they
were ripping the hull from the keel, there really wouldn’t be any ship left for
Odysseus to move through. Finally, a vessel of this size would not have the mast
stepped directly into the keel because a keel would be unable to support the
mast’s weight, sail, and rigging, let alone the constant stress placed on it while
the ship was under sail. Even early dynastic river boats in Egypt were equipped
with mast steps (figure 56).
If, however, trovpi" is translated as “mast step,” then the passage makes
sense: “But I went on my way through the vessel, to where the high seas had
worked the mast step free out of the hull, and the mast step floated on the swell,
which had broken the mast o¬ at the mast step.” Although in later texts trovpi"
does denote a keel, this may not be the case in Homeric times.226 As previously
mentioned, in the Classical period stei'ra also denoted a keel, but Homer uses it
to describe the forefoot, which appears to have been an extension of the keel. It
is possible that in these early ships with widely spaced framing most of the mast
step rested directly on the keel and as such was considered an extension or part
of the keel. If so, trovpi" could have referred to either a keel or mast step, de-
pending on the context. So, when Homer describes the mast’s breaking o¬ at the

126 chapter 6
Figure 56. Model of an early Egyptian riverboat (after Kaiser et al., 1988, p. 176)

trovpi", it is clear to the audience that he means the mast step instead of the keel
proper. This would follow the same pattern as the oijhvia, referring to the quarter
rudder as a whole instead of just a tiller, or, as mentioned earlier, a stei'ra de-
noting the forefoot, which was also an extension of the keel. What makes the
translation of these words so di~cult is a paucity of examples in ancient texts.
A trovpi", as described by Homer, fulfills the function of a mast step, and, after
losing mast, sail, and rigging, a mast step may come free as a ship breaks up, just
as Homer describes, because they are rarely fastened in place.227 Instead, they are
usually notched at the base and set on at least two floor timbers. It is mainly the
weight of the mast, rigging, and sail that keeps them in place.
As di~cult as it is to make sense of the meaning of mesovdmh and trovpi", dis-
cerning the meaning of iJstopevdh is even more problematic. We are hindered
again because iJstopevdh rarely appears outside of the Homeric texts. Even he
uses it only three times and always in identical contexts, with each describing the
preparations that allow Odysseus to listen to the Sirens.228 Odysseus describes
how he is tied “hand and foot and upright in the iJstopevdh, and from here bound
by ropes [to the mast].”229 Morrison points out that when Odysseus sails by the
Sirens, he is standing in the iJstopevdh and tied to the mast. Cunli¬e proposes
that the iJstopevdh is a mast step, but this is not possible. The only way for
Odysseus to be placed in a mast step is for him to stand in the slot that takes the
foot of the mast after the mast has been lowered and removed. Yet, the text is very
clear on this point. Odysseus’s crew lowers the sail and stows it, and then they
return to their oars. There is no mention of their lowering the mast, which is
understandable as it may have been too di~cult to lower and raise on the open

Homeric Ships 127

seas. Furthermore, there is no reason to lower it because Odysseus could be
quickly and securely tied to it. Finally, if the mast had been lowered, Homer
would have mentioned it. He has a standard formula for lowering and stowing
the sail and mast, which he could have easily used here.230
Autenrieth proposes that the iJstopevdh is the notched thwart at deck level in
which the mast rests when it is set up.231 Again, if the mast is standing, Odysseus
would be unable to stand in it as Homer describes. Therefore, neither mast step
nor notched thwart is a viable translation for iJstopevdh as long as the mast is still
standing.
Morrison concludes that the iJstopevdh appears to have been a raised footing
for the mast, just as the iJstodovkh was the crutch that receives a mast, and it may
also have been part of the mesovdmh.232 Unfortunately, it is not clear what Morri-
son means by a raised footing. His interpretation can encompass more than one
structure. Casson proposes that a iJstopevdh is a “slender vertical casing into
which the lowest portion of the mast fits.”233 To support his analysis he cites a
similar structure found in the model of a merchant ship (figure 57). Even if
Odysseus were sailing in a large merchant ship, such a casing seems unlikely.
This vertical covering would have been built to support the mast, and, again,
there simply would not be enough room for Odysseus to stand in it when the
mast was in place. In addition, Odysseus is sailing in a galley with a mast that
is small enough to be raised and lowered every time the vessel makes port. The
structure Casson proposes would be even smaller than that in the model and as
such would be too small for Odysseus to fit in it. In addition, if a central deck runs
the length of Odysseus’s vessel, Odysseus would have to be small enough to
stand in the deck-level slot that takes the mast. Finally, there is no evidence that
such structures as Casson proposes were built in ancient galleys.
In contrast, Liddell, Scott, and Jones claim that a iJstopevdh is either “a piece
of wood set in the keel to which the mast was bound or a hole in the keel to step
a mast.”234 We can discount their second construal because, as previously men-
tioned, the weight of a mast, sail, and rigging directly on a keel—and one with a
hole cut in it—would result in a dangerously weak structure for a seagoing ship,
especially when it was so easy to fashion a mast step. Their first interpretation,
however, may fit the texts.
The word iJstopevdh appears to be made up of iJstov", which means an upright
pole, beam, or mast,235 and pevdh, which has two possible roots, either pouv" or
pedavw. If it derives from pouv", it would refer to the “foot” of a mast.236 Another
possibility is that pevdh derives from pedavw.237 Pedavw means to bind, and pevdh
denotes fetters or shackles.238 In one Homeric passage, Odysseus appears to
bind a door shut with a cable from a ship.239 In addition, iJstov" seems to com-

128 chapter 6
 Figure 57. Mast support (based on
Casson, 1995, figure 87)

monly describe a loom.240 The closest parallel to iJstopevdh is iJstopovde", which

are long loom beams to which a web is attached.241 Accordingly, a iJstopevdh may
describe an upright beam fixed in the mast step with ropes or fetters to secure a
mast. To hear the Sirens, Odysseus is first bound hand and foot and then stood
upright on the mesovdmh with his feet in the fetter or binding that attached the
mast to the post, and he was then tied to the mast (figure 58).
Laced vessels are commonly equipped with similar devices. An Egyptian
model has a mast step with two holes in the upper face. A post is stepped in the
forward hole, and it would also fit into a semicircular cut on the forward side of a
crossbeam, or mesovdmh, placed at deck level (figure 58). The mast was stepped in
the aft hole, and it would fit into a semicircular cut in the aft side of the same
crossbeam. The mast was then secured by tying it to the post above the cross-
beam, and two forestays were then secured at the bow.242 Such an arrangement
would explain why the mast falls back or breaks at deck level. Neither the iJsto-
pevdh nor the forestays alone would have been strong enough to secure a mast, es-
pecially in such a violent storm. On Odysseus’s ship, when the forestays break, so
too would the iJstopevdh, and the mast falls backward. If the mast breaks before
the lines do, possibly due to a strong wind from the stern, we would expect the
mast to break above the mesovdmh. Onboard Odysseus’s scedivh, when the storm
hits and the lines hold, the mast breaks where we would expect it to.243
Attached to the mast is a yard (ejpivkrion) that was drawn up the mast by a
backstay (ejpivtono") of oxhide.244 This backstay must have passed through a ring
or some structure attached to the masthead or through a hole in the mast itself,
which served as a pulley. The backstay was tied o¬ aft of the mast, but Homer
does not tell us where (figure 55).245

Homeric Ships 129

Figure 58. Mast assembly (after Kaiser et al., 1988, 176)

The backstay not only held up the sail but also helped to brace the mast. Ac-
cording to Seymour, the backstay endured heavy stress and friction from hauling
up the yard and sail without a block. To compensate, seafarers plaited it out of ox
hide instead of relying on fibrous ropes. Seymour points out that Homer men-
tions only that the backstay is made of ox hide and therefore assumes the other
rigging lines were not of leather. He supports his view by citing Agamemnon,
who tells the Achaeans that the planks of their ships have rotted, and the cords
of spavrta have worked loose or broken.246 Seymour believes spavrta may denote
rigging in this context.
Spavrton in classical times appears to be a generic word denoting ropes and
cables, but Homer uses it only in the sentence describing the Achaean ships.247
As chapter 4 mentions, the cords of spavrta are thought to be ropes holding
the planking together and not the running and standing rigging of a ship.248 The
mast, sail, and rigging are always taken down when a ship enters port, and the
latter two items would be stowed in a dry place, probably under the bow or stern
decking. The rigging would be the last to rot and the easiest items to maintain
and replace on board a ship. In contrast, most of the cords binding the hull
planking would be exposed to the elements and very di~cult to replace, espe-
cially during a long siege. In addition, Seymour concedes that spavrta is used in
conjunction with dou'ra (planking), and he believes that the two are closely re-
lated, which they are if we accept the possibility that they were used to bind hull
planks together. As such, there is little doubt that at least the planks of Homeric
galleys were laced together with spavrta, which may refer to Lygeum spartum or a
similar species of grass.

130 chapter 6
 Finally, although Seymour is correct that Homer mentions only leather back-
stays, this does not preclude the possibility that other lines were also made from
leather. Considering that a helmsperson’s life and the survival of a ship are de-
pendent on only a few lines, it is possible that some other rigging lines were also
made from leather. Such rigging would be stronger, and, since it is taken down
and stored, it would be easy to maintain against the elements. In Egypt ropes
were commonly made from animal hides.249
The uJpevrai appear to denote braces or lines that are fastened to either end of
a yard and run to the deck (figure 55). These lines are used to adjust the yard in
relation to the wind.250 Cunli¬e is less sure; he only states that they are for trim-
ming a sail, but he does not elaborate.251
The word povde" appears to correspond to the sheets, which are called the feet
of a sail.252 Sheets were fastened to the lower corners of a sail and could be se-
cured to either side of a ship aft of the mast. Odysseus holds a sheet throughout
his voyage from the island of Aeolus to Ithaca while the other sheet is presum-
ably made fast, suggesting it was used to adjust the sail.253
Other lines mentioned by Homer are kavloi, o{plon, and desmov". Cunli¬e be-
lieves kavloi denotes the tackle for raising the sails or possibly halyards.254 Liddell,
Scott, and Jones see it as a general term for lines, ropes, and cables.255 However,
Torr points out that a line from Herodotus clearly describes kavloi as brailing
lines.256 Brailing lines are attached to the lower edge of a sail and are laced through
evenly spaced brailing rings, which are usually lead rings sewn to the forward
face of a sail. These lines then run over the yard and back to the person at the
helm, who can control the area and shape of a sail by pulling or releasing these
lines (figure 55).257 Seymour agrees that Homeric ships had some type of brailed
sail, but his interpretation is based on the context of stei'lai in Odyssey 3.11.258
The o{plon is a strong rope or cable made of papyrus.259 Seymour proposes
that, in Od. 2.390, it may also refer to mast, sail, and oars as well as lines.260 Fi-
nally, desmov" denotes a ship’s mooring cable and also the cords that hold the
improvised boat together.261
Homer generally uses the word for a sail, or iJstiva, in the plural.262 However,
he means only one sail.263 The plural refers to strips of cloth (favrea), possibly of
linen, from which the sail was made, and Odysseus sews his sail together from
strips of linen that Calypso provides.264 Sails were made in this manner because
no ancient loom would have been large enough to make a sail all in one piece.265
This is probably why Geometric sails are typically portrayed as a checkerboard
pattern (figures 43 and 47). Using plural forms to describe a single composite
object is common in Homer, just like the i[kria.266
Cunli¬e proposes that ejfovlkaion refers to a sort of ladder or landing

Homeric Ships 131

plank.267 Yet, Morrison argues that Homer does not mention the ladders and
gangplanks depicted on paintings of later ships. He claims that Homeric ships
were not high enough in the stern to need a ladder. Morrison bases this on the
observation that Hector could grasp the a[flaston, but as previously mentioned
the a[flaston appears to be the sternpost, which runs from the keel to at least
deck level. Consequently, it is possible to say only that Hector is grasping the
sternmost section of the ship, but there is no way to ascertain how high up on the
sternpost he could reach. Furthermore, as stated earlier, since the ships were
surrounded by rocks, Hector must have climbed those before grasping the stern-
post, which makes it impossible for us to guess the height of these ships.
Morrison also claims that the projecting qrh'nu" at the stern and a similar tim-
ber at the bow would provide a step into the ship, which was all that was neces-
sary.268 This may be true, but Homer never states that the qrh'nu" extends outside
the hull. All we know is that Ajax steps back from the i[kria onto the qrh'nu".
Nothing in the passage suggests that he steps outside the hull. However, even if
this were so, a gangplank would still be necessary for quickly and e~ciently load-
ing and unloading heavy cargo or booty. Just because Homer does not mention it
does not necessarily mean it does not exist, only that it was not required as part
of his story. The use of a gangplank on galleys of Homer’s time is indicated by the
painting of a Geometric ship depicting warriors boarding a galley by walking up
a gangplank at the stern (figure 59).
Morrison continues by citing a story Odysseus tells of his escape from the
crew of a Thesprotian ship. As the crew ate their meal on the beach, Odysseus
frees himself and climbs down to the ejfovlkaion, lowers his body into the water,
and swims o¬.269 Morrison proposes that the ejfovlkaion was a corresponding
beam to the “seven-foot” qrh'nu", but it was in the bow instead of the stern;
moreover, it, like the qrh'nu", could be used as a step for anyone going over the
side. Morrison also points out that such projecting beams are visible in later
depictions and in the bow of a clay model.270 Nevertheless, none of the depic-
tions or models from before or during Homer’s time appear to be outfitted with
such beams.
Morrison concedes that Odysseus does not say that the ejfovlkaion was in the
bow, but if the stern was beached, as is usually the case with Homeric ships, the
bow was the only part of the ship from which he could have made his escape by
swimming, and the bow would be the farthest from his captors on the beach.271
Furthermore, as mentioned earlier, the bows of these early galleys appear to have
been constructed to give crew members and warriors easy access to the cutwater
or beak of a ship as it was both used as a latrine and was the preferred means of
warriors to quickly board or disembark a ship from the bow (figures 41, 42, 50,

132 chapter 6
Figure 59. Geometric ship with gangplank (after Morrison and Williams, 1968, pl. 7b)

and 53). In contrast, the only depictions of a lading or gangplank on a Geomet-

ric ship is at the stern (figure 59). Consequently, if such a plank were required to
board and disembark a ship, the crew would have used it to go ashore, and
Odysseus would have had to find another way to escape.
It is true that projecting beams on each side of the bow and stern would have
been useful for the attachment of towing ropes or mooring cables. Morrison be-
lieves it is from towing at the bow that this beam got the name ejfovlkaion, or
towing bar (figure 52).272 This is because ejfovlkaion appears to be derived from
ejfevlkw and means “to be pulled or towed around.”273 This etymology seems to
rule out a gangplank as it would be stowed when the ship was underway. Morri-
son makes an interesting argument for an interpretation of “towing bar,” but
another meaning of ejfovlkaion should also be discussed. An ejfovlkaion denotes
a small dingy commonly towed by larger ships.274 From my own personal expe-
rience, a dingy is not needed when mooring a vessel stern first close to shore. It
is common for the lowest-ranking person (which I usually was) to untie the
dinghy and pull it to the bow while the ship is mooring. The dingy remains tied
at the bow until the ship prepares to leave. Homer may be describing a similar
arrangement. Odysseus may have climbed down to the dingy and then lowered
himself into the water. Trying to row a dingy would quickly alert the crew to his
escape. He would therefore climb down into the dingy first and then slip into the
sea as quietly as possible.
Finally, Georg Autenrieth has proposed that ejfovlkaion denotes a quarter

Homeric Ships 133

rudder.275 Of all the possibilities, this last one has the least merit. It is true that a
quarter rudder fits the meaning of ejfovlkaion as it is something that is towed or
pulled as a ship is sailing. Nevertheless, when a vessel has docked, the quarter
rudders were always hung out or raised out of the water to allow them to dry out,
which reduced drag when the vessel was under sail. Therefore, Odysseus would
have to lower one of the quarter rudders and slide down it into the water without
making any noise. The di~culties with this scenario are, first, that the lowering
of a quarter rudder would be a rather obvious indicator to the crew onshore that
something was wrong, and second, that these quarter rudders are held in place
only with a rope and were not very large or heavy structures, again to keep drag
on a vessel at a minimum. As a result, it is unlikely that one would have been able
to support Odysseus’s weight. Finally, if the ship was beached stern first, which
seems to be the case in nearly all Homeric moorings, and Odysseus managed to
slide down a quarter rudder to escape, because of the overhang at the stern he
would most likely end up sitting on the beach instead of chest deep in the sea.
The passage states that Odysseus “came down the smooth ejfovlkaion, chest
deep into the sea,” which would rule out any structure at the stern, nor does it ap-
pear to describe a dingy either.276 Consequently, ejfovlkaion as a towing bar is a
reasonable interpretation. It is also possible that ejfovlkaion denoted some type
of structure that gave the crew easy access to the cutwater, or ship’s beak, of
which the towing bar may have been part.
Homer mentions at least three di¬erent types of ships, those with twenty
oars, fifty oars, and broad merchant ships with twenty rowers. Unfortunately, we
know little about the size of such craft. Homeric ships are commonly thought
of as little more than small, open vessels. This perception can be traced back to
a statement by Thucydides and to artistic depictions.277 Yet, considering that at
least two centuries separate Thucydides from Homer and no known histories
survived to guide Thucydides, it seems unlikely that he had any reliable informa-
tion on the types of ships that sailed during Homer’s time. A closer look at the
Homeric texts suggests that ships may have been larger and more diverse than
commonly thought.
Homer most commonly describes ships with a crew of about fifty. Achilles
and Protesilaus each had fifty rowers on board, and the Phaeacian ship had fifty-
two crew members.278 This suggests that a full crew consisted of fifty rowers, a
person at the helm, and a captain. Of course there are always exceptions:
Odysseus’s ship had forty-six men, after six were killed by the Ciconians and six
had been devoured by Polyphemus, for an original crew of fifty-eight, suggesting
eight men had no duties or rotated duties with the others.279 As previously men-
tioned, these ships must have been at least 28 meters in length based on the

134 chapter 6
space needed per rower plus the fore and aft decks. They may also have been
much broader than previously thought because Homer describes them as capa-
cious, or megakhvth".280 Seymour also proposes that since Homer uses the word
cheek, or parhvi>on, to describe the bow, it implies a full bow.281 Furthermore,
each Boeotian ship carried 120 men to Troy.282 Thucydides believes these ships
had 120 rowers.283 It is also possible that all large warships are the same size, and
the 120 men mentioned are an indication of how many crew members and pas-
sengers each ship can carry. Homer never mentions a ship with more than fifty
rowers, and this should not surprise us. Penteconters appear to have been the
standard warship before the Classical period, and they derive their name from
the fifty rowers on board. These ships made up the Phocaean fleet in the battle of
Alalia (535 B.C.). According to Herodotus, the Phocaeans with sixty ships met a
combined force of 120 Tyrrhenian and Carthaginian ships. The Phocaeans won
the battle, but they lost forty of their ships. After the battle, the Phocaeans re-
turned to their settlement and took on board all of the women and children and
all of their possessions that the ships could hold before sailing away from Cor-
sica.284 The fact that the remaining ships could carry not only the survivors fam-
ilies, but the families of those lost that day plus many of their possessions
suggest these were rather deep and beamy ships.
The time it takes for a Homeric galley to sail from Crete to Egypt also suggests
rather slow vessels compared to those of classical times. This passage is unique
in that both the beginning and end of the voyage are known geographic loca-
tions, and the time necessary to complete the voyage is also reported. Further-
more, the ships were not loaded with booty, the sailing conditions were ideal,
and, as we have historic parallels, we can rule out hyperbole. According to
Odysseus, he and his crew arrived in Egypt on the morning of their fifth day,
which is similar to recorded voyages of three and four days, which were common
in Greco-Roman times. Completing such a voyage in four days suggests an over-
all speed of 3.2 knots.285 However, these later ships were merchant vessels, not
galleys, suggesting that Homeric galleys were quite slow.
The second type of ship Homer mentions has twenty rowers. Twenty-oared
ships were useful for shorter voyages, such as the returning of Chryseis to her
father, Telemachus’s trip to Pylos, and the suitors’ ambush.286 Unfortunately, we
cannot be sure that these are all the same type of ship. Odysseus may have taken
only twenty crewmembers on a fifty-oared ship because the voyage was a short
one and an easy sail. If this is a smaller ship, then it must have been a rather
beamy one to carry a hecatomb, or eJkatovmbh, which is a sacrifice of a hundred
oxen.287 Of course, as previously mentioned, it is possible and even likely in this
situation that an eJkatovmbh was a smaller gift with the value of a hundred oxen,

Homeric Ships 135

in which case it tells us nothing of the ship.288 Furthermore, it is hard to accept
that Telemachus has borrowed a small, fast, twenty-oared galley when its owner,
Noëmon, appears to need the same vessel to transport livestock.289
Finally, a beamy merchant ship, or fortiv", also has twenty rowers.290 Seymour
proposes that these ships were about 12 meters long, basing this calculation on
the space needed per rower on that used for a fifty-oared ship.291 These calcula-
tions are based on the assumption that space is at a premium. Such may be the
case for galleys, but this is rarely so for merchant vessels. For example, a mtepe
commonly carried a twenty-member crew, two of which always appear to be bail-
ing, leaving eighteen rowers. Mitepe are usually described as about 18 meters
in length, which also corresponds with the archaeological evidence.292 Most
Bronze Age, Canaanite, and Archaic Greek merchant ships seem to measure be-
tween 15 and 20 meters in length.
The number of oars on merchant ships cannot help us to estimate the length
of a ship because they are sweeps primarily for maneuvering while entering or
leaving a harbor, and these rowers will stand instead of sit while rowing because
these larger ships lack the closely spaced crossbeams that allow rowers to sit and
brace themselves while pulling on an oar.
Unlike raiders who attempt to acquire treasures quickly and then split the
booty, merchant ships were built for long-term business ventures. Captains of
such ships had limited storage space. The larger the crew, the more water and
food that had to be carried to feed them and the less space for cargo; of course,
the diminished space for cargo results in lower profits. For this reason, it would
seem that a 12-meter ship is rather small for a twenty-member crew. A forti" was
probably more like a mtepe and most of the early archaeological examples of
merchant ships. Therefore, the largest Homeric merchant ships were probably
15–20 meters in length to e~ciently carry and maintain such a large crew. This
underscores an important point: The lengths of ships this chapter describes
should be understood as minimum lengths.
Unfortunately, like ship size, Homer tells us little of the cargoes each type of
ship carried. We know that ships carried parched grain or meal in leather bags
and water and wine in jars or leather bottles.293 However, these appear to be stan-
dard maritime provisions instead of cargoes.294 Athena, who was disguised as
Mentes, tells Telemachus she is bound for Temese to exchange her iron for cop-
per. Unfortunately, Homer fails to inform us of the size or amount of the cargo.
The largest cargoes he mentions are the hecatomb and the gifts the Phaeacians
gave to Odysseus. As pointed out earlier, we have no idea what the hecatomb con-
sisted of and therefore cannot calculate its size. All we know about the Phaeacian

136 chapter 6
gifts is that they consisted of a chest small enough for slave women to carry and
thirteen bronze cauldrons and tripods of unknown size, which tells us little.295
On larger merchant vessels, the decking probably consisted of only bow and
stern decks and possibly narrow walkways along the sides, and such open ves-
sels would have been easy to load. The size and depth of these large merchant
ships and the lack of decking over most of a ship is implied by Homer’s descrip-
tion of the death of the Phoenician slave, who falls into the bilge water.296 The
only covered areas in the galleys would have been the fore and aft decks and
probably a narrow deck running down the center of a vessel from bow to stern.
The description of the rigging falling into the bilge when the mast kills the
helmsman on Odysseus’s galley does not indicate a large open space aft of the
mast.297 The rigging could have easily fallen to either side of the walkway, be-
tween the crossbeams and into the bilge. The only other passage describing a
ship and its cargo is that of Alcinous’s inspecting the Phaeacian ship to ensure
Odysseus’s presents have been properly stowed under the thwarts so as not to be
in the rowers’ way. Seymour suggests this was necessary because there was no
cargo hold.298 In reality this passage is open to wide speculation and reveals little.
The Phaeacians are a seafaring people, and Alcinous is Odysseus’s host and
therefore responsible for his safe voyage. All his inspection reveals is that he is
doing what any good captain does and that is to make sure the cargo is correctly
stored. It is just as possible that Odysseus had acquired so many large cauldrons
that they completely filled the cargo hold and left little space for the rowers to
place their feet. Furthermore, as mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, Ho-
meric galleys are described as kovi>lo" nh'e", or hollow ships. However, in classi-
cal times kovi>lo" nau'" denotes the hold of a ship, even in warships.299 The context
and wording are identical, but a translation of “hollow” seems to be preferred
over “hold” even though there is no reason to continue to do so.
Homer is one of our best sources of information on the various parts of an-
cient ships. In addition, nautical archaeology has helped clarify our understand-
ing of ancient vessels and some Homeric terminology, but as this chapter
indicates, a portion of our information still consists of little more than names
and hints that can have more than one interpretation. We must therefore still
qualify and use each term cautiously. Our understanding of Homeric seafaring
can also be ambiguous at times, and the next chapter clarifies the competence of
Homer’s heroes as seafarers.

Homeric Ships 137

 7
Seåfåring
on the Wine
Dårk Seå

The Greeks of the Homeric Age were not hardy, adventurous seafarers,
according to Thomas Seymour. This is a view that other scholars have shared.1
Seymour, however, is one of the few to explain his opinion. He points out that
Achilles’ shield portrays many aspects of life, including plowing, reaping, cattle
herding, military fighting, arguing disputes before judges, walking in marriage
processions, and choral dancing—but nothing about traveling on the sea.
Therefore, seafaring was a part of life that was engaged in only when necessary.2
Seymour is correct that Achilles’ shield depicts some important facets of Ho-
meric life, but not all of them. When Achilles accepts his new armor, he is forced
to make a choice. He can either don the armor, kill Hector, and then die shortly
thereafter, acquiring great glory as a result, or he can leave Troy and live a long,
uneventful life. What Hephaestus is portraying on this shield is the life that
Achilles is giving up to revenge the death of Patroclus. These scenes are events
that Homeric nobles would consider as principal features of life. In one respect
Seymour may be correct in that seafaring is omitted because Homeric Greeks
saw it as little more than a method of transportation. Homer never attempts to
glamorize any aspect of seafaring. Ships are merely objects that do not appear to
be named, and maritime travel is depicted as an arduous, dangerous way of life.
Nevertheless, naval vessels are also essential for acquiring goods and forging
alliances that allow chiefs to maintain their social and economic standing within
their society.3 Furthermore, if we accept Seymour’s interpretation of the signifi-
cance of these scenes, we must also accept the view that Homeric Greeks had
little interest in, or knowledge of, competitive games since Hephaestus omits
these also. Yet, games for honoring the death of a great warrior were quite im-
portant to Homeric nobles. In fact, most of book 23 of the Iliad is devoted to a
description of chariot races, boxing, wrestling, foot races, archery, spear throw-
ing, and the awarding of generous prizes.4 Honoring the demise of a skillful
fighter is an integral part of the Homeric world. However, none of these events
appears on Achilles’ shield. We must therefore conclude that Seymour overstates
the importance of the shield as an absolute indicator of what is significant in a
noble’s life.
Seymour continues by arguing that the landlubberly nature of Achaeans is
evident during their return from Troy. When Menelaus, Nestor, and Diomedes
reach Lesbos, they discuss whether to sail directly across the Aegean Sea to Eu-
boea or to follow the long route, which takes them south along the coast of Asia
Minor, west to Crete, and then north to the Peloponnese. Nestor and Diomedes
sail directly from Lesbos to Euboea, but they attempt this voyage only after re-
ceiving a favorable omen from the gods.5 Menelaus returns to Agamemnon, and
they decide to make the longer voyage via Crete.6 Seymour feels that experienced
seafarers would have struck out on the shorter course without deliberation.7 The
first flaw in this analysis is that the Achaeans’ apprehension over which route to
take may be a result of a number of factors and may not necessarily indicate
inexperience. We should consider that the Achaean ships were not very seawor-
thy after ten years at Troy and may have been heavily laden with booty, men, and
weapons.8 Under these conditions, the direct route from Lesbos to Eubeoa
would have been even more dangerous to sail than usual.
Another important consideration is the time of year. Homer fails to tell us
when Troy finally fell. If it happened between November 10 and March 10, it
would be during a season when weather conditions in the Aegean were the most
unpredictable and dangerous.9 Menelaus, Nestor, and Diomedes would be con-
cerned about their course during this time. One can also argue that a knowledge
of alternative routes and a willingness to deliberate over them are signs of expe-
rienced seafarers—not of ignorant ones.
Most important, this belief that hugging the coast is a sign of inexperience
has no basis. Dorothea Gray points out that Homeric Greeks sailed their ships
along the coast from harbor to harbor not because they were afraid to sail in open
seas, but because there was no refuge from a sudden storm, and when sailing in
a laced ship this is an important factor in choosing a course.10 Furthermore,
many of the examples given of ships hugging the coast describe seafaring traders
that sail from harbor to harbor; they probably did so as a trading strategy—not
because they were inexperienced. Jamie Morton points out that staying close to
the coast has another advantage over sailing in the open sea. Both land and sea
breezes are strongest during the sailing season, and by following the coast it is
possible to take advantage of local breezes and sail in directions other than those
directed by the prevailing northerlies at sea. However, he also states that there
are added dangers to this strategy. Sailing in shallow waters means encounter-

Seafaring on the Wine Dark Sea 139

ing rocky outcrops and wave-cut platforms at or just below the surface that have
brought about the loss of many ships. Shifting sand banks and shoals can also
be treacherous. Furthermore, topography and coastal alignment can actually
exacerbate adverse conditions.11 It therefore takes as much experience, or even
more, to successfully sail along coastlines than it does out in the open sea.
Knowing that high levels of skill and knowledge were required for sailing in
both conditions, Homer may also be using these passages as nothing more than
a literary device. He enjoys using irony in both epics. He may, consequently, be
setting the scene with Nestor and Diomedes, who take the direct, more danger-
ous route home, arriving at their destinations unscathed. The irony is that all
those who choose the longer and supposedly safer route su¬er some type of mis-
fortune. It should also be noted that Agamemnon made other bad decisions in
the Iliad that should not reflect poorly on the Achaeans as a group.
Seymour cites other evidence that Achaeans were landlubbers. Odysseus’s
crew thinks him cruel because, even though they are “overcome by weariness
and sleep,” he still asks them to continue rowing by the island of Helios.12 Al-
though his companions understand the dangers of doing so, they still want to
go ashore to fix their dinner; Odysseus finally relents.13 Seymour maintains that
it was necessary to land because Homeric ships were not built for long voyages.
They were in essence only open boats without a hold or a cabin and without
berths or hammocks. It was therefore necessary to go ashore to cook and sleep.
In addition, he claims that Achaeans would not sail at night except in special cir-
cumstances. In Seymour’s words, the men would be “very wretched” if they had
to sail for any longer than a day or two in one of these ships.14
Although Seymour’s argument is well reasoned, the epics contradict him.
Odysseus and his crew sail for nine days from the island of Aeolus to Ithaca with-
out a break and without any indication of hardship. Other long voyages by Odys-
seus include a nine-day journey to the land of the Lotus Eaters, a voyage from
Crete to Egypt that ends on the fifth day, and eighteen days sailing from Calypso’s
island to Scheria before his vessel finally breaks up.15 Expeditions of this length
may have been uncomfortable and even unpleasant but should not have posed
any great burden on Odysseus or his crew.
In some situations such as the nine-day voyage from Cape Malea to the land
of the Lotus Eaters, Odysseus’s ship is at the mercy of the winds. Yet in others,
long trips appear to be made solely at Odysseus’s discretion. The nine-day cross-
ing from the island of Aeolus to Ithaca is one such example. It appears that as
long as the bag of winds given to him by Aeolus remains tied, Odysseus will have
a fair west wind to take him home. He decides on a continuous passage because
he wishes to arrive home as soon as possible, not because he is forced to do so.16

140 chapter 7
Furthermore, Odysseus’s four-day voyage from Crete to Egypt appears to be
made under ideal conditions. When he is weaving his tales to the swineherd
Eumaeus, he tells him that a favorable and fair wind easily carried his ships to
Egypt. Neither ship nor person was harmed, there was no sickness, and on the
fifth day they arrived safely at their destination.17 If Achaeans were truly averse to
making long, nonstop voyages, they could work their way to Egypt by staying
close to the coast. Gray proposes that the Achaeans took to the open sea only be-
cause of a lack of friendly harbors.18 Yet, Greeks had been trading in Cyprus and
along the Phoenician coast for at least a hundred years before Homer’s time and
possibly longer.19
One can also argue that since Odysseus is spinning a tale, we should discount
what he says, but the most convincing stories are those that use truth as a back-
ground, and Homer was a master storyteller. In this story the long, direct voyage
to Egypt is a narrative setting. Odysseus sails south from Crete because the pre-
vailing winds and currents would quickly take him to Egypt. Furthermore, Odys-
seus travels from Crete to Egypt in slightly more than four days, which is similar
to the sailing time that Strabo reports, suggesting that by Homer’s time this voy-
age was well established by the Greeks.20 This is supported by Homer’s knowl-
edge that the fastest route between Phoenicia and Lybia is via Crete.21 These last
two trips indicate that Homeric Greeks were well aware of the sailing winds and
currents in the eastern Mediterranean, and we would not expect to find such de-
tails in the stories and lies of landlubbers.
The belief that a lack of berths or hammocks renders a ship unfit for long voy-
ages ignores the ethnographic data. Life on these ancient ships is probably very
close to that on traditional Muslim ships that Alan Villiers sailed on in 1938. One
of the ships he describes is the Triumph of Righteousness, a Kuwaiti boom. This
vessel appears to have been a little more than 100 feet long, and after lading a full
cargo, approximately 150 passengers were taken on board. However, the vessel
could carry up to 200 passengers for a six-to-seven-week trip.22 Such capacities
were common. He goes on to describe another vessel that was 60 feet long at the
waterline and carried at least 200 passengers. It was so crowed that “it must have
been impossible for any one to sleep.”23 Villiers describes the conditions on
board the crowded ship on which he was traveling as deplorable. At one time
during the voyage about 100 passengers were violently ill, and on such voyages
a 5-percent mortality rate among passengers would not have been considered
unusual. If a contagion such as smallpox spread through a ship, the death toll
would have been much higher.24
According to Villiers, before the passengers embarked, the crew of about
thirty “had no proper place to sleep and no bedding: they coiled up on deck, . . .

Seafaring on the Wine Dark Sea 141

seemed to be able to drop o¬ to sleep at will,” and “seemed to be able to sleep
in surprisingly little space, the whole lot coiling themselves down somewhere
round the cook’s fire box and round the bole of the mainmast in space that
might with di~cultly have accommodated six sheep.”25 After the passengers
embarked, the crew members were forced to fend for themselves, and Villiers
was never quite sure where they slept. He states, however, that after the passen-
gers left “from somewhere the sailors emerged again, worn and thin and tired.
As far as I could discover, they must have slept in tiers on the anchors and cables,
and on top of the firebox.”26 In contrast, Odysseus’s fifty-two crew members
probably did not consider voyages of only a week or two on a ship of 28 meters
(92 feet) in length as being unduly uncomfortable. Like the crew of the Triumph
of Righteousness, it was just an aspect of seafaring.
Lacking a cabin and living out in the elements were probably not considered
hardships either. In fact, most of Homer’s crew, if given a choice, would prob-
ably choose to sleep under the stars. Villiers points out that he and the crew pre-
ferred sleeping on deck. Of course, compared to the crew, Villiers had luxury
sleeping accommodations, consisting of a rug on the stern deck, where he slept
in relative comfort during most of the six-month voyage. Apparently, being given
a space on the stern deck was considered an honor as it was typically reserved for
those of the highest status, which is consistent with the description in book 13,
line 73, of the Odyssey. Odysseus sleeps on a cover and a linen placed on the stern
deck of the Phaeacian ship during the voyage to Ithaca. A reason for preferring to
live on deck is that in the Mediterranean, as in the Indian Ocean, the weather is
usually pleasant for most of the sailing season, and according to Villiers, his own
voyage on deck during this extended period was very agreeable. Furthermore, liv-
ing below in these traditional ships had certain drawbacks. Villiers did not book
passage on the Triumph of Righteousness until after personally inspecting it. The
vessel appeared to be very clean and vermin free without even any cockroaches
on deck. However, because of an accident that temporarily blinded him, he was
placed in the grand cabin below the stern deck; this took place before all of the
passengers arrived. According to him, “The stench was abominable. . . . There
was no air. Rats scampered, and now and again I heard their noisy fighting
among themselves. Fat, greasy cockroaches dropped from the deckhead, ran on
my face, and made a playground of my body.”27 Consequently, a lack of ameni-
ties on Homeric ships that we would expect today does not necessarily mean that
Homeric sailors believed such vessels were unfit for long stretches at sea.
With regard to the Achaeans’ reservations about sailing at night, this argu-
ment does not appear to have much merit either. All but one of the aforemen-
tioned voyages appear to have been continuous without any recorded complaints.

142 chapter 7
The only mention of an aversion to sailing at night occurs when Odysseus and his
men are o¬ the island of Helios. Eurylochus expresses a fear that deadly storm
winds will rise during the night, which is a real danger, especially when sailing
along a coast and around islands.28 At certain times of the year, sudden and dan-
gerous winds can develop due to the rapid cooling of nearby land. Furthermore,
it is only in this passage that a crew of an Achaean ship has been rowing for an
extended period of time. They begin rowing when the wind drops near the
Siren’s island and continue until their ship reaches the island of Helios.29 In every
other passage, ships are rowed only when entering and leaving harbor or when
reacting to dangerous conditions. Thus, Homer may be using this section to
set up another ironic situation. If we accept the possibility that Homeric ships
were built to be sailed and were rowed only under the previously mentioned cir-
cumstances, then the crew may fear that they will be destroyed by night winds
because they are simply too exhausted to handle the ship. The irony is that once
Odysseus and his crew go ashore, the very winds that the crew fear at sea end up
trapping them ashore and in e¬ect seal their fate.
Telemachus’s voyages to and from Pylos are also night trips.30 The suitors ap-
parently are willing to attack Telemachus on the sea at any hour without reserva-
tion.31 Odysseus’s ability to navigate by the stars also suggests considerable
sailing experience at night. He sails during the night after leaving Calypso’s
island.32 The constellation known as both Bear and Wain is not “bathing in
Oceanus,” which means it never sinks below the horizon. Odysseus sails from
Calypso’s island for seventeen days, keeping this constellation on his left hand.33
Finally, familiarity with the waters they are sailing in may influence a crew’s
willingness to travel at night. Homeric sailors lacked charts, written sailing di-
rections, and navigational equipment, which forced them to rely on little more
than their personal knowledge of an area. As a result, sailing in the open sea
posed less of a problem. However, when sailing in unknown waters near land,
hidden hazards that could not be detected until too late may have forced prudent
captains to beach their vessels for the night. Not only are Odysseus’s men ex-
hausted and hungry, but Eurylochus also fears sailing blindly along at night in
what are obviously perilous waters. In fact, his fears are based on experience be-
cause, as they sail near the land of the Cyclopes, Odysseus recounts that “some
god guided us through the dark night; because nothing could be seen as a heavy
fog surrounded the ships, and no moon was seen from the heavens as clouds
covered it. None saw the island with their eyes nor the long wave rolling on the
beach until our well-timbered ships ran aground.”34 In view of the fact that
Homer and his crew had run aground once before, his crew would give pause be-
fore sailing blindly in unknown territory. Therefore, to say that Homeric seafarers

Seafaring on the Wine Dark Sea 143

were simply afraid to sail at night is an oversimplification. Instead, a number of
factors influenced their willingness to do so.
In addition to being too small for sleeping and for preparing food on board,
Homeric ships, according to Seymour, were built to be rowed instead of sailed.
He maintains that oars were used almost constantly during a voyage, and he cites
the prominence of rowers in both epics. Oars, not sails, are the “wings of a
ship.”35 Seymour believes that sailors were prepared to use sails when a fair wind
blew; otherwise, every sailor except the commander and perhaps the helmsman
was expected to help row the vessel in calm waters. As chapter 6 explains, crew
members considered the oar essentially a personal possession.36
Although rowers are prominent figures, descriptions of rowing are nearly al-
ways qualified in relation to sailing. When Hector and Paris return to the field of
battle, they rejuvenate the Trojan warriors like a fair wind to weary rowers.37 On
their second voyage from the isle of Aeolus, Odysseus’s crew members are tired
from rowing because they lack a wind to help them.38 Finally, Menelaus is de-
tained by a calm on the island of Pharos, o¬ the coast of Egypt.39 Seymour be-
lieves the distance from their home port made rowing out of the question.40 Yet,
why not return to Egypt, only a day’s sail away? If these ships were indeed built
to be rowed long distances, then Menelaus could easily have rowed back to the
mainland. Instead, he faces the prospect of starvation after spending twenty
days on Pharos Island because of a lack of wind, which is similar to the situation
confronting Odysseus’s crew as they decide to land on the island of Helios.41
Both situations seem to suggest that a day’s sail is beyond a crew’s rowing capa-
bilities in such vessels, especially since Menelaus tells Proteus there is no way out
of this state of a¬airs.42 However, after Proteus tells him that the gods are de-
taining him only because he failed to give proper o¬erings before beginning his
voyage, Menelaus orders his men to row back to Egypt. However, even with
assurances of a safe return, Menelaus is still unhappy and considers such a trip
long and difficult.43 If we accept the premise that these vessels were built to be
rowed long distances, this story seems to defy all logic. An audience of Homer’s
day would have known the capabilities of their ships. If, however, we believe the
argument that a day’s sail was well beyond the rowing capabilities of Homeric
sailors, then this story makes sense in that it is only with Proteus’s assurances of
a successful return to Egypt that Menelaus would attempt to row such a heavy
vessel on a voyage that would take a full day’s sail. Yet, he is still not happy about
making such a journey, and without such assurances, much like those Odysseus
receives from Calypso, he appears to prefer to stay and take his chances on the
island of Pharos.44
The evidence therefore suggests that Homeric ships were built mainly to be

144 chapter 7
sailed, not rowed. Both Odysseus and Menelaus say it is the winds, not rowers,
that propel their ships across the seas.45 As previously mentioned in the Iliad and
the Odyssey, ships are rowed only when entering or leaving port or during a calm
at sea.46 The Homeric passages suggest that sailors were reluctant to put to sea
without any wind, which would be excellent rowing conditions. A harbor is lo-
cated near the cave of Polyphemus, and sailors come to wait in it for the right
winds to blow before continuing on their voyage, suggesting again that rowing
is only a secondary form of propulsion for Achaean ships.47
If we look dispassionately at the passages that describe seafaring in both
epics, the evidence suggests that Achaeans were experienced seafarers instead of
landlubbers. Odysseus takes his first voyage as a young man to visit his grand-
father, and his son Telemachus also sets out on his first crossing at sea just as
he is coming to manhood.48 Even Hesiod, who seems to have an aversion to ships,
made two voyages, one to Euboea and a second to Chalcis.49
Ships appear to be a common feature of Homeric life. Ferrymen bring live-
stock and travelers from the mainland to Ithaca.50 Similarly, the bodies of the
suitors from other lands were returned to their homes by sailors.51 Athena bor-
rows a boat from Noëmon, who four days later appears to need it to bring a young
mule from his pastures in Elis.52 Finally, when Homer describes the Cyclopes,
he lists some common, human attributes that the Cyclopes lack and suggests as
a result that they are uncivilized compared to people. These qualities include the
building and sailing of ships, which men often use to cross the sea to visit one
another.53
One of the strongest arguments that Achaeans dislike long voyages comes
from the mouth of Odysseus himself. He says that a Homeric nobleman ideally
never wants to be away from home for more than a month. Nevertheless, we need
to realize that life is seldom ideal. When he makes this statement, he has already
spent nearly ten years away from his own hearth, and even after a twenty-year
absence Odysseus is more than willing to spend another year away in the hopes
of gaining greater wealth.54 Furthermore, when Odysseus tells his tales to Eu-
maeus, he says he is from Crete and that after the war, even though he was pros-
pering, he still felt a need to go to sea again. A Homeric view of the perfect life
may be one spent working the fields, hunting in the forests, and competing in
games, but the necessities of life require sea trade and, as such, a mastery of
ships and seafaring. Finally, as a nobleman, Odysseus represents only a small
percentage of the population. Therefore, those who actually spent most of their
lives at sea would be from the lower classes and were for the most part invisible
in the epics.
Homeric heroes also appear to be comfortable fighting at sea. As pointed out

Seafaring on the Wine Dark Sea 145

earlier, the suitors are apparently willing to attack Telemachus at any hour with-
out reservation. Homer writes at length of both war and ships in the epics, but
he does not describe any naval engagements. He gives a few hints that suggest
that fighting at sea may have been relatively common. When Telemachus sails to
Pylos, he is accompanied by twenty of the best men from Ithaca, all of whom
appear to be well armed.55 After hearing of Telemachus’s departure, Penelope’s
suitors, led by Antinous, plot to kill him on his return voyage. Antinous then sails
with twenty men to the straits between Ithaca and Samos to set an ambush.56 We
now have all of the elements for a battle at sea. Athena, however, spoils every-
thing by helping Telemachus avoid the trap.57 Through it all, the suitors appear
comfortable with the idea of fighting Telemachus and his well-armed compan-
ions at sea, even at night if necessary.
In addition, Homer describes a long pike (makroi'si xustoi'si) used for fight-
ing at sea (nauvmaca).58 The head of a pike is made of bronze, and the handle con-
sists of several closely joined pieces (kollhventa) secured with bands or rings
(blhvtroisi).59 This weapon is much longer than a conventional spear, which is
11 cubits (eJndekavphcu"), or about 5 meters long, as opposed to the 22 cubits
(duwkaieikosivphcu") for a naval pike.60 Lionel Casson does not believe 10 me-
ters is the standard length for a naval pike because Homer mentions its length
only when it is wielded by Aias, and Aias is noted for his great strength.61 Cas-
son’s conclusion is undoubtedly correct, but his reasoning is flawed; after all,
lesser characters such as Diomedes and Aeneas are also known for their great
strength.62 Furthermore, Homer best illustrates Aias’s strength not only by the
length of his pike but also by his ability to jump from deck to deck of several ships
while brandishing such a weapon.63 On the other hand, Homer is characterizing
warriors from a heroic age; they are men who can perform feats beyond the abil-
ities of normal humans. When heroes like Hector and Aias fight with weapons
that are 5 and 10 meters long, Homer is using a literary device to enhance their
prowess, as Casson suggests. Similar literary devices include the previously
mentioned lifting of heavy stones by a number of Homeric heroes and Odys-
seus’s construction of a seagoing vessel in only four days.64 However, with regard
to large weapons, Homer’s naval pike is without parallel. This is readily appar-
ent, as figure 60 illustrates.
According to Casson, paintings of Geometric ships (figures 53 and 54) por-
tray naval pikes. This iconographic evidence indicates that some type of spear is
stored at the bow or stern, but it is possible that more than one type of weapon
was used during a naval engagement. Naval pikes, because they were longer,
were only for hand-to-hand combat as used by Aias, while shorter spears may
have been used for either hand-to-hand combat or for throwing to clear the decks

146 chapter 7
Figure 60. Comparison of Homeric pike and spear to warriors

before boarding.65 In addition, naval pikes were probably too long to be stored
upright in the manner portrayed. The length of these weapons, even if they were
only half the length Homer describes, may have forced crew members to lay
them at deck level across the crossbeams, and Homer gives no indication that
pikes are stored at the bow or stern decks.66 In contrast, the storage of spears ap-
pears to be associated with the stern deck in two passages and possibly once with
the bow deck.67
Seymour argues that naval pikes were not intended for engagements between
ships; instead, warriors used them to fight their way ashore when they were met
by opposing forces. He supports his argument by pointing out that Protesilaus,
the first Achaean to die at Troy, was killed as he jumped from his ship.68 Yet,
Homer does not mention a naval pike’s being used in this engagement. If these
weapons were similar to more modern pikes with cutting heads instead of being
just long spears, and they were used as Homer describes, they may have been
used when landing, but probably not by the disembarking warriors. Instead,
while the first troops were fighting their way onshore with standard weapons,
the remaining men on board may have defended the ships with long pikes until
a beachhead had been established, as Aias defended the Achaean ships against
the Trojans. However, the adjective nauvmaca also seems to imply that naval pikes
were made for fighting at sea.69 A more likely possibility is that a nauvmaca was
used in both situations. The design and usage of such a specialized weapon
therefore suggests considerable experience in naval warfare.
The embarkation scenes in both epics also illustrate the seafaring nature of
Homeric Greeks. The success of a voyage can be predicted by whether proper
prayers and sacrifices to the gods are made before a voyage. Every triumphant

Seafaring on the Wine Dark Sea 147

journey is preceded by a proper performance of libations. In contrast, unsuc-
cessful expeditions lack this element. Successful sacrificial elements include
barley meal, wine, and the sacrifice of an animal or animals, usually a ram, ox, or
cow. The importance of such items is illustrated by the libations that Odysseus’s
crew perform on the island of Helios. They o¬er sacred cattle, oak leaves instead
of barley meal, and water instead of wine, which the gods reject.70 The perfor-
mance of these rituals before a voyage was such a common aspect of Homeric
society that any omissions or variations would automatically conjure up an asso-
ciation with disaster and failure in the minds of an audience.71
A similar warning of impending doom was the death of a helmsman. The per-
son at the helm, or kubernhvth", was second in importance to the captain.72 This
crew member operated the quarter rudders and controlled the sail by lengthen-
ing and shortening the sheet and brail lines. These skills were probably based
more on this sailor’s experience and knowledge than on physical skills. Homer
points out that it is by cunning that a helmsman safely guides the ship in adverse
conditions.73 A good helmsman was the repository of knowledge on winds,
currents, and important landmarks. His death during a voyage could signal the
doom of a ship, and audiences would be well aware of this. On the return voyage
from Troy, Phoebus Apollo kills Phrontis, the helmsman of Menelaus. Mene-
laus buries him and performs the necessary funeral rites before sailing on. Upon
reaching Malea, half his ships are blown to Crete and destroyed on the rocks,
while the other half are blown to Egypt,74 which results in years of wandering
before Menelaus can return home.
The only other time this vital crew member dies during a voyage occurs on
board Odysseus’s last surviving ship. After he and his crew sail away from Helios,
Zeus creates a violent storm that causes the mast to fall and strike the helmsman
on the head, killing him instantly. Shortly thereafter, the remaining crew drowns,
the ship is lost, and only Odysseus survives by clinging to wreckage.75 The impor-
tance of a steersman is also suggested in a passage from the Iliad. When Achilles
receives his new armor from his mother, he goes along the beach yelling so loudly
that everyone comes to the assembly, “even those who had previously stayed be-
hind where the ships were beached. They were the helmsmen, both handlers of
ships’ quarter rudders and stewards on the ships, dispensers of food.”76
Furthermore, there is no mention in the Iliad of any helmsman participating
in combat. Considering how long it would take a steersman to learn to navigate
by the stars, recognize important landmarks, and understand the patterns of
winds and waves, they may not have participated in battle because their loss
could have incapacitated a fleet. Furthermore, they would need to remain around
the vessels in case the army was routed and had to flee in their ships without

148 chapter 7
warning. Any fifty rowers could launch and sail a ship, but a craft would not travel
very far without a qualified helmsman to guide it. The value of this indispensable
crew member is illustrated by Odysseus’s reaction when Circe tells him he must
travel to Hades. He is horrified by the thought of sailing there because he has no
one to guide him, but his fears are allayed when Circe describes the wind neces-
sary to take him.77 The significance of both sailing rituals and helmsmen in the
epics is therefore evidence of the Greeks’ seafaring nature during Homer’s time.
The importance of seafaring is also reflected in early Greek art and literature.
Scenes of warships and combat are common motifs portrayed on Geometric pot-
tery, and both are cornerstones of the Iliad. Even painted scenes of shipwrecks
appear popular to the ancient Greeks (figure 61), a concept we would find lack-
ing in a society whose culture centers around the land. In addition, many of these
events were painted on funeral urns that may have marked the graves of seafar-
ers. When Elpenor asks that his oar be planted as a monument on his grave, he
may be making the request not because of any special significance of the oar it-
self; rather, it is all he has to mark his grave as belonging to a seafarer. If he were
home, he would probably have preferred one of these painted urns, but all he had
at the time of his death was an oar.
The Odyssey, one of the great literary works, is a seafaring story, and these are
usually a product of people who have considerable experience with the sea. Fur-
thermore, both the Iliad and the Odyssey contain a well-developed pantheon of
gods who are devoted to the sea. Poseidon won the gray sea as his domain when
lots were drawn with his brothers, Zeus and Hades.78 His golden palace is at
Aegae, in the depths of the sea, and when he leaves his palace all of the sea
creatures come out of the deep and dance around him because they recognize
their master. Poseidon is one of the Achaeans’ staunchest supporters among
the gods at Troy, and the constant connection between the Achaeans and their
ships (in the Iliad) versus the Trojans, who are typically associated with the rais-
ing of horses, emphasizes this connection among Poseidon, the sea, and the
Achaeans.79
Other sea gods include Proteus of Egypt, who is referred to as the Old Man
of the Sea, suggesting he is the eldest of the sea gods. Even so, he is a servant
of Poseidon.80 Another ancient sea god is Nereus, of whom Homer tells us little.
He is, however, the father of Thetis, who becomes the mother of Achilles,81 the
greatest of the Achaean warriors. Therefore, the supreme Achaean soldier is also
intimately associated with the sea. One of the ironies of the Odyssey is that Odys-
seus’s nemesis is Poseidon, who wants revenge for the blinding of his son
Polyphemus. However, the cause of this animosity is not the actual blinding of
Polyphemus, but the hubris that Odysseus displays when he tauntingly reveals

Seafaring on the Wine Dark Sea 149

 Figure 61. Geometric shipwreck (after
Morrison and Williams, 1968, pl. 7a)

himself to the blind Polyphemus, who then begs his father for retribution. Fur-
thermore, Odysseus compounds the o¬ense by failing to give proper o¬erings to
Poseidon for his transgression. Poseidon’s epithet, “Earth Shaker,” emphasizes
the importance of the sea, which may suggest that it had predominance over the
land in the minds of the Homeric Greeks.
A number of sea legends that appear in the Odyssey also emphasize the sea’s
significance to the Achaeans. Seafarers have to contend not only with moving
rocks that can crush ships but also with the Sirens, who are immortal beings,
each of whom has the head of a woman and the body of a bird.82 Their melodious
songs draw sailors to their deaths on rocky shores.83 Furthermore, the mariners
also have to cope with Charybdis and Scylla, who live on opposite sides of a nar-
row strait, forcing ships to sail close to one or the other. Scylla is an evil monster
that even the gods avoid. She has six long necks, each with a hideous head, and
each head has a mouth with three rows of sharp teeth. If a ship sails too close to
her cavern, she grabs one man in each of her six mouths. The alternative is even
worse.
Ships that try to avoid Scylla have to sail near to Charybdis, who has no real
form and gives no warning. Three times a day she sucks down everything around
her and then belches the wreckage back. No ship or person can survive Charyb-
dis, and once caught in her grasp, not even Poseidon can save them. Accordingly,
it is better to sacrifice six crew members than to lose a ship and everyone on it.84
150 chapter 7
Even if seafarers reach an island in unknown waters, they are seldom safe. In-
stead, they will most likely be eaten by giants or Cyclopes, or they will be turned
into pigs and eaten by a sorceress. If they are lucky, they will find their way to the
land of the Lotus Eaters and lose themselves in the narcotic fare that the natives
o¬er.85
Another legend of a di¬erent type centers around the Phaeacians. In the con-
text of the epics, this seems to be Homer’s version of a utopia. Their harbor, city,
and rulers appear to be nearly flawless in his eyes. The palace of Alcinous is fash-
ioned in gold, silver, and bronze and is guarded by immortal, gold and silver
dogs created by the god Hephaestus.86 No other human group that Homer de-
scribes can compare; even the gods seem to have more faults. Furthermore, the
Phaeacians excel at seafaring. Their ships are as fast as a thought, and helmsmen
do not need quarter rudders because the ships know their intentions.87 Homer
emphasizes this aspect of their society with the inclusion of a catalogue of
Phaeacian nobles, all of whom are associated with the sea, seamanship, or ships,
and all of them appear to be invented just for this catalogue, which lacks a paral-
lel in traditional epic poetry. These Phaeacian names are Topship [∆Akrovnewv"],
Swiftship [∆Wkuvalo"], Rower [∆Elatreu;" ], Seaman [Nauteuv" ], Sternman
[Prumneuv" ], Bythesea [∆Agcivalo"], Oarman [∆Eretmeu;" ], Opensea [Ponteuv" ],
Prowman [Prw/reuv" ], Cutwater [Qovwn], Embarker [∆Anabhsivnewv" ], Seagirt
[∆Amfivalov" ], Manyships [Polunhvou], Son of Shipbuilder [Tektonivdao], Broad-
sea [Eujruvalo"], and Son of Shiplauncher [Naubolivdh"].88 Therefore, the clos-
est Homer comes to a utopian society is a seafaring one.
Sadly, Homer tells us little about superstitions. He mentions only that a fall-
ing star is considered some type of omen, but, from the passage, we cannot dis-
cern whether it is good or evil.89
In both epics, even when the story centers on activities that take place on land,
there are continual references to the sea. In the Iliad, when Asius is struck down
by a spear, he falls “like an oak (dru'"), white poplar (ajcerwi?" ),90 or stately pine
(pivtu") that carpenters fell in the mountains with sharpened axes for a ship’s
timber.”91 In addition, Hector’s unyielding heart is compared to an axe blade that
shapes a ship’s timber, and attacking Trojans are compared to “great waves that
break over the sides of a ship.”92 When the Achaeans withstand a Trojan attack,
they are compared to a “sheer and towering sea cli¬ next to the grey sea that en-
dures the screaming, furious winds and the swollen waves breaking against it.”93
One of the most memorable land battles is set around the Achaean ships. Fur-
thermore, the ability to marshal and transport a large force by sea is a concept
that a seafaring culture best understands and accepts.
However, we should exercise caution when citing as historical fact the size of

Seafaring on the Wine Dark Sea 151

the Achaean fleet that sailed to Troy. As chapter 2 mentions, no evidence exists to
suggest such catalogues are historically accurate.94 In addition, traditional cata-
logues of large numbers of troops, guests, or ships are standard devices used to
impress on an audience the greatness of a conflict or of a social event, raising the
status of the characters involved.95 The Catalogue of Ships and the Trojan Cata-
logue in the Iliad fulfill this function as does the catalogue describing a gathering
army in the Meho epic.96 Such lists typically contain characters that are irrelevant
to a song because traditional singers usually compose one long catalogue for
these situations and insert it into any song that needs such an inventory.97 The
Catalogue of Ships appears to be unique when compared to other traditional
catalogues in that it provides the audience with a short history of the Trojan war
and gives a context for the few days the Iliad describes.98
Other hints of seafaring that pervade the Odyssey include the axes for the
archery contest, which are set up like “druovcou"” and appear to be the props that
support a keel or a ship under construction.99 As the battle with the suitors com-
mences, Philoetius sneaks outside and secures the doors with a ship’s cable
made of papyrus.100 Afterward, Odysseus hangs his unfaithful servant girls with
a ship’s cable. Therefore, the very nature of the Odyssey and the nautical passages
in both epics all reflect a seafaring people who felt comfortable sailing long
distances during both day and night. Moreover, as mentioned previously, the
Homeric economic system appears to depend on long voyages to supply critical
imports and to allow nobles to form alliances through gift exchanges.101 To re-
ceive such gifts and to recover the value of presents already given, nobles had to
make long voyages; consequently, the more sea journeys they made, the more
gifts they accumulated and alliances they formed.
Finally, it is true we lack evidence for Homeric Greeks’ naming their ships, but
this does not necessarily mean they lack feelings for them and see them only as
inanimate objects. As previously mentioned, the oculi, or eyes, on ships may
have been attached to them to allow the vessels to “see” their way safely across
the sea.102 Furthermore, on occasion, Homer does personify ships with human
emotions. It is not just rowers but also Homeric ships that delight in a good wind
from the gods.103 Therefore, it is safe for us to assume that seafaring was an inte-
gral aspect of Homeric Greece, one that was woven deeply in the fabric of their
society, and their knowledge and mastery of seafaring rivaled those of the
Phoenicians and all other mariners of the period. The importance of the sea is
also evident in descriptions of mundane features such as harbors.

152 chapter 7
 8
ånchoring
ånd
ånchoråges

Homeric harbors are always natural features. The best ones are those
surrounded by high cli¬s with two jutting promontories running toward a nar-
row mouth; such a configuration protects ships from waves and winds.1 Achaean
sailors look for harbors with suitable eu[ormo", which refers to good holding
ground, moorings, or shelter.2 An island near the cave that Polyphemus inhabits
has such an anchorage. Neither anchors nor stern cables are required to moor
here. A ship is run ashore, and sailors can wait for the right winds to blow before
continuing their voyage.3 The harbor of Phorcys at Ithaca is similar in that it has
two projecting headlands that form its mouth; it shields ships from large waves
and heavy winds so well that moorings are unnecessary.4
When entering a less protected port, sailors take down, gather, and stow the
sails; they then lower the mast and place it in a crutch, then row to a mooring,
throw out the bow anchors, and make fast the stern cables to the shore. They fol-
low this sequence for even the shortest stays.5 Of course, exceptions always ex-
ist. When ships enter a harbor at night, the mast and sails are taken down after
beaching.6
When preparing to leave a port, the crew members load the running gear,
stow provisions and other possessions or booty (such as women, wine, or
sheep), set the mast and sail, put the oars in place, cast o¬ the stern cables, go
back on board, and then row the ship out. Homeric ships also carry a long pole
(kontov") to aid in pushing away from shore or for maneuvering in shallow wa-
ters.7 The mast and sail can be raised either before boarding or after rowing out.
The sail is unfurled after leaving the harbor, and, once it fills with wind, the lines
are made fast.8
Homer describes more than one way to moor a vessel. The fastest way is to
row a ship, bow first, directly onto a beach. When the Phaeacians return Odys-
seus to Ithaca, their vessel is moving so fast that it is halfway out of the water
when it stops.9 Although the speed and extent of the beaching in this passage
is hyperbole, this rapid type of landing may have been adopted for raiding. Land-
ing bow first allows raiders to disembark and attack as quickly as possible. Of
course, at this time raiders and their ships would also be quite vulnerable to a
possible counterattack by local inhabitants.
Homeric ships, however, are most commonly moored stern first. According
to Thomas Seymour, the habit of mooring stern first was a natural precaution of
early ages because it allowed crew members to make ready for a speedy departure
if necessary.10 This practice is mentioned as late as the thirteenth century a.d.
Francesco da Barberino (a.d. 1264–1348) wrote in his Documenti d’amore that a
galley should enter a harbor stern first so it could flee quickly if attacked.11 In ex-
treme situations, sailors may also take further precautions. When Odysseus and
his ships arrive at the island of the Laestrygonians, all of the ships except Odys-
seus’s tie up close together inside the harbor. In contrast, Odysseus stays outside
the harbor and makes fast his ship to a cli¬ with a cable. He has apparently grown
more cautious after his encounter with Polyphemus. When the Laestrygonians
attack, all of the ships inside the harbor are lost, but Odysseus cuts his cable and
escapes.12 On the other hand, we must be careful not to overstate the importance
of mooring stern first as only a precaution from attack. This appears to be the
most common way to moor regardless of the situation. Another factor that may
have influenced mooring stern first is the shape of the hull. The high-curving
sterns on these ships may have made it easier on the crew to moor stern first
closer to shore than mooring by the bow.
If a stay was to be brief, sailors moored their ship with stern ropes (pru-
mnhvsia, pei'sma, desmov") tied to trees or rocks on shore. The Egyptians at Punt
also tied their mooring cables to trees, but they moored from the bow, possibly
suggesting that there was either no danger from the inhabitants of Punt or that
the raised bows made mooring in shallow waters easier than with Greek ships.
Furthermore, the bows of Egyptian ships were probably grounded since there is
no evidence that anchors were used at Punt (figure 62).
Seymour infers the length of a mooring cable in a rather macabre fashion.
Odysseus hangs twelve unfaithful maids with such a cable. One end is tied either
to a gateway or a column of the palace and the other end to a building in the court-
yard.13 Odysseus then fashions nooses for each woman’s head. Seymour calcu-
lates that a rope 60 feet long would have su~ced and would also have been
suitable for a stern cable.14 Unfortunately, he fails to elaborate on how he tested
his hypothesis and arrived at an accurate length.
When a ship is moored by the stern cables at least two men are nearby.15 More-
over, although a guest may sleep on board, crew members sleep beside the stern

154 chapter 8
Figure 62. Mooring cable for one of Queen Hatshepsut’s ships (after Naville, 1898, pl. 72)

cables.16 These precautions were probably because it provided a convenient way

to guard a ship and because the crew may have been more comfortable sleeping
ashore. Furthermore, such sleeping arrangements would allow the crew to react
more quickly to emergencies, such as when a strong wind suddenly blows, re-
quiring the repositioning or adding of cables. For example, when the weather
turns bad during the third watch on the island of Helios, the crew is able to drag
the ship to safety by stowing it in a sea cave.17 However, the fact that Odysseus’s
crew was able to drag their ship into a sea cave is not evidence that the ship was
small and light. Alan Villiers describes how the crew of the Triumph of Righteous-
ness, which was a seagoing merchant ship more than 100 feet long at deck level,
kedged their way several miles at high tide in order to beach their ship for repairs.
Kedging is a simple but laborious technique in which the anchors are carried for-
ward of a vessel in a ship’s boat and dropped. Once the anchors are in place, the
crew returns to the ship and brings in the cables, pulling the ship forward. When
the water becomes too shallow to use a ship’s boat, the crew must carry the an-
chors to the necessary locations. Finally, once the vessel is close to the beach and
trees or rocks are available, cables are attached to these, and the ship is pulled
into shore in the same manner.18
If wind was blowing in from the sea, then the anchors (eujnaiv) were cast from
the bow.19 Scholars consistently translate eujnaiv as “anchor stones.” They believe
they were little more than stones pierced with a hole for a cable (figure 63).20 Yet,

Anchoring and Anchorages 155

 Figure 63. Sketch of stone anchor
KW 1040 from the Uluburun
shipwreck (based on a photograph,
courtesy of Cemal Pulak)

Homer never says that anchors are made of stone. In contrast, he describes the
Phaeacians mooring their ships to a trhtov" livqo", which is a “pierced stone”
that is permanently fixed in the harbor.21 Seymour proposes that Homeric
Greeks must have been using simple stone anchors only because we lack evi-
dence that anchors with flukes had been invented.22
In support of this argument, Lionel Casson points out that eujnaiv can mean
“beds.” He claims that flat stones used for anchors look like beds on the sea
floor.23 Nevertheless, a translation of “beds” for eujnaiv is only one possible ren-
dering. Homer also uses eujnhv to denote sexual intercourse, a place of ambush, a
place to keep swine, and a place for rest or sleep in general, such as a lair.24 Eujnhv
is commonly associated with the act of lying down. We cannot therefore safely
assume that eujnhv denotes a flat stone anchor because even an anchor with a
stock, shank, and arm lies down when the tooth of the arm digs into the seabed.
Some Aegean sailors used stone anchors during the Bronze Age, but such de-
vices are rare compared to the number of similar anchors found in the Levant.25
In contrast, stone anchor stocks were recovered from the sixth-century b.c.
Giglio wreck, and a wooden anchor was recovered from the Ma’agan Michael
wreck, which dates to about 400 b.c.26 The head, shank, crown, and arm were
carved from a single piece of naturally curving timber, and the fluke was
sheathed in copper. The stock was also of wood but was filled with lead and was
attached to the shank with a wooden cotter pin (figure 64).27 Evidence for simi-
lar anchors has been discovered in France, Sicily, and Italy.28 Wooden anchors

156 chapter 8
 Figure 64. Ma’agan Michael anchor
(after Roslo¬, 1991, figure 2)

with stone stocks were developed by the seventh or sixth centuries b.c. at the lat-
est.29 The Bon Porté vessel may also have carried anchors with lead-filled stocks.
If not, little doubt exists that such devices were used by the end of the fifth cen-
tury b.c.30 Therefore, evidence exists for a well-developed composite anchor be-
tween 100 and 300 years after Homer’s time, suggesting that such anchors had
been common for a long period.
It is also possible Homeric sailors were using killicks, which developed into
composite anchors. A killick consists of naturally curving pieces of wood with a
stone tied to it (figure 65), which results in a simple yet e¬ective anchor.31 When
we consider the rarity of stone anchors in this region, it is possible that Homeric
Greeks were using anchors like the one from the Ma’agan Michael wreck or kil-
licks instead of flat anchor stones. The use of such anchors, which leave little
evidence of their existence, would explain why so few anchors dating to before
the Classical period are found in Greek waters and would be a more likely fore-
runner of the composite anchor instead of the flat stone device.
Homer also uses the plural form of eujnhv, raising the possibility that Homeric
sailors are dropping one anchor from both the port and the starboard side of the
bow. The crew picks a location for the first anchor while the ship stands against
the current or wind; this is the riding anchor. Once they drop the anchor, crew
members let out cable as the wind or current carries the ship until it is at the ap-
propriate location for them to lower the second, or lee, anchor. After dropping

Anchoring and Anchorages 157

Figure 65. Killick (after Gay, 1997, figure 30)

this additional anchor, crew members lay cable for it and pull in on the riding
cable until the vessel is midway between them.32 Rowers may also have helped to
position the ship, thus facilitating this process.
It is also possible that Homer is describing only one cable with a large anchor
at the end and a number of small anchor stones spaced at intervals along an aux-
iliary line attached to the main cable. Small, evenly spaced anchor stones, called
catenary stones or weights, are attached to a cable and act as links in a chain, ab-
sorbing the shocks of waves and reducing the possibility that an anchor will drag
in high seas (figure 66).33 Under some circumstances, it is possible that Homeric
sailors tied catenary anchors to all of their anchor cables and, depending on the
severity of the conditions, used either one or two anchors from the bow. Another
possibility is that, if a ship carried a boat, crew members could have positioned
the anchors by placing them in the boat or tying them so they hung below the
boat and then rowing to the necessary locations and dropping them. Finally,
since Homer tends to use the plural form of a word to denote a single structure
or object that is made from a number of elements, such as bow or stern decks and
sails, he may be using eujnhv to mean a single anchor made of a number of pieces,
like a composite anchor or killick. Unfortunately, this is all speculation. Future
discoveries hopefully will clarify this arrangement.
Seymour distinguishes between a brief stay and stays of only a night or two.
Stays of a night or two are longer and require that the crew pull the stern ashore.34
According to Seymour, this is because Homeric ships were not watertight and
therefore had to be removed from the sea.35 This explanation seems unlikely
since it would leave a ship with a waterlogged bow and a dry stern. Homer gives
no indication of how much of the stern is usually pulled on shore, if any. It is pos-
sible that if winds are mild when mooring or if a harbor o¬ers enough protection
from winds and sea, then lightly grounding the stern and running stern cables

158 chapter 8
Figure 66. Catenary anchors attached to an anchor cable (after Wachsmann, 1998, figure 12.50)

ashore are enough to secure a craft. For short stays, it may therefore be weather
conditions and the protection of anchorages more than the length of a stay that
dictate the manner in which a vessel is moored. Mooring in this fashion may also
have allowed easier unloading and loading of cargo.
For long stays, crew members drag a ship completely out of the water. Mene-
laus was forced to stay on Pharos Island for twenty days. Although Pharos has a
good anchorage, Menelaus pulls his ship from the water.36 When Odysseus de-
cides to spend an extended time on Circe’s island, his ship is dragged ashore and
all of the gear is stored in caves.37 At Troy, when a stay of several years is contem-
plated, special arrangements are taken. First a channel (oujrov") is dug or cut from
the shore to a storage area.38 This channel probably facilitates dragging a ship up
the beach. Some Achaean vessels were probably a considerable distance from the
sea because the large number of ships necessitated arranging them in two rows.
When Agamemnon gives the order to abandon Troy, he tells his commanders to
pull the first row of ships and moor them in deep water so the remainder of the
ships can be pulled down during the night.39
Once a ship is pulled into place on land, long props are placed against the
side of a ship to keep it upright. These poles (e{rmata) are not mentioned after
Homer’s time.40 A possible parallel, however, is seen with the beaching of a
mtepe. When a mtepe was brought ashore, long poles were placed underneath
each through-beam. This is necessary because if a laced ship is allowed to heel
over on its side, the lacings can be strained.41 This is not to say that such props

Anchoring and Anchorages 159

were not used during classical times, merely that a pegged mortise-and-tenoned
hull would not su¬er any damage if it heeled over and did not require props when
beached.
After the props are in place, crew members pack stones underneath and
around the sides of a ship, probably to further stabilize a vessel and to keep the
planking from resting and rotting on the ground.42 Hesiod mentions a similar
practice for his smaller vessel.43 He also recommends that when a vessel has been
pulled out of the water for the winter, the drain plug should be removed so that
water will not gather in the bottom; Homer, however, does not mention this.44
The earliest recorded reference to drain plugs dates back to Babylonian times,
when Utnapishtim builds an ark.45
When the Achaeans needed to use a ship at Troy, they first had to clear out
the trench in which the ship was dragged.46 Homer does not mention rollers to
help move ships, but Apollonius of Rhodes does (favlagge").47 When Odysseus
launches his improvised vessel by himself, however, he uses a lever (moclov").48
The Phaeacian harbor has some similarities to other Homeric harbors. It is a
natural port that is well protected with a small opening, and it borders a city on
two sides. It is di¬erent from all other landing places described in both epics be-
cause, instead of just mooring ships on the beach, each ship has a slip and is
moored to a pierced stone. When a ship is ready to leave the harbor, the crew
merely has to let go of the mooring cable from this stone. Also nearby is the
ajgorhv, or general assembly area, which was made of stone, in which the sailors
repaired their gear and sharpened their oar blades.49
Although a good harbor is considered a safe haven for seafarers, it may also
be an excellent location for an ambush. The suitors set a trap by anchoring in a
narrow strait between Ithaca and Samos Islands. After dinner, they go on board
and sail to the island of Asteris, an island with a double anchorage where ships
can be hidden while waiting for victims.50
Finally, Seymour points out that there is no evidence of lighthouses or fires
around harbors to guide seafarers. Any Homeric passages that suggest the use of
beacons to warn sailors of dangerous coasts in fact describe only the campfires
of shepherds on the mountains.51 Jamie Morton concurs and points out that
“there is no specific mention of harbour lights at all before or during the fifth
century b.c.”52 Homeric ships were therefore at the mercy of the sea at night,
in fog, or during bad weather, which emphasizes the deep relationship Homeric
mariners had with the sea and all of the gods that they believed, for good or evil,
lived in the depths.

160 chapter 8
 9
Geogråphy

As chapter 1 mentions, Homeric scholars have written hundreds of

books and articles on various aspects of the Iliad and the Odyssey, giving an im-
pression that both epics have been exhaustively studied. Homeric geography has
drawn much of this attention. We can best understand the di¬erent interpreta-
tions by dividing the subject into three di¬erent sections: Odysseus’s adventures
from Troy to Ithaca, travels of Homeric characters in the eastern Mediterranean,
and Aegean geography.
Most studies of Homeric geography concentrate on Odysseus’s return voyage
from Troy to Ithaca, which usually begins once Odysseus is blown o¬ course
near Cape Malea. We can divide these works into two roughly opposing views.
The first is that Homer was ignorant of the lands west of Ithaca. Consequently,
the peoples and places he describes are sheer fantasy. The second is that Homer
was knowledgeable of this region from either his own personal experience, ac-
counts from seafarers, or a combination of both, and all locales he describes can
therefore be equated with specific places. Those who hold this second view be-
lieve it is possible to recreate Odysseus’s voyage by using sailing distances and
descriptions of landscapes that both epics provide. Of course, a number of theo-
ries fall between these two extremes.
The most detailed study of Odysseus’s voyage is probably that by Victor
Bérard, who proposes that the Odyssey contains accurate geographic descrip-
tions and sailing instructions that Homer acquired from Phoenician seafarers.
Yet, he also believes that some of the distances are conventions.1 Bérard identi-
fies the island of Djerba in Tunisia with the land of the Lotus eaters; Polyphemus
lives on Cumae, and Aeolus resides on Stromboli, which is the easternmost of
the Lipari islands. The Laestrygonians reside on Sardinia at Porto Pozzo; Circe
lives on Mount Circeo on the west coast of Italy; and Hades is located in Lake
Avernus, only a few kilometers from Cumae, near the Bay of Naples. After leav-
Figure 67. Sketch of three proposed routes of Odysseus’s wanderings

ing Circe’s island a second time, Odysseus encounters Scylla and Charybdis at
the Straits of Messina and meets Calypso on the island of Perejil, which is on the
African side of the Straits of Gibraltar. Finally, Corfu is the home of the Phaea-
cians (figure 67, route A).2
Louis Moulinier supports Bérard’s interpretations with a few exceptions.
Aeolus is moved from Stromboli to Alicudi, which is the westernmost of the Li-
pari Islands.3 Moulinier also moves the Phaeacians to Cyrene.4 Finally, Hades is
placed in a mythological land to the far west (figure 67, route B).5 In contrast,
Ernle Bradford moves the Cyclopes to Trapani on Sicily, Aeolus to Ustica, the
Laestrygonians to Corsica, Calypso to Malta, and Hades to the Straits of Gibral-
tar (figure 67, route C).6
A few dissenting scholars believe Homer bases Odysseus’s adventures on lo-
cations taken from a more limited geographic area. Samuel Butler proposes that
Trapani, on the northwest coast of Sicily, is the background for both Scheria and
Ithaca. He believes that Homer sets Odysseus’s adventures almost exclusively on
the island of Sicily because Nausicaä, the Phaeacian princess, wrote the Odyssey,
and Sicily is the only place she knew.7
In contrast, A. Rousseau-Liessens proposes that Odysseus’s wanderings are
confined to the Adriatic Sea along the coasts of Albania and Yugoslavia.8 One no-
table exception is his visit to the Lotus Eaters, who reside somewhere on the Gulf
of Taranto (figure 67).9
Lewis Pocock agrees with Butler that Homer was an inhabitant of Trapani,
and Trapani is the setting for both Scheria and Ithaca. Furthermore, Odysseus’s
other adventures take place on islands around Sicily and Gibraltar. Pocock, like

162 chapter 9
Butler, believes that the stories that make up the Odyssey are suggested by real
places, but he di¬ers from most in that he believes one location can be the back-
ground for more than one adventure. Homer is able to do this by emphasizing
di¬erent aspects of a place in each story.10 In addition, Pocock believes the
Odyssey is an allegory that describes real places and events.
In Pocock’s opinion, Odysseus represents a Greek hero living in Phoenician-
controlled territory. He feuds with his neighbors, Polyphemus and the Laestry-
gonians and then later with the Phoenicians, who represent Poseidon. The
Phoenicians exile him to Ustica, where he enters the Phoenician navy, and this is
his year with Circe. Odysseus is then sent on a mission to Gibraltar, which is
Hades, and then to the east, where he again gets into trouble, this time at Thri-
nacia. He is exiled for seven years to Perejil at Gibraltar, which represents his stay
with Calypso. After returning home, he feuds again, symbolizing his encounter
with the suitors, resulting in his being forced to live out his days with the Phoeni-
cian rulers.11
In contrast to those who favor a limited geographic range, others believe
Odysseus sails out into the Atlantic. Gilbert Pillot proposes that Odysseus sails
from Troy to Madeira and then to Iceland and returns via Ireland and Scotland.12
Henriette Mertz has Odysseus sailing farther west. He first visits the Lotus Eaters,
who are in northern Africa, but Circe lives on the island of Madeira, in the At-
lantic. The Sirens live on Hispaniola and Cuba; the Clashing Rocks are on the
Windward Passage between Cuba and Haiti; Charybdis and Scylla are in Nova
Scotia; Calypso’s island, Ogygia, is the island of Santa Maria, which is one of the
Azores; and Scheria, the home of the Phaeacians, is North America.13
An interesting aspect of most of these studies is that few are truly original.
Reconstructing Odysseus’s return voyage seems to have fascinated scholars as
much in ancient times as it does today and appears to have produced similar the-
ories. Unfortunately, little of these original works survives, and most of what we
know of them comes from Strabo’s Geography. Strabo (64 or 63 B.C. to A.D. 21)
never published a complete interpretation of Odysseus’s voyage because his
main interest was proving that Homer was a man of great learning and was the
founder of the science of geography.14 As a result, he cites primarily the material
necessary to support his argument or to attack an opposing one. Furthermore,
the tone of the text suggests that Strabo was writing for an audience well versed
in an ongoing scholarly debate on the travels of Odysseus; as a result, it appears
that he omitted some of the arguments and interpretations that readers were ac-
quainted with.
From what Strabo tells us, his interpretation was probably a forerunner of
those that Bérard and Moulinier propose. He believes that the island of Djerba,

Geography 163
in Tunisia, was the land of the Lotus eaters; Aeolus was associated with the Lipari
islands; the home of the Cyclopes and Laestrygonians was based around the
Aetna and Leontini regions in eastern Sicily; and the haunts of Scylla and Charyb-
dis are located at the Straits of Messina.15 Although most of Odysseus’s travels
take place around Sicily and Italy, Strabo believes he travels as far west as the
Iberian peninsula.16
As opposed to Strabo, Polybius (who died in A.D. 47), like Butler, argues for
a more restricted area, with most of Odysseus’s travels taking placing around
Sicily and Italy.17 In contrast, it appears that others believe, like Pillot and Mertz,
that Homer was setting at least some mythical lands out in the Atlantic.18
Of those who believe Odysseus sails only in a mythological world, Eratos-
thenes of Cyrene (275–194 B.C.) appears to be the main proponent among an-
cient scholars. He is cited as saying “you will discover where Odysseus roamed
only when you find the cobbler who sewed together the bag of winds.”19 Al-
though Eratosthenes’ meaning is clear, Seymour clarifies and supports this
point of view. According to him, the Odyssey speaks for itself. On Odysseus’s re-
turn from Troy, he is blown o¬ course at Cape Malea, and his ships are driven for
nine days by Boreas to the land of the Lotus Eaters. Unfortunately, this land is not
otherwise identified, but it is thought to be in or near Africa.
Odysseus and his men then sail for an indefinite time in an unspecified direc-
tion until they reach the country of the Cyclopes. After leaving, they travel by
sea—again for an unstipulated time in an indefinite direction—to the floating
island of Aeolus. Aeolus, who is master of the winds, gives them a favorable west
air current to convey them to Ithaca, but they are driven back to the island
of Aeolus when Odysseus’s comrades open the bag containing other winds just
as they arrive o¬ the coast of Ithaca. From Aeolus’s island, Odysseus heads in
an unnamed direction for six days and on the seventh comes to the land of the
Laestrygonians. After losing all but one ship, Odysseus sails on for an indeter-
minate time in an unknown direction until he comes to the island of Circe. From
here he sails in one day, in an undeterminable direction, to the realm of Hades,
after which he returns to Circe’s island.
The next day Circe gives Odysseus a favorable breeze blowing in an unclear
direction that takes him by the island of the Sirens, between Scylla and Charyb-
dis, and to the island of Helios. After his comrades kill some of the sacred cattle
belonging to Helios, they themselves are killed, the ship is lost, and Odysseus,
floating on wreckage from his ship, is carried back to Charybdis by a south wind.
After surviving this ordeal, he is carried on the ship’s debris in an unnamed di-
rection for nine days and on the tenth night reaches Calypso’s island. On leaving
there Odysseus sails due east for eighteen days. He maintains this heading by

164 chapter 9
keeping the Great Bear on his left. He survives another wreck and floats on the
ship’s remains for two days and nights while a strong north wind blows. He then
swims ashore to Scheria. Upon leaving Scheria, he sails back to Ithaca in an
undeterminable direction, completing the voyage in a single night. However,
Phaeacian ships are known to be “swift as a thought” (wjkei'ai wJ" eij novhma).20
Nevertheless, Homer does not suggest that a Greek vessel can travel the same
distance in such a short time.21
Seymour cogently argues that this sketch of Odysseus’s movements clearly
shows that it is impossible to identify most of the sites he visits based on the sail-
ing directions Homer provides. In addition, the geographic epithets given to
these same places are not very specific. Homer does not assign a name to the land
of the Lotus Eaters. However, the island on which Odysseus beaches his ships
near the land of the Cyclopes is low and well wooded; it has good soil and a good
harbor; it has a spring; and it lies not very far from the mainland. The floating is-
land of Aeolus consists of a bronze wall and sheer rock. The island of the Laestry-
gonians has a harbor surrounded by steep rocks with a narrow entrance between
projecting headlands.22 These descriptions, like the sailing directions, are so
general, except for the bronze wall, that they can apply to many of the islands
and lands of the Mediterranean.
Pocock concedes that the times and directions of Odysseus’s travels are at best
indefinite, and in most stories neither is given. The time taken on a voyage can-
not therefore be a reliable guide to the distance.23 Nevertheless, Pocock main-
tains that the stories that make up the Odyssey are suggested by real places. He
believes the vividness of Homer’s descriptions are proof they are based on real-
ity and on Homer’s personal knowledge of them.24 What Pocock says may be
true, but if one location can be the background for more than one story and if
the topography and geology of many Mediterranean islands are similar, Homer
could have easily created most, if not all, of the locations he describes in Odys-
seus’s travels without leaving the Aegean.
Similar arguments were proposed in ancient times, and Strabo replies by
maintaining that there is adequate independent evidence to indicate that Odys-
seus’s travels were set around Sicily and far to the west. He points out that the
region around Sicily and Italy (unlike any other region in the Mediterranean)
contain many sites associated with Odysseus’s wanderings. For example, Aeolus
was a king of the Lipari islands and taught navigators how to steer through the
difficult currents in the regions of the Straits of Messina.25 The myth of the mon-
ster Scylla fishing from high rocks grew from the locals’ observing tuna being
eaten by both swordfish and dogfish after finding it difficult to swim against the
current from the Straits of Messina.26 The myth of Charybdis is based on the

Geography 165
ebbing and rising of the tidal waters in the Straits of Messina that made sailing
in the area dangerous.27
Other rationalizations are that pirates infested these same waters and the rock
of Scylla.28 Yet, the difficulty with these arguments is that a lack of written records
from Homer’s time makes it difficult to discern which came first. Was there a
mythical king named Aeolus that inspired Homer, or did the later Greek colonists
associate this mythical king with this region to conform to Homer’s works?
Even if we accept this aspect of his argument, there is no real evidence to sug-
gest that Odysseus traveled any farther west than Sicily. Strabo contends that
since Homer describes the people to the west as prosperous, they must be from
Iberia, which was an affluent western region in Strabo’s time.29 Also, the fact that
the westward Zephyrus wind will carry Menelaus’s soul to the Elysian fields indi-
cates that they must have been located in the far west, probably on the Canary
Islands.30 However, these locations lack the local mythology of Odysseus’s pres-
ence as is common around Sicily and southwestern Italy. These theories of voy-
ages to the far west seem to stem from a belief that since Homer was the greatest
scholar of his day and since seafarers were trading in these western lands during
his time, Homer must have had some knowledge of these regions and would
have woven it into his epics. The main weakness in this reasoning is a lack of ev-
idence for Greek traders this far west during Homer’s time. Therefore, even if
Homer was a great geographer and scholar, as Strabo believes, there is no evi-
dence to suggest he would have had access to information describing the lands
west of Sicily. In addition, there is no evidence to indicate that Phoenician traders
would give such valuable information to a possible Greek competitor. If a review
of all of the these theories reveals anything, it is probably the extensive influence
of Homer’s epics and the way that Odysseus’s wanderings seem to have ex-
panded along with an increasing understanding of the world during classical
times—and even long after.
Moreover, those who believe that Homer creates a purely mythical voyage
point out that scholars who believe Homer is describing specific sites in the
western Mediterranean undermine their own position because many of them
are able to argue, rather convincingly, for di¬erent locations for each landfall
Odysseus makes. Eratosthenes appears to have made this point first.31 Strabo
acknowledges these discrepancies. By his time scholars had placed the Sirens in
locations as far apart as Cape Faro on Sicily, the Bay of Naples, and the Gulf of
Salerno.32 Strabo sees no problem with these contradictions. Instead, he believes
that since all of these sites are in the same general region, they constitute further
support for the hypothesis that the region around Sicily and Italy is the location
of Odysseus’s travels.

166 chapter 9
 With regard to the epics alone, the only definite statements that we can make
about Odysseus’s homeward voyage are that the land of the Lotus Eaters is to the
south of Cape Malea and that other places that Homer describes might be almost
anywhere west of Ithaca.33 This suggests that Homer’s descriptions are too
vague to indicate an accurate knowledge of the Mediterranean west of Sicily.
Of course, if Homer’s descriptions are so vague, why is he so convincing?
Denys Page suggests it is his skill as a storyteller. He proposes that Homer begins
Odysseus’s travels not at the Cape of Malea, where he is blown o¬ course to the
Land of the Lotus Eaters, but in Thrace. Odysseus’s first adventure is his raid
against the Cicones. This attack creates an “illusion of reality” that sets the tone
for the following exploits. This illusion is strengthened by placing what the
Greeks thought were historical characters from the Iliad in a mythological set-
ting. Finally, Homer is careful to make his characters and events as lifelike as
possible. He suppresses or modifies the magical elements of his stories to pro-
duce a tale that seems almost credible to a reader or listener.34
One way to better evaluate Homer’s abilities as a geographer is to see how
accurately he describes foreign places that we know existed and have accurate
information on. Homer obviously knew of Egypt, and his descriptions give the
impression that he has an intimate knowledge of this country; however, at the
same time, he states that in Egypt “every man is a physician more skillful than all
other men.”35 He also describes Egyptian Thebes as “a hundred-gated city from
each of which two-hundred men drive out in chariots and horses.”36 Neverthe-
less, there is no evidence to indicate either that Thebes was surrounded by a
defensive wall during Homer’s time (let alone one with a hundred gates) or that
Thebes was ever guarded by a standing army of twenty thousand men and chari-
ots. Instead, it has been suggested that the gates refer to the great pylons of
Egyptian temples, but no attempts have been made to explain the size of the army
or the statement that all Egyptian men are physicians.37
Homer also describes the island of Pharos as a day’s sail from Egypt, but this
island has never been far from shore.38 Even as early as the first century A.D., a
bridge connected the island to the mainland.39 A few rationalizations have been
proposed to explain this discrepancy; the first is that Homer knew the Nile delta
is alluvial. As a result, he sets Pharos far from shore to suggest how the coast
had changed since the time of Menelaus.40 Yet, even during the Bronze Age this
island was so close to shore that it should not have taken Menelaus and his men
more than a few oar strokes to travel from one to the other, and there is no evi-
dence to suggest that Homer was aware of the regional geology of northern
Egypt. The second is that Homer is referring to the time it takes to travel from
Pharos to the Canopic mouth of the Nile, where Naucratis was later estab-

Geography 167
lished.41 The problem with this interpretation is that it fails to explain why an
honored guest of the king of Egypt would choose starvation over rowing to a lo-
cation other than the Canopic mouth of the Nile. It is unlikely that he fears some
form of retribution because, in Odysseus’s story of the raid on Egypt, he is for-
given his depredations merely by supplicating himself to the king.42 Under these
circumstances, it is unlikely that Menelaus would be punished for merely land-
ing outside the Canopic mouth of the Nile in order to avoid starvation.
Furthermore, Homer fails to mention the name of the Nile and that it breaks
into several tributaries when it reaches the delta. By proposing that Homer
would omit the obvious, Strabo sees no problem with these and other omis-
sions.43 In other words, there was no reason to mention the Nile by name when
everyone who heard his songs would infer it. Regardless of whether any of these
are accurate interpretations, we must still rationalize Homer’s descriptions of
Egypt to make them consistent with what we know existed during his time.
Strabo’s explanations, however, seem somewhat dubious when we consider that
even the Egyptians of his time failed to see any resemblance between their coun-
try and the Egypt Homer describes in his epics. In fact, they considered him to be
ignorant about their country.44
West of Egypt is Libya. Homer tells us nothing other than that sheep have a
very short gestation period (they are able to bear o¬spring three times a year) and
that seafarers sail close to Crete when traveling from Phoenicia to Libya.45
Of the Aethiopians, Homer tells us little other than that they are split into two
groups geographically, one to the easternmost point and the other to the west-
ernmost end.46 They often entertain the gods with feasts, and twelve-day visits
by the gods seem to be common, suggesting a great distance between Mount
Olympus and Aethiopia.47 The only other mention of Aethiopia is that Menelaus
visits it. Several ancient scholars assumed that Aethiopia was located somewhere
near the Red Sea south of Egypt, and they propose di¬erent routes Menelaus
could have taken to travel there: either across the isthmus at the head of the Ara-
bian, or Persian, Gulf or via a canal connecting the Nile to the Red Sea.48 Other
theories were that Aethiopia was in fact India or that the two groups of Aethiopi-
ans were in fact one people. The eastern group lived along the coast of eastern
Africa on the Indian Ocean, and the western group lived in western Africa near
the Atlantic Ocean. According to Strabo, Homer classifies them as two di¬erent
groups only because he was not aware that Oceanus was one sea and the Aethi-
opians were the same people living on one large landmass.49
Homer also gives the impression that he has an intimate knowledge of Sidon
and Phoenicia, but he does not describe either location.50 Homer makes no men-
tion of either Tyre or Byblos, but a cable is called buvblinon, after Byblos.51 This

168 chapter 9
nomenclature suggests that this city may have been an important seaport for
exporting papyrus.52 Homer mentions Cyprus but gives few details. Dmetor is a
king in Cyprus,53 and Aphrodite has a sanctuary at Paphos.54 In contrast, Homer
knows of the prevailing winds and currents necessary for the fastest voyage
from Crete to Egypt and from Phoenicia to Lybia.55
To the west, Homer mentions both Italy and Sicily. Mentes, a Taphian king,
goes to Temese (Temevshn) to exchange his iron for copper.56 Strabo proposes
that Temese is Temesa in Bruttium, on the west coast of Italy. A less popular,
although possible, site, however, is Tamasos in Cyprus, which was also known
for its rich copper resources.57
With regard to Sicily, Homer mentions only that the old woman who cares for
Laertes is from Sicily, and the Sicels are noted slave traders, but he neither de-
scribes the country nor mentions trips to the island.58 Homer appears to have a
wide, general knowledge of a number of countries from Sicily in the west to
Phoenicia in the east, but he also appears to have little or no detailed information
about these same areas. In contrast, he appears to know more about the Aegean
region and mentions several detailed features of the area.59
Homer describes not only Mount Olympus, but also its relationship to Mount
Ossa and Mount Pelion. He describes how Otus and Ephialtes, who were sons of
Poseidon, wanted to stack Ossa on Olympus and then Pelion on Ossa, so they
could climb to the heavens.60 Seymour argues that Homer must have seen the
shapes of these mountains to know which of the three should form the base and
which the apex.61 In addition, Homer knows the names of many countries and
specific places, but his reputation for having exact geographic knowledge is
based mainly on three or four epithets in the Catalogue of Ships.62 These de-
scribe Aulis as “rocky,” Thisbe as having “many wild doves,” and Haliartus as
“grassy.”63 Of course, these labels are somewhat suspect in that many other
sites in the Aegean are also grassy and rocky and have doves. This suspicion is
heightened when we consider that Homer uses only a few characterizations to
describe most of the sites. Mycenae is “broad streeted” and “rich in gold,” but
Homer does not describe the walls of the citadel or the Lion Gate, which have
never been concealed.64 He seldom mentions Athens, which he describes only as
“sacred,” “broad streeted,” and “a well-built town.”65 He does not even mention
many prominent places, such as Smyrna, Ephesus, and Sardis. He also ignores
the largest of all Bronze Age sites, Gla, and refers to Rhodes and Miletus only
once each.66 More important, Homer appears to make a number of geographic
errors. Pylos, the home of Nestor, has been associated with the site of Epano En-
glianos in Messenia since its discovery by Carl Blegen, but this association raises
some problems.67

Geography 169
 Athena gives Telemachus a west wind to carry him from Ithaca to Pylos in a
single night.68 Yet, a voyage from Ithaca to the Bay of Navarino (Pylos) cannot be
completed in such a short time, and Telemachus needs a northwest-by-north
wind to take him there, not a west wind.69 In addition, Telemachus and Nestor’s
son Pisistratus travel in a chariot from Pylos to Pherae and then on to Sparta.70
Homer mentions no mountain range en route to Sparta, but such a journey
would take Telemachus over Mount Taygetus. According to Seymour, this route
is better suited to bandits and goats, and he contends that a chariot drawn briskly
by horses has never traveled along this route. Seymour explains these discrepan-
cies by proposing that either Homer knew nothing of this route or Nestor’s Pylos
was not in this region.71 The problem with assigning Nestor’s Pylos to another
location is that there is simply no other known site.
John Scott makes a similar observation in regard to the west wind, Zephyrus.
Ancient Greek and Latin writers consider Zephyrus as a gentle wind, but Homer
describes it as rough and di~cult. Scott clarifies this by proposing that Homer
was from Smyrna, which is one of the few places where Zephyrus is indeed a
rough wind.72 Strabo, on the other hand, proposes that the names of some winds
have changed over time.73 He accounts for other inaccuracies similarly. Homer
describes the island of Pharos as having plentiful water supplies, a good harbor,
and being one sailing day from land. However, according to Strabo, the source of
water on Pharos could have disappeared due to natural changes, and sedimenta-
tion could have moved the delta to the island; but the lack of a good harbor has
been ignored.74 Other proposed geographic irregularities that are more di~cult
to explain include the description and location of Ithaca, the landing of Aga-
memnon on his return from Troy,75 and the location of the plain of Marathon—
all of which are in the Aegean.76
Finally, we see some disagreement as to which region Homer describes best.
Seymour claims that Homer has little knowledge of Asia Minor, outside the
Troad, or any other country with the exception of Greece; furthermore, what
knowledge he does have of countries outside Greece is confined to the coast.77
In contrast, Scott argues that Homer’s most detailed knowledge is of the area
around Smyrna, on the coast of Asia Minor.78 He proposes that the reason that
eating fish is spurned in the epics is that the fish taken from streams inland of
Smyrna, Homer’s hometown, taste terrible. Homer therefore acquired an early
aversion to fish, which is apparent in the epics.79 John Cook also strongly be-
lieves that Homer was from Smyrna, which is evident in Homer’s descriptions of
the natural features of Lydia and of the mountains behind Smyrna.80 Dorothea
Gray, too, agrees that the epics best describe the eastern Aegean. She believes
that both poems reflect an exact knowledge of the weather conditions there,

170 chapter 9
particularly in the eastern portion. Furthermore, the Odyssey suggests a general
knowledge of the Levant and only a vague knowledge of the western seas. At the
same time, she proposes that Homer’s accurate description of a steady southeast
wind in the Straits of Messina is one of the details that indicate Homer acquired
some of his material while living in Sicily.81
Although Homer seems to know more about the Aegean, we still see a similar
pattern of disagreement about the extent of his knowledge. This should come as
no surprise to us. After all, Homer is a poet, and poets are seldom considered ac-
curate sources of geographic information. Furthermore, as Seymour points out,
the limits of such knowledge during Homer’s time were narrow, and, as reiter-
ated throughout this work, it is doubtful that Homer could ignore matters that
were familiar to his audience. He had nothing to gain by appearing ignorant of
what others commonly knew. We must look at Homer as a man of his times.82 As
such, a background of Homeric times will elucidate this problem.
Books on geography or any other subject did not exist during Homer’s time,
and the first published map is attributed to Anaximander (610–540 B.C.), more
than a hundred years after Homer.83 Sea charts are believed to have been unknown
until 499 B.C.84 They even appear to still be an oddity during Aristophanes’ time
(444–388 B.C.).85 Even Herodotus states that the pass at Thermopylae runs north
and south (it actually runs east and west). 86 This erroneous statement was not
challenged until 1825.87 If such errors were commonly accepted for such famous
land features, even in modern times, then it should not be surprising that mis-
takes were even more common with regard to seafaring and distant foreign
lands. This is especially so since the evidence suggests that Homeric Greeks had
only recently begun sailing out of the Aegean.
After the “Dark Ages” Al Mina is believed to have been one of the earliest and
most important of the Greek trading posts in the eastern Mediterranean. The
first evidence for a Greek presence dates to the ninth century, and a similar pres-
ence is seen on Cyprus around the same time.88 Nonetheless, even though the
Greeks had some contact with and knowledge of Egypt, there is no evidence for
large numbers of Greek travelers or traders visiting Egypt by Homer’s time.
Erroneous stories about the location of Pharos Island, construction features of
Thebes, and other aspects of Egypt were therefore probably common, especially
when considering the size of Egypt.
To the west, the site of Pithekoussai was established around 775 B.C. and
Naxos around 735 B.C. If we accept the general belief that Homer was creating
his epics sometime from the middle to the late eighth century B.C., then he lived
during this period of Greek exploration and expansion into Italian waters. Fur-
thermore, Homer would have lived about fifty years before Demaratus made his

Geography 171
voyages to Etruria.89 He would have been writing about sixty years before Colaeus
landed at Tartessus in Spain90 and about a hundred years before the Phocaeans
founded Massilia in southern France.91 He lived at a time when little was known
of Italy, and the region west of Sicily was probably the great unknown. Further-
more, when we consider that Homer lived during a period when all information
was circulated by word of mouth, it is understandable that some of his descrip-
tions are vague and inaccurate.
Eratosthenes goes so far as to claim that Homer had no knowledge of Italy or
Sicily.92 This seems unlikely as Homer lived at a time when Greeks were first col-
onizing Italy, which may explain why Charybdis and Scylla, Polyphemus, and
Circe have all been associated with this region.93 Such a seafaring story would
have been quite popular during a period of exploration, especially since so little
was known of these new areas, which are always described as lands of plenty with
good harbors, but the people who inhabit them and the seas that must be crossed
to reach them are dangerous. Both elements would have held the attention of
Homeric audiences, much like Gulliver’s Travels fascinated eighteenth-century
readers.94 However, colonization would not be mentioned because it was a rela-
tively recent phenomenon, and Homer is creating a heroic world that existed in
the distant past—before the time of his grandfathers.
We must also take into consideration the possibility that if Homer was forced
to acquire background information from seafarers, they may have refused his
requests. Traders with a virtual monopoly in some regions might have been re-
luctant to share detailed knowledge in fear of inviting competition. This is sug-
gested by both the accurate description of sailing routes to Egypt and Lybia in the
eastern Mediterranean as well as a lack of such descriptions for any land west of
Ithaca. Some may even have spread false information or exaggerated the dangers
of sailing in western waters. Charybdis, Scylla, and the Sirens may have been
invented to discourage others from sailing into unknown but lucrative areas. On
the other hand, seafarers have always had a reputation for spinning fantastic
yarns of their travels over the seas. Consequently, these stories could have been
created originally to entertain or as a combination of both explanations.
Of course, one can also argue that since this is a time when the Greeks were
immigrating to the west, immigrants would send back many reports about these
new places that would both enlighten Homer and at the same time suggest a high
standard of accuracy in the epics because he is describing what must have been
common knowledge. Although there was some immigration, mainly to Italy at
this time, these settlers probably had little influence on Homer or any other
singer in the Aegean of Homer’s time. Since few people could read and write, the
only accounts sent back would be those from immigrants returning from the

172 chapter 9
West. However, of those who immigrated, there is no evidence of large numbers
returning. Such voyages would have been long, di~cult, and one way unless a
shipload of immigrants wished to go back home. Considering these conditions
and the fact that the only way to return would have been on board one of the small
merchant ships trading in these distant waters, most would have been discour-
aged from undertaking a visit. In addition, for most of these immigrants, their
time and e¬orts were focused on creating a new life instead of keeping in contact
with the old. Consequently, it is unlikely that the people of Homer’s time who
lived in the Aegean had much detailed knowledge of either Sicily or Italy.
When evaluating Homer’s geographic knowledge, we must discuss two final
points: first, his ability to allow audiences or readers to create their own geo-
graphic reality even in the real world, and second, the popularity of his epics as
an influence in transforming mythical places into known geographic locations.
One of the many attributes that Homer shares with great writers is the knack for
giving just enough detail to allow audiences or readers to create in their minds
their own reality. He has a rare eye for the features of common items and prac-
tices such as tools, social events, ships, and even the preparation of food, but he
does not overwhelm us with them. Instead, he gives just enough to set a scene,
and he does the same with geographical settings. To impart a sense of the height
of Mount Ida, he does not tell us how high or steep it is; instead, he explains how
mules walk up the mountain in a sinuous pattern to higher elevations where oak
trees grow. To a great extent he allows us to create our own Mount Ida. So, when
we see it, it is as we imagined, even though he has actually told us little about it.
Therefore, evaluating the accuracy of his knowledge is even more di~cult since
we must first separate what he has actually told us from what we have created in
our own minds. In addition, when we read the original Greek, it becomes obvi-
ous that many words can have a number of meanings. Homer loved wordplay,
and variations in descriptions can result from our depth of understanding of the
subtlety in the Homeric epics.
Many have traveled to Troy with a copy of the Iliad and sworn that they have
walked in Homer’s footsteps. Nevertheless, after twenty-seven hundred years,
erosion, sedimentation, earthquakes, fires, floods, and people have had an im-
pact on this region and the site, but we rarely see these changes.95 Instead, one
aspect of Homer’s genius is that he provides just enough detail to allow a reader
to reconstruct his timeless, heroic world. On the other hand, some details, such
as the location of Mount Ida and the di¬erent types of timber that grow on it,
lend credence to the possibility that Homer actually visited the area and based
his work on firsthand knowledge.
In e¬ect, Homer makes us want to believe him to the point that we rationalize

Geography 173
the inconsistencies in both epics. As previously mentioned, Scott tries to make
sense of the Homeric disdain for fish by pointing out that fish from the moun-
tain streams around Smyrna have a bad taste. Yet, if Homer lived in Smyrna,
which is on the sea, he would probably have eaten fish from the sea instead of
from the mountain streams. Another interpretation consistent with the evidence
but based on an anthropological background is also possible. This aversion to
fish may have nothing to do with taste but instead be a sign of status. The more
easily acquired fish would feed the common people, whereas meat, which took
time and money to raise, was reserved for the tables of the nobles and for sacri-
fices to the gods.
We see a similar situation in Gray’s belief that Homer’s accurate description
of a steady southeast wind in the Straits of Messina is evidence of his presence in
Sicily. However, the winds around the straits vary depending on the time of year
and a number of other factors.96 This tendency to explain away inconsistencies
in Homer’s epics may also have led to an acceptance—as geographical fact—of
some of the mythical sites he created. Although most do not, some scholars still
firmly believe that Homer used specific locations in the western Mediterranean
and even Atlantic regions for Odysseus’s wanderings. However, several mythical
locations may have an even wider acceptance. As previously mentioned, Homer
gives little actual detail of Egypt. For example, the only correct description he
gives of Pharos is that it was an island in his day. Curiously, before Homer there
is no mention of this island. The name Pharos appears to be similar to that of the
title of pharaoh, which allows for a connection that predates Homer. Yet, this
island does not seem to become an important landmark until after the establish-
ment of Alexandria and especially the construction of the great lighthouse,
which was not begun until 290 B.C. by Ptolemy Soter. There is simply no evidence
for an island named Pharos o¬ the coast of Egypt before Homer.
If we accept the fact that Homer spent his life in the Aegean, which is full of
islands, and if he knew little of Egypt other than that it was a large, rich country,
then he may have simply assumed that there must be at least one island near
Egypt with the features needed for his story. He required only an island with a
plentiful water supply and a good harbor that was one day’s sail from the coast.
Thus, he created Pharos. He may have chosen the name for no other reason than
that he liked wordplay. In Homeric Greek, fa'ro" can be either a web on a loom
or a cloak.97 The suitors are in e¬ect trapped and kept at bay while Penelope
weaves a web on her loom, and Menelaus is trapped on Favro" [Web] island by
a calm. Furthermore, Menelaus must cover himself in a sealskin, much like a
cloak, to hide and catch the sea god Proteus. As time passed and the Greeks came
to accept Homer as a source of religious, historical, and geographical knowl-

174 chapter 9
edge, such creations evolved into descriptions of the real world. The island that
today bears the name of Pharos was probably given its name by later Greek trav-
elers, traders, and colonists, even though it had none of the characteristics
Homer describes, simply because there was no other choice.
Now, after stating all of these possible variations, how can we determine what
Homer knew of the world he lived in? After all, attempting to ascertain a person’s
knowledge is far more di~cult than labeling the di¬erent parts of a ship. This
task is made even more challenging in that we really know little about Homer.
He tells us nothing of himself in the epics, and most of what we are told of him
was written long after he died. In addition, there is considerable disagreement
in these later documents, even as to when and where he lived. We are therefore
forced to pick and choose the descriptions of Homer that best fit our vision of
him and his times.
Another impediment is that when attempting to understand the world Homer
lived in, scholars are invariable predisposed to a particular viewpoint by their
own background. In the first chapter I state that Homeric scholars acquire well-
defined preconceptions of what “Homeric” means to them, and these presump-
tions appear to be based in large part on their interests and disciplines. This is
not a criticism. Anyone with anything relevant to add to this discussion must
do so within some type of framework, be it a specialty in the classics, Bronze Age
archaeology, ethnography, or, in my own case, nautical archaeology and cultural
anthropology. Through this framework we construct our own visions of Homer’s
world. However, we are commonly constrained by the context through which we
view Homeric culture or any other. It is within this conceptional structure that I
describe my interpretation of Homer and his world.
Although this book discusses the importance of trade and seafaring to a con-
siderable extent, most of the common people who lived in the Aegean during the
eighth century B.C. probably never traveled far from home. The traders and no-
bles who did most of the long-distance traveling made up a rather small per-
centage of the population, and it is doubtful whether either group had the time
or the inclination to interact with the ordinary folk since traders were probably at
one of the lowest levels of society, whereas nobles and chiefs were at the top. Fur-
thermore, there were no books, maps, or newspapers to disseminate informa-
tion. However, another group that had a reputation for travel was the bards, and
because they supported themselves by performing to a wide range of audiences,
they would have had contact with most social groups.98 As such, widely traveled
poet-singers would be valued both for entertainment and as a source of infor-
mation about the outside world.
Chiefs and traders traveled to where they could acquire goods and stayed only

Geography 175
as long as necessary. Furthermore, nobles probably had little interest in geo-
graphical features, while sea traders were interested only in the winds, currents,
and hazards that a¬ected their sailing routes. Bards, in contrast, traveled to per-
form and, in the process, acquired new material. As such, they probably jour-
neyed more widely than any other group. They were also the most observant with
regard to the world around them because creating settings for their songs was an
aspect of their profession. It is probably for these reasons they acquired a repu-
tation for geographic knowledge. However, as these poet-singers lacked com-
passes, maps, and books and as they apparently had to rely completely on their
memories for geographic settings, we should not be surprised that the epics con-
tain certain geographic errors, such as the location of Marathon or the failure to
mention that Mount Taygetus is between Pylos and Sparta. In contrast, the speed
with which Telemachus sails from Ithaca to Pylos may not be an error but in-
tended hyperbole instead. All of the voyages between known locations seem to
be completed in record time, such as Nestor’s trip from Lesbos to Euboea. How-
ever, because of a lack of information, we cannot be sure. The only exception to
this pattern is the time of the voyage between Crete and Egypt. Consequently, we
should not ignore the possible presence of hyperbole in descriptions of any en-
deavor that requires human skill. In fact, it is amazing how broad and accurate
Homer’s knowledge of the Aegean was for his time.
My readings of the epics and the archaeological evidence create my personal
view of Homer as a bard who was born and lived, at least during his early years,
in Smyrna, which would explain his descriptions of the natural features of Lydia
and the mountains behind Smyrna, as Cook points out. I believe it is also likely
that he acquired much of his geographic knowledge while traveling throughout
the Aegean, walking the plains of Troy, and seeing Mount Ida and the ruins of
Troy. However, we have no evidence for an actual war at this site or even to verify
that the names Troy and Ilium existed before Homer’s time. These names and
others may be products of his fertile imagination—events and geographic fea-
tures that became “facts” as a result of the later popularity of his epics.
The details of his descriptions suggest he traveled on to Greece, where he saw
Mount Olympus, Mount Ossa, and Mount Pelion and may have ventured on to
some of the other Cyclopean ruins. His trips, especially on board ships, would
have brought him into contact with seafarers who could have told him of the
world beyond the Aegean. Although Greek mariners had long been sailing in the
eastern Mediterranean and knew of the winds, currents, and trade routes, their
knowledge of the lands would have been limited. There is no evidence that they
knew what existed outside the cities where they bought and sold, nor is there any
indication of Achaean nobles’ being courted at kingdoms in the eastern Mediter-

176 chapter 9
ranean at this time. We have no proof that the Egyptian kings were even aware
of any Achaean chiefs of Homer’s time. However, stories of such dignitaries’
entertaining chiefs (like Menelaus) would have enhanced the latter’s status, and
this is probably why such tales appear in the epics.
Furthermore, a lack of detailed knowledge explains why most descriptions of
these areas are so vague and would allow Homer wide latitude in his creations.
Anyone who had spent time in Egypt would know that among the general popu-
lation few men were in fact doctors, and those who actually traveled through Ly-
bia would laugh at the idea of sheep bearing o¬spring three times a year. Of the
kingdoms of Phoenicia, which appear to be the Achaeans’ primary trading part-
ners at this time, Homer mentions only one city, Sidon, and mainly describes the
products and personal characteristics of Phoenician traders. Other than images
of the Aegean, there is simply nothing of this region that either epic describes
that could not have been learned from a few long-distance merchants and from
Phoenicians trading in Greek ports. In fact, this area is only marginally impor-
tant in both epics. A source of rogues and high-quality products, it gives
Menelaus a region to wander in where he would not come in contact with
Odysseus while boosting his status as a chief.
In contrast, much of the Odyssey focuses on the west, and most of Odysseus’s
wanderings are probably set around Sicily and southwest Italy for the reasons al-
ready mentioned. However, we do not see any geographic details for this region
that are relatively common for the Aegean, suggesting that Homer based Odys-
seus’s wanderings on secondhand information from seafarers and traders who
were probably wary of giving away their hard-learned secrets. Some of the myth-
ical locations and stories may also have been transplanted to this western region.
Charybdis has long been associated with the Straits of Messina, and these waters
were perilous to the small, open ships that attempted to sail through them, es-
pecially those heavily laden with cargo. One of the best examples of the hazards
there is recounted by William Smyth, who describes a ship of seventy-four guns,
which would have weighed at least 1,700 tons, being turned completely around
by the currents while passing through these waters.99 However, Charybdis may
have originally been associated with another location, such as the Bosporus,
through which ancient seafarers also had di~culty traversing. Since Homer
moved historical people like the Cimmerians from the Bosporus in the east to
Hades in the west, he may have borrowed many of the mythical creatures and
places from other locations and planted them around these new waters to the
west, both because his audiences were interested in the colonization and explo-
ration of these regions and because he needed to compensate for his lack of de-
tailed knowledge.100

Geography 177
 Homer was indeed a man of his times. From the texts and what we know of
the Mediterranean region of that era, he appears to have had a general under-
standing of the Aegean, to have been aware of the eastern Mediterranean, and to
have known a little of the area around Sicily and southwest Italy; however, he was
very interested in this latter region. In fact, he knew as much as a person could
have who lived during a period of exploration when maps and books did not ex-
ist and information was primarily disseminated orally. Finally, he may have omit-
ted much of his knowledge, such as the names of Phoenician cities, Bronze Age
sites, or even the Nile, from the epics either because it was irrelevant to his story
or because metrical constraints dictated that he leaves it out. We know that, by
his time, Greeks and Phoenicians were sailing throughout the eastern Mediter-
ranean and opening up the West. The thought of characters like Odysseus and
Menelaus on long voyages to Egypt and other mysterious lands that lay there
waiting to be explored would have captured the imagination of his audiences as
it still captures ours today.

178 chapter 9
 10
Summåry

As chapter 1 mentions, I had two goals when I began this project. The
first was to compile a source book for anyone interested in Homeric seafaring. I
would like to think I have succeeded, but the readers will make the final judg-
ment. The second was that, by consolidating the various aspects of seafaring in
one work, it would be possible to determine patterns that would normally escape
us. Although I cannot cite any overarching patterns, a number of smaller ones
appear throughout this work, as is evident in the following summary of each
chapter.
To begin any study of Homeric seafaring, it is first crucial to place both
of Homer’s epics within the proper cultural context. As chapter 2 points out,
through the years, various scholars have attempted to prove that the Homeric
epics best describe either the Bronze Age, the Geometric period, later periods, or
a combination of various eras by listing artifacts, social practices, peoples, and
places that are known to exist only in one epoch. However, a review of each strat-
egy indicates that all of them are unreliable. As an example, the main drawback
to listing artifacts is that we lack a representative sample of any artifact from any
particular period. Even Bronze Age sites, which are far richer in archaeological
material than others, rarely produce items that the epics mention as “Myce-
naean.” Yet, scholars consistently cite such “evidence” as su~cient to place
Homer’s epics in a particular period. In most cases, there is just enough archae-
ological material to allow scholars to promote any number of theories.
Consequently, some artifacts that are cited as Homeric parallels from the
Bronze Age are instead based on artistic representations. However, since Geo-
metric images are painted in silhouette, they lack the detail we need to be able to
discern any but the most obvious characteristics, which makes it di~cult—if not
impossible—for us to document changing patterns. Even many of the more de-
tailed representations from the Bronze Age are not conclusive and thus produce
little more than controversy among scholars. As a result, we can rarely state with
certainty the time when a specific artifact first appears, how long it survives, or
when it finally disappears. Furthermore, reviews of social practices (e.g., crema-
tion, the interaction of Phoenicians and Greeks in the Aegean), descriptions of
Homeric architecture, and the historic veracity of catalogues have also failed to
shed light on this problem. The fact that Homeric scholars are still as divided
over this question as when this controversy first began indicates the ine¬ective-
ness of such evidence.
Homer himself exacerbates this problem because he is creating poetry, not a
descriptive study of artifacts, social practices, and geography. Furthermore, he
infuses much of his work with mundane aspects of life that may transcend the
centuries. Finally, Homer is envisioning a heroic world, and at least some aspects
of this world probably existed only in his imagination. Therefore, a more objec-
tive method is to study the medium he uses to create the Iliad and the Odyssey. The
prevailing view is that Homer was an oral-traditional poet. He created without
memorization by using formulae and themes to construct long, complex songs
such as the Iliad and the Odyssey without the aid of writing. Yet, even if Homer did
write his epics, the structure of both works indicates they must be based on oral-
traditional poetry, and writing must have been a relatively recent innovation.
One of the most important features of such epics is fluidity, or change, which
results when a singer creates a new song with each performance. Consequently,
our texts of the Iliad and the Odyssey came into existence only when they were
written down. A review of such oral-traditional epics also shows that they retain
specific societal details for an average of three generations because once a
generation of grandparents dies o¬, their knowledge disappears, making it
impossible to verify and very di~cult to maintain past wisdom and learning.
Accordingly, the details in the Iliad and the Odyssey encompass at most a one-
hundred-year period before these songs were written down.
However, the length of time that di¬erent items survive or the speed with
which they are replaced in the epics varies. Objects that people view as technically
inferior will be superseded as quickly as possible. On the other hand, some ob-
jects survive for centuries simply because they do not change over time. Without
independent verification, it can be impossible to separate artifacts and practices
into these two categories. This is true even of aspects of seafaring that are de-
scribed in the epics; thus, it is impossible to determine which ones are recent in-
novations and which ones can be traced back to the Bronze Age. Nevertheless,
although we may not be able to divine when an item was first introduced or how
long people continued to use it, a review of the mechanics of oral-traditional

180 chapter 10
epics suggests that all of the aspects of seafaring accurately reflect the time in
which the epics were set down on paper.
Furthermore, a review of the evidence suggests that a poet, possibly named
Homer, created both the Iliad and the Odyssey between 750 and 713 b.c., and both
of them were written down during this time span. As a result, the nautical lore
represents this period best.
Chapter 3 describes the economics of Homer’s heroic world, the foundation
of which is the chiefdom, a transitional phase between tribal and state societies.
Such societies are usually centrally controlled, regional, social, and economic or-
ganizations that exhibit some level of heritable social ranking and a form of
economic stratification.
The oi\ko", or household, is the essence of the economy the Iliad and the
Odyssey describe. Odysseus’s household provided its own basic necessities, such
as food and clothing. If it produced more than what the extended family needed,
these surpluses would have been redistributed to those in the community of
lower social rankings. Redistribution is itself a means of achieving and main-
taining a high social ranking.
Metals, slaves, and luxury goods, however, could seldom, if ever, be acquired
from within a household. Chiefs relied on war, raiding, or bartering to obtain
these goods, which were important to them. By giving gifts of such items to
other chiefs or nobles, they would establish a social network of allies, which
would thus enable them to maintain their social standing.
Ironically, the epics suggest that Homeric heroes profited little from war, ex-
cept in status. Although raiding was not considered a reprehensible practice in
Homer’s time, it appears not to have garnered much glory for the participants
either. Such a lifestyle was considered wretched, and even successful raiders
seem to have earned mostly fear and respect—without glory—and they always
feared retribution from the gods.
In fact, bartering appears to have been the most common means of acquiring
goods not produced by a household. Paradoxically, trading for profit was a social
taboo, and few insults were more stinging to a noble than being called a trader.
However, exchanging commodities was sometimes acceptable, for instance,
when it was done out of necessity. Curiously, it appears as if Odysseus and other
Homeric heroes occasionally violate the principle of gift exchange and, like
traders and Phoenicians, reap a profit. Under certain conditions in a chiefdom,
this practice—labeled negative reciprocity—was accepted. This is common in
such societies when dealing with a group outside or on the edges of the social
system. The closer these groups become socially, and usually the closer they are

Summary 181
geographically, the more balanced the exchanges of goods. This arrangement
permits a noble to not only accept extravagant gifts that will never have to be re-
paid but even to pursue the acquisition of such gifts.
A similar paradox is evident in the Homeric perceptions of Phoenicians, who
are described alternately as sly, noble, cunning, and skilled. The very nature of
the chiefdom society that Homer portrays probably influenced these divergent
views of traders and Phoenicians. In such a culture, chiefs and other high-
ranking people maintained their positions by controlling resources, which in-
cluded surplus food and access to both land and imports such as metals, all of
which were necessary to survive and prosper. Chiefs kept their position by judi-
ciously redistributing these resources to their people and peers, which is why
generosity was such an important characteristic in a chief.
Metals and many other luxury items had to be imported. Therefore, by judi-
ciously instituting, maintaining, and controlling this trade, chiefs gained status
in the eyes of their people. Furthermore, they could increase their personal
wealth by charging a duty on goods that foreigners brought. During the Dark
Ages, this trading arrangement would have been advantageous for the nobles.
However, during the Geometric period, the quantity of imports from not only
Phoenician but also Greek traders started to grow beyond their control. The
larger numbers of imported goods also made them cheaper and more available
to a wider segment of society, leading to a new class of wealthy traders also out-
side their control. Therefore, the craftsmanship of Phoenician goods, like the
silver mixing bowl Achilles gives as a prize in memory of Patroclus, was admired,
but Phoenicians and other traders were seen as a threat to a noble’s way of life.
Consequently, a household’s wealth and status was dependent on the goods
brought by seafarers, and seagoing vessels were the primary conveyances that al-
lowed chiefs to acquire the necessary goods needed to extend and maintain their
social network. Ships are consequently an important feature of the economic
prosperity of Homeric heroes, and chapter 4 explains how they built the hulls of
their vessels.
The most popular belief is that Odysseus and the Homeric Greeks built their
crafts with pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery. However, a review of the relevant
passages in both epics indicates that, instead, they edge-joined the hull planking
with dowels and then secured the planks with lacings that were pegged in place.
The evidence includes the tools Odysseus used, the stages required to build his
vessel, the etymology of the words describing fasteners, other passages denot-
ing laced ships in the Homeric epics, and the assumption that, since everyone
seems to agree that at least one passage describes a laced ship, Homer would be
consistent in his description of ships throughout both epics if all of them were

182 chapter 10
laced. Furthermore, Greek and Roman texts indicate that both groups believed
these early heroes built laced ships. In spite of all the evidence, however, the for-
mer interpretation is still widely accepted for two reasons: first, the archaeolog-
ical evidence, and second, a belief that laced ships were inferior to those built
with pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery.
A review of the archaeological evidence suggests a Canaanite tradition of ship
construction with pegged mortise-and-tenon construction dating back to at
least the late Bronze Age. Nevertheless, it also reveals a Greek tradition of laced
construction, continuing well into the fifth century b.c. Furthermore, a compar-
ison of Greek ships from the Archaic to the Classical periods reveals a rather
obvious evolutionary pattern from the earlier, laced construction to pegged
mortise-and-tenon construction, suggesting this transition occurred rather late
in Greek history. Some scholars believe that not all of the laced ships discussed
are Greek. Yet, these craft exhibit a number of unique features that are not found
in laced ships built outside the Mediterranean or outside of this time frame. It is
possible that others, like the Etruscans, adopted some of these attributes, as they
did with other aspects of Greek culture. Nevertheless, the combination of such
characteristics and the wide distribution through time and across the Mediter-
ranean, especially in areas frequented by Greek seafarers, suggest they are pri-
marily representative of Greek ships.
Why then did the Greeks continue to build ships using an obviously inferior
technique? It is true that laced ships are commonly described as poorly built little
vessels that constantly leak, require considerable repair, and could carry only a
limited amount of cargo, whereas ships built with pegged mortise-and-tenon
joinery were tight, strong, and able to carry heavy loads. A comparison of ships
built using both techniques indicates that the supposed inferiority of laced ships
has been exaggerated. This disparity results from consistently comparing one of
the simplest types of laced ships with one of the more sophisticated vessels built
with pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery.
A comparison of both types indicates each had at least one advantage. First,
pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery appears to produce a sti¬er hull, which al-
lows sailing in rougher seas, while laced ships appear to be susceptible to break-
ing up in bad storms. Second, if a rigid hull built with pegged mortise-and-tenon
joinery hits a reef, it is likely that the impact will damage the hull, possibly re-
sulting in the loss of a ship. In contrast, if a laced ship hits a reef under the same
conditions, it will likely sustain less or no damage.
In fact, there is a wide variation in the size, strength, and overall quality of
construction of laced ships because few structures built by people contain as
many compromises as a ship. A shipwright may be forced to make adjustments

Summary 183
because of the tools or materials available. Furthermore, the cargo a vessel hauls
and the waters in which it sails will influence the choices of hull shape, size of the
ship, and type of joinery. The framework for all of these compromises is the so-
ciety in which shipwrights learn their craft, and, as we discussed, shipwrights
are inherently conservative. This is a group that would abandon a technique only
when forced to do so.
If laced construction was roughly equal to pegged mortise-and-tenon con-
struction, what influences could have been so strong as to force Greek ship-
wrights to replace one type of fastening with another? The transition period from
one to the other appears to have taken place primarily during the sixth century
b.c., coinciding with a decrease in mixed cargoes and an increase in the shipping
of bulk cargoes, especially in amphorae. Stacking amphorae, however, pre-
sented a major problem. The small base that allows them to be securely stacked
in more than one level also results in the concentration of a considerable amount
of weight in a number of very small areas on a hull’s surface.
A laced seam appears to be equal to a pegged mortise-and-tenon seam in ab-
sorbing shear stress. However, stacked amphorae would exert normal stress on
a hull. For this type of stress, pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery is superior be-
cause the pegs, mortises, and tenon all constitute one joint, allowing a ship-
wright to place joints closer together for a stronger seam. In contrast, a laced
seam consists of two separate fasteners: the dowels that edge-join the planking
and the pegged lacing, which limits the number and spacing of both. Therefore,
to make seams better able to absorb an increase in normal stress with laced
joints, it is necessary to add more dowels. However, by doing so a shipwright
must reduce the number of lacing holes, which makes the lacing more likely to
fail when exposed to shear stress. The only way to adapt a laced ship to carry as
many amphorae as a mortise-and-tenon joined ship would be to build a much
larger vessel, but this results in longer building times, more raw materials, more
expensive maintenance, and a larger crew. Furthermore, it would be less e~cient
because it could not carry a full cargo of amphorae, resulting in wasted space. A
laced ship is simply not well adapted to carry this type of cargo.
The relatively short time it took to change from laced to pegged mortise-and-
tenon construction also suggests that a second influence accelerated the demise
of the laced ship. Ancient ship construction is marked mainly by long periods of
stability with only incremental changes. However, the rapid change from laced
construction to pegged mortise-and-tenon construction indicates that another
influence was at work between the latter half of the sixth century and the begin-
ning of the fifth century, breaking the conservative pattern of Greek shipwrights.
This stimulus was probably the large, continuous demand for fleets of special-

184 chapter 10
ized warships built exclusively with pegged mortise-and-tenon joinery. Never-
theless, laced ships probably continued to sail the waters of the eastern Mediter-
ranean and Aegean in diminishing numbers long after Homer’s time and
possibly after the fifth century. However, by the time Apollonius Rhodius wrote
the Argonautica at the beginning of the third century, laced vessels were appar-
ently no longer being built or were rarely sailed in these waters. Yet, they contin-
ued to thrive for a considerable period in the Adriatic Sea and were still being
described in Latin texts long after disappearing from Greek literature. Conse-
quently, the belief of the ancient Greeks and Romans that their ancestors sailed
the seas in laced ships appears to be vindicated, and the epics of Homer appear
to describe such ships consistently.
Chapter 5 takes a detailed look at the ship construction passage in book 5 of
the Odyssey. The first part reviews the controversy over whether Odysseus was
building a raft or a ship, and the evidence strongly suggests it was a ship. How-
ever, the chapter also proposes that one of the reasons it has been so di~cult to
interpret the word scedivh is that it had no specific meaning. It was instead a cue
word for audiences that denoted some type of vessel that the singer would define
in the following passage. It appears to have had much the same meaning that our
words “vessel” and “craft” do today.
The remainder of the chapter looks at the various aspects of Homeric ship
construction, including timbers, tools, and design. One aspect that I discuss at
some length is the possibility that the tornovomai was used to find the curvature
of a master frame and possibly other frames that were erected on the keel before
the hull planking was joined together. This technique would have allowed a Ho-
meric shipwright to plan in advance and to control the curvature of a hull during
construction.
Also in this chapter I emphasize the di~culties inherent in interpreting rarely
used technical and nautical terms even in the context of a relatively detailed
passage. Nevertheless, I argue that even though Homer may omit, imply, or
compress some steps and aspects of the construction process, the passage is a
relatively accurate description of the assembly of a small, laced ship.
Chapter 6 discusses the remaining nautical terms and descriptions of ships
found in the epics. However, as pointed out earlier, many of these lack context
and may have more than one interpretation. Even so, it is still possible to make
some statements about Homeric ships based on a study of the etymology of the
nautical terminology and the archaeological evidence. First, there is no evidence
for the ram either before or during Homer’s time. All of the arguments that sup-
port a date before his time for the introduction of this weapon are based solely
on the interpretation of iconography. However, the chapter points out that

Summary 185
both the ship paintings on pots and the inscribed ships on fibulae are simply too
small to show that Bronze Age or Geometric galleys were structurally sound
enough to wield such a weapon. Furthermore, the absence of the ram in the Ho-
meric epics has forced scholars to argue that Homer does not mention this
weapon because to do so would be anachronistic, but they fail to support their
argument with facts. In contrast, a review of traditional epics indicates that tra-
ditional singers quickly accepted anachronisms, especially if they were techno-
logical innovations. As an example, in Homeric society, a bronze-shod ram would
be no less out of place chronologically than either iron arrowheads or ships dec-
orated with horns at the bow. Yet, Homer mentions both. A survey of the evidence
therefore suggests that ships believed to be bearing rams are in fact outfitted
with cutwaters.
The texts also seem to suggest that Homeric galleys were about 28 meters
long, contained a cargo hold, were reinforced with two sets of crossbeams, and,
when under sail, were slow, probably about as fast as a classical merchant ship.
Although many of Homer’s nautical descriptions can be obscure, the preced-
ing interpretations show he is still one of our best sources of information on the
various parts of ancient ships. In addition, recent discoveries in nautical archae-
ology have helped to clarify our understanding of Homeric ships and terminol-
ogy, but as this chapter indicates, some of our information still consists of little
more than names and hints that can have more than one interpretation. We must
therefore still qualify and use each term cautiously. Our understanding of Ho-
meric seafaring can also be ambiguous at times, as chapter 7 explains.
According to some scholars, Homeric Greeks were little more than landlub-
bers who feared sailing at night and preferred to voyage by hugging the coast. In
fact, the evidence suggests otherwise. Although one passage does seem to indi-
cate their apprehension about nighttime sailing, a closer examination suggests
the crew was instead more concerned about sailing in unknown waters, a previ-
ous grounding of ships under similar circumstances, and probably their own
fatigue.
An analysis of other passages and ethnographic parallels suggests Homeric
seafarers were not only comfortable with sailing at night, but also quite at ease
making long trips lasting several days, even though their ships lacked berths,
hammocks, and cabins. In fact, compared to traditional Muslim voyages, the
long journeys that Homer describes were rather short and would not be deemed
by the crew as uncomfortable. The knowledge of sailing routes between Crete
and Egypt and between Phoenicia and Lybia—all commonly traversed in classi-
cal times—also suggests well-established, long-distance courses. Finally, the

186 chapter 10
fact that Homeric Greeks had developed specialized naval pikes and were willing
to fight on the sea day or night suggests a society with strong ties to the sea.
These powerful bonds are evident in both epics—but especially the Odyssey,
which is a seafaring story—and such tales are usually a product of people
who have considerable maritime experience. The importance of the sea to the
Achaeans is also emphasized in the number of nautical legends related during
Odysseus’s wanderings, and both epics contain a well-developed pantheon of
gods devoted to the sea. In the Odyssey, Scheria, the land of the Phaeacians, which
seems to be Homer’s version of a utopia, is centered around the sea. He even in-
cludes a catalogue of Phaeacian nobles, all of whose names are associated with
the ships, seafaring, or the sea. Finally, even in the Iliad, which centers around
the land, there are constant allusions to the sea when describing either Achaeans
or Trojans. Furthermore, one of the most famous land battles that takes place in
the Iliad is set around the beached Achaean ships.
It is safe to assume that seafaring was an integral aspect of Homeric Greece.
It was woven deeply into the fabric of the society, and the Greeks’ mastery of sea-
faring rivaled that of the Phoenicians and other seafarers of the period. The im-
portance of the sea is also evident in descriptions of mundane features such as
harbors, as chapter 8 explains.
The last chapter, chapter 9, reviews the extent of Homer’s geographic knowl-
edge of the Aegean and the Mediterranean. It is far more di~cult to evaluate a
person’s knowledge than to label di¬erent parts of a ship or to understand sea-
farers and sailing habits. The latter have a tendency to transcend the ages and can
be more easily interpreted by comparing the texts to ethnographic data and ar-
chaeological evidence. In addition, this task is made more di~cult in that we
really know little about Homer. He tells us nothing of himself in the epics, and
most of what is known about him was written long after he died. We are there-
fore forced to pick and choose the ancient descriptions of Homer that best fit our
vision of him.
My vision of Homer is of a bard from Smyrna who walked the plains of Troy,
visited mainland Greece, and probably visited some or all of the sites described
in the epics. However, if there is any historical truth to the epics—even the
names Troy and Ilium—we have at present no way to confirm it. The texts and
the archaeological evidence indicate that Homer probably had little knowledge
of either the eastern or western Mediterranean and that what he knew was most
likely based on information he obtained from seafarers and traders.
The considerable space allocated to Odysseus’s wanderings in the Odyssey
suggests considerable interest in the West, as opposed to the East, at this time.

Summary 187
This is understandable inasmuch as Homer lived during a period of Greek ex-
ploration of and expansion into Italian waters, which may explain why Charyb-
dis and Scylla, Polyphemus, and Circe have all been associated with this region.
Such stories would have been quite popular, especially since so little was known
of these new lands. On the one hand, they are regions of plenty with good soil
and harbors. On the other hand, the people and creatures that inhabit them and
the seas that one must cross to reach them are always life threatening. Both ele-
ments would have held the attention of Homeric audiences. However, some
mythical locations (such as the whirlpool Charybdis) and stories were probably
transplanted to this western region. This may have been necessary to compen-
sate for Homer’s lack of detailed knowledge of these new lands.
Homer was indeed a man of his times. The texts and our own comprehension
of the Mediterranean region of that day indicate that he had a general under-
standing of the Aegean, was aware of the eastern Mediterranean, and knew a
little about the area around Sicily and southwest Italy. In fact, he knew a great
deal for a man who lived in an age of exploration when maps and books did not
yet exist and information was for the most part disseminated orally.
Homer reveals much of ships and seafaring in the Iliad and the Odyssey.
Unfortunately, trying to look at his world through these works is like trying to
navigate in an intermittent fog. Important aspects of Homeric seafaring are
obscured, but we do have moments of clarity. Archaeology continues slowly to
disperse some of the fog, and while over the last few decates it has given us a
clearer view of Homer’s world, there is still much we cannot see. This work
should be seen as only one stop on a long voyage.
When starting this project, my dream was to write an all encompassing work
that, with the help of new discoveries in archaeology, would explain even the
smallest detail of Homeric seafaring. But Homer can quickly humble one who at-
tempts to understand his world. The most that I can now hope for is that archae-
ological discoveries will continue to clarify Homer’s works and substantiate my
interpretations. The least is that this study will serve someone else as a starting
point from which to undertake a voyage that is rewarding, regardless of its des-
tination.

188 chapter 10
åbbreviåtions

AJA American Journal of Archaeology

AJP American Journal of Philology
An. Anabasis
BSA Annual of the British School of Athens
CQ Classical Quarterly
de Arch de Architectura [On Architecture]
de Re Mil de Re Militari [Epitome of Military Science]
Epit. Epitome bellorum omnium annorum DCC [Epitome of Roman History]
Goth. de Bello Gothico [The Gothic War]
HN Historia Naturalis
HP Historia Plantarum [Writings on Plants]
IJNA International Journal of Nautical Archaeology
Il. Ilias [Iliad]
JEA Journal of Egyptian Archaeology
JHS Journal of Hellenic Studies
Lap. de Lapidibus [On Stones]
Lex. Lexicon Homericum [Apollonius Sophista]
Lg. Leges [Laws]
LSJ Liddell, Scott, and Jones (See bibliography)
Met. Metamorphoses
MM Mariner’s Mirror
NA Noctes Atticae [Attic Nights]
Nu. Nubes [Clouds]
Od. Odyssea [Odyssey]
O¬. kat∆ ijhtrei'on [On the Surgery]
Op. Opera et Dies [Works and Days]
Pers. Persae [Persians]
Plt. Politicus [Politics]
Po. Poetica [Poetics]
Pol. Politica [Politics]
R. Republica [Republic]
Resp. de Respiratione [On Breathing]
Supp. Supplices [Suppliants]
Th. Theogonia
Thesm. Thesmophoriazusae [Women at the Thesmophoria]
Ti. Timaeus
VC peri; tw'n ejn kefalh'/ trwmavtwn [On Injuries of the Head]
Vita Ap. de vita Apolloni Tyanei [Life of Appollonius of Tyana]
ZPE Zeitschrift fü Papyrologie und Epigraphik
 Notes

chapter 1
1. Herodotus 2.53.
2. Plato R. 595c, 598e, 607a, 377d–379e. See also George E. Howes, “Homeric Quota-
tions in Plato and Aristotle,” 180–91.
3. See, respectively, Aristotle Po. 8, 23, 24; and Howes, “Homeric Quotations,” 212.
4. Arrianus An. 1.12.
5. Strabo 1.1.2.
6. N. G. L. Hammond and H. H. Scullard, The Oxford Classical Dictionary, 1126.
7. Arthur Young, Troy and Her Legend, 25–84.
8. Jonathan Shay, Achilles in Vietnam.
9. Young, Troy and Her Legend, 85–163; see also Irène Aghion, Claire Barbillon, and
François Lissarrague’s Gods and Heroes of Classical Antiquity.
10. Aghion, Barbillon, and Lissarrague, Gods and Heroes, 54, 157–58.
11. Lionel Casson, “Odysseus’ Boat (Od. V, 244–57),” 61–64.
12. The most di~cult sources to find and acquire were those published in the nineteenth
and early twentieth centuries. No doubt I have missed some information from this period
because several of the works I have cited I found by sheer luck. Thomas Seymour’s Life in the
Homeric Age is an example. The reason most are so di~cult to find is that they have rarely
been cited and have yet to be added to databases. Still other materials were unavailable be-
cause the libraries that have them were unwilling to copy them or to lend what I needed. Be-
cause most of these resources were more than a hundred years old and probably very fragile,
such a policy is understandable. However, considering the repetition in this field, it is my
hope that I have not overlooked anything original.
13. Lionel Casson, Ships and Seamanship in the Ancient World, fig. 80.
14. Ibid., fig. 74. See also pages 71–74.
15. E. Pernice, “Geometrische Vase mit Schi¬sdarstellung,” 93–95.
16. Lucien Basch, Le musée imaginaire de la marine antique, 161–62.
17. John S. Morrison and Roderick T. Williams, Greek Oared Ships 900–322 B.C., 28–29.

chapter 2
1. Denys Page, History and the Homeric Iliad, 218–19 (helmet), 233 (shield), 245 (greaves);
Martin P. Nilsson, Homer and Mycenae, 138 (helmet), 142–50 (shield); John V. Luce, Homer and
the Heroic Age, 102–106 (all).
2. James D. Muhly, “Homer and the Phoenicians,” 19–64; Moses I. Finley, The World of
Odysseus, 45.
3. Anthony M. Snodgrass, Arms and Armour of the Greeks, 35, 47.
4. Finley, World of Odysseus, 29.
5. Hilda L. Lorimer, Homer and the Monuments, 213–14.
6. Snodgrass, Arms and Armour, 32.

191
 7. Hector Catling, “Heroes Returned? Subminoan Burials from Crete,” 123, 125.
8. J. K. Anderson, “Wars and Military Science: Greece,” 681.
9. William McDonald and Carol Thomas, Progress into the Past, 340.
10. See, respectively, Georg Lippold, “Griechische Schilde,” 417–18; Gerard E. Else,
“Homer and the Homeric Problem,” 326; Nilsson, Homer and Mycenae, 145–46.
11. Snodgrass, Arms and Armour, 26.
12. Nilsson, Homer and Mycenae, 153–54; Muhly, “Homer,” 52; Finley, World of Odysseus, 45.
13. Lorimer, Homer and the Monuments, 103–110. See also Luce, Homer and the Heroic Age, 95.
14. Lorimer, Homer and the Monuments, 67; Nilsson, Homer and Mycenae, 135–36; Luce,
Homer and the Heroic Age, 68; Finley, World of Odysseus, 158.
15. Rhys Carpenter, “Phoenicians in the West,” 35.
16. See, respectively, William F. Albright, “Some Oriental Glosses on the Homeric Prob-
lem,” 173; Muhly, “Homer,” 63–64.
17. A. J. B. Wace and Frank H. Stubbings, A Companion to Homer, 542–43.
18. George F. Bass, “Cape Gelidonya: A Bronze Age Shipwreck,” 71–101.
19. Wace and Stubbings, Companion to Homer, 489–97; Luce, Homer and the Heroic Age, 49–
53; H. Plommer, “Shadowy Megara,” 75–83.
20. Among those who believe the structures relate to Homer’s time are Heinrich Drerup,
Griechische Baukunst in geometrischer Zeit, 123–33; and M. O. Knox, “Megarons and MEGARA,”
1–21. For the combination of periods theory, see Lorimer, Homer and the Monuments, 406–33.
For information on edifices that are only imprecisely described see William B. Stanford, The
Odyssey of Homer, xli–xliii.
21. Page, History and the Homeric Iliad, 134, 137.
22. R. Hope Simpson and John F. Lazenby, The Catalogue of the Ships in Homer’s Iliad, 166–67.
23. Anderson, “Wars and Military Science,” 184–88.
24. Adalberto Giovannini, Étude historique sur les origines du Catalogue des Vaisseaux, 7–42,
50; Christian Habicht, Pausanius’ Guide to Ancient Greece, 35; Wolfgang Kullman, “Festge-
haltene Kenntnisse im Schi¬skatalog und im Troerkatalog der Ilias,” 133–36.
25. Albert B. Lord, “Homer, the Trojan War, and History,” 85–91.
26. For further examples see Barry Powell, Homer and the Origin of the Greek Alphabet, 191–206.
27. Carl Blegen, Troy, 8; Sinclair Hood, “The Bronze Age Context of Homer,” 30.
28. Albert B. Lord, “The Poetics of Oral Creation,” 1; Albert B. Lord, The Singer of Tales,
30–67.
29. Lord, The Singer of Tales, 68–98.
30. Adam Parry, “Have We Homer’s Iliad?” 108.
31. Geo¬rey S. Kirk, The Songs of Homer, 100, 302.
32. Ibid., 327.
33. Geo¬rey S. Kirk, “The Homeric Poems as History,” 825–26.
34. Parry, “Have We Homer’s Iliad?” 112–15.
35. Lord, The Singer of Tales, 4, 22, 26–29, 78–79, 99–106; Alfred B. Lord, “Tradition and
the Oral Poet: Homer, Huso, and Avdo Mededović,” 16–18.
36. Alfred B. Lord, “History and Tradition in Balkan Oral Epic and Ballad,” 53–60. See
also Jan Vansina, Oral Tradition as History, 11–12.
37. Ruth Finnegan, Oral Poetry, 140.
38. Vansina, Oral Tradition, 16.

192 Notes to Pages 9–13

 39. Ibid., xii, 24.
40. Alfred B. Lord, “Characteristics of Orality,” 63.
41. Walter J. Ong, Orality and Literacy: The Technologizing of the Word, 46, 48.
42. Finnegan, Oral Poetry, 28–29.
43. Avdo Mededovic´, The Wedding of Smailagić Meho, 243.
44. Luce, Homer and the Heroic Age, 59.
45. Page, History and the Homeric Iliad, 4–5.
46. Herodotus 2.53.
47. Ian Morris, “The Use and Abuse of Homer,” 92.
48. Richard Janko, Homer, Hesiod, and the Hymns, 231.
49. Morris, “The Use and Abuse of Homer,” 93.

chapter 3
1. Yale Ferguson, “Chiefdoms to City-States: The Greek Experience,” 170.
2. Timothy Earle, “The Evolution of Chiefdoms,” 1.
3. Homer Od. 7.148–50.
4. Od. 11.489–90.
5. Od. 18.356–386.
6. James M. Redfield, “The Economic Man,” 232.
7. Johannes Hasebroek, Trade and Politics in Ancient Greece, 70; Fik Meijer and Onno van
Nijf, Trade, Transport, and Society in the Ancient World, 21.
8. Od. 10.41–42.
9. Od. 1.398, 11.401, 23.357.
10. Heiman Knorringa, Emporos: Data on Trade and Trader in Greek Literature from Homer to
Aristotle, 25. See, for example, Homer Il. 11.671–89.
11. Il. 11.671–88.
12. Il. 2.846; Od. 9.39–40.
13. Od. 14.260–72.
14. Od. 14.222–23.
15. See Od. 14.224–34 and 14.260–72.
16. Thucydides 1.5.4.
17. Od. 14.226, 14.234.
18. Od. 14.85–88.
19. Aristotle Pol. 1256b28–1258b49.
20. Od. 1.184.
21. Il. 12.433–35.
22. Il. 7.470–75.
23. Knorringa, Emporos, 2.
24. Hasebroek, Trade and Politics, 13.
25. Hesiod Op. 643–44.
26. Hesiod Op. 689–94.
27. Od. 8.159–64; Meijer and van Nijf, Trade, Transport, and Society, 24; Knorringa, Em-
poros, 7.
28. Richard J. Cunli¬e, A Lexicon of the Homeric Dialect, 127, s.v. e[mporo". (See also Wilhelm
Dindorf, Scholia Graeca in Homeri Odysseam, 1: 108, s.v. e[mporo", line 319.)

Notes to Pages 14–20 193

 29. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 342, s.v. prhkthvr; Il. 9.443.
30. Plato Lg. 4.704b5–705b8.
31. Hasebroek, Trade and Politics, 18; Od. 14.296.
32. Hesiod Op. 633–40.
33. Lysias 6.19, 6.47; Andocides 2.11.
34. Aristotle Resp. 2.6; Plato Lg. 951a–951c.
35. Redfield, “Economic Man,” 234–35.
36. Od. 15.403, 15.415–83.
37. Knorringa, Emporos, 11.
38. Od. 6.266–69.
39. Od. 15.455.
40. Herodotus 1.1.
41. Carpenter, “Phoenicians in the West,” 35–36.
42. Ibid., 35–36. See, respectively, Il. 23.743, and Od. 15.419.
43. Od. 14.288–89. See Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 43, s.v. ajpathvlio".
44. Redfield, “Economic Man,” 233.
45. See, respectively, Il. 23.743, and Od. 13.272.
46. Od. 13.273–86.
47. Od. 3.71–74.
48. Il. 23.741–43.
49. Od. 4.590.
50. Knorringa, Emporos, 4.
51. Ibid., 4. For the one exception, see Il. 6.216–20.
52. Od. 4.590–19.
53. Knorringa, Emporos, 4.
54. Od. 24.265–85.
55. Il. 6.211–31.
56. See Il. 7.470–75, and 23.741–45.
57. Il. 6.230–36.
58. Redfield, “Economic Man,” 228.
59. Il. 2.292–98.
60. Od. 11.355–61.
61. Redfield, “Economic Man,” 234.
62. Od. 13.135–38.
63. Od. 13.215–19; Knorringa, Emporos, 4–5.
64. Od. 8.159–64.
65. Od. 14.325.

chapter 4
1. Od. 5.247–48: “. . . tevtrhnen d∆ a[ra pavnta kai; h{rmosen ajllhvloisin govmfoisin d∆ a[ra
thvn ge kai; aJrmonivh/sin a[rassen.”
2. See translations of this passage by, respectively, Richard Lattimore, The Odyssey of
Homer, 94; Samuel H. Butcher, The Odyssey of Homer, 60; William C. Bryant, The Odyssey of
Homer, 110; and Samuel Butler, The Odyssey of Homer, 63.
3. Casson, “Odysseus’ Boat,” 61–64; Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 217–19.

194 Notes to Pages 20–25

 4. J. Richard Ste¬y, Wooden Ship Building and the Interpretation of Shipwrecks, 43.
5. Ibid., 46.
6. Ibid.
7. Ibid., 46, 49, 51, 52.
8. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 9–10. This type of construction is usually referred to as
“sewn” construction, but I use the term “laced” instead because it accurately describes the
process. See the glossary for a detailed explanation.
9. Aeschylus Supp. 134–35: linorrafhv" te dovmo" a[la stevgwn doro;". See also 11.439–41.
10. Pacuvius Niptra 277–78: Nec ulla subscus cohibet compagem alvei, sed suta lino et sparteis
serilibus.
11. Pliny HN 24.40.65: Et cum fierent sutiles naves, lino tamen, non sparto umquam sutas; Il.
2.135: kai; dh; dou'ra sevshpe new'n kai; spavrta levluntai. See Aulus Gellius NA 27.3.4:
“Liburni . . . plerasque naves loris suebant, Graeci magis cannabo et stuppa ceterisque sativis rebus.”
12. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 46n. 19.
13. Patrice Pomey, “Mediterranean Sewn Boats in Antiquity,” 38.
14. Lionel Casson, “New Light on Ancient Rigging and Boatbuilding,” 91.
15. See, for example, John G. Wilkinson, The Manner and Customs of Ancient Egyptians, 208;
A. B. Lloyd, “Herodotus 2.96.1–2,” 45–48; Cheryl Haldane and Cynthia W. Shelmerdine,
“Herodotus 2.96.1–2 Again,” 535–39; Casson, “Skippers on the Nile in Ancient Times,” 7;
Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 14n. 15; Steve Vinson, “Paktoun and Paktosis as Ship-
Construction Terminology in Herodotus, Pollux, and Documentary Papuri,” 197–204.
16. Apollonius Rhodius Argonautica 1.1005, 2.80–82, 2.614, and 2.1112.
17. Od. 5.33.
18. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 88, s.v. desmov"; LSJ, A Greek-English Lexicon, 380, s.v. desmov".
19. Od. 13.100, 8.444, 21.241, and 12.200.
20. Od. 14.382–83; trans. Augustus T. Murray, trans., Homer, The Odyssey, 65. Cited by
Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 50.
21. LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 49, s.v. ajkevomai.
22. For evidence from the Classical period see J. Richard Ste¬y, “The Kyrenia Ship: An
Interim Report on Its Hull Construction,” 90.
23. Conversation in 1997 with Edward Rogers, who helped record the Uluburun planking.
24. See Jean-Pierre Joncheray, “L’épave grecque, ou ètrusque, de Bon Porté,” 26–28.
25. Alfred R. Wallace, The Malay Archipelago, 425–26.
26. See, respectively, James Hornell, “The Sea-Going Mtepe and Dáu of the Lamu Archi-
pelago,” 59; Richard L. Bowen Jr., “Arab Dhows of Eastern Arabia,” 110.
27. Samuel Mark, “Odyssey 5.234–53 and Homeric Ship Construction: A Reappraisal,”
444; Casson, “Odysseus’ Boat (Od. V, 234–53),” 73–74.
28. Ste¬y, Wooden Ship Building, 268.
29. Zdenko Brusić and Miljenko Domjan, “Liburnian Boats: Their Construction and
Form,” 76, figure 6.5; Tim Severin, “Constructing the Omani Boom Sohar,” 283–85.
30. James Hornell, Water Transport: Origins and Early Evolution, 235.
31. Ste¬y, Wooden Ship Building, 25–26.
32. K. Parfitt, “The Dover Boat,” 4–8.
33. Wallace, Malay Archipelago, 425–26.
34. Henry Yule, Cathay and the Way Thither, 66–67.

Notes to Pages 26–31 195

 35. Herodotus 2.96; Strabo 16.1.11; Apollonius Rhodius Argonautica 1.1005, 2.1112.
36. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 218.
37. Ibid.
38. 51 D–K: ouj xunia'sin o{kw" diaferovmenon eJwutw'/i oJmologevei palivntropo" aJrmonivh
o{kwsper tovxou kai; luvrh"; Mark, “Odyssey 5.234–53: A Reappraisal,” 444. See also LSJ,
Greek-English Lexicon, 244, s.v. aJrmoniva.
39. Casson, “Odysseus’ Boat (Od. V, 234–53),” 74.
40. Ibid.
41. Charles H. Kahn, The Art and Thought of Heraclitus, 195–98.
42. Ibid.
43. Hippocrates O¬. 25: ta; de; kai; tw'n diastasivwn tw'n kata; ta;" aJrmoniva" ejn toi'si
[tw'n] kata; th;n kefalh;n ojstevwn ejreismavtwn cavrin:; Mark, “Odyssey 5.234–53: A Re-
appraisal,” 444.
44. Thomas L. Stedman, Stedman’s Medical Dictionary, 1513; James Hanken and Brian K.
Hall, The Skull, 177.
45. Casson, “Odysseus’ Boat (Od. 5, 234–53),” 74.
46. Stedman, Stedman’s Medical Dictionary, 1513; Hanken and Hall, Skull, 177.
47. See Herodotus 9.83; Hippocrates VC 1; Plato Ti. 76a.
48. Od. 22.186; Plato Plt. 280c; Dio Cassius 43.11; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1565, 1566,
s.v.v. rJavptw, rJa'f-euv".
49. Lionel Casson, The Periplus Maris Etythraei, 59.
50. LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1565, 1566, s.v.v rJavptw, rJa±f-euv".
51. Casson, “Odysseus’ Boat (Od. V, 234–53),” 74.
52. Tim Severin, The Sinbad Voyage, 56; Shelley Wachsmann, Seagoing Ships and Seamanship
in the Bronze Age Levant, 228.
53. Pliny HN 16.158.
54. Apollonius Sophista Lexicon Homericum, s.v.v. aJrmoniavwn, a]rhren. See also Dindorf,
Scholia Graeca, 1: 266, s.v. a]rarev, line 248.
55. LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 234, s.v. ajra±rivskw.
56. Lord, The Singer of Tales, 32.
57. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 52, s.v. ajravssw; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 234, s.v. ajravssw.
58. LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 234, s.v. ajravssw.
59. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 52, s.v. ajravssw.
60. Od. 5.253.
61. André W. Sleeswyk, “Phoenician Joints, coagmenta punicana,” 243–44; Lucien Basch,
“Carthage and Rome: Tenons and Mortises,” 245–50.
62. Cemal Pulak, “The Uluburun Shipwreck,” 252–57.
63. Ibid., 249; Cemal Pulak, “The Late Bronze Age Shipwreck at Uluburun: Aspects of
Hull Construction,” 210.
64. George F. Bass, “The Construction of a Seagoing Vessel of the Late Bronze Age,” 25;
Cemal Pulak, “1994 Excavation at Uluburun: The Final Campaign,” 11–13; Michael Fitzger-
ald, “Laboratory Research and Analysis,” 8–9; Pulak, “The Late Bronze Age Shipwreck at
Uluburun,” 218–23.
65. Pulak, “1994 Excavation at Uluburun,” 11–13; Fitzgerald, “Laboratory Research and
Analysis,” 8–9.

196 Notes to Pages 32–37

 66. Cemal Pulak, “The Shipwreck at Uluburun: 1993 Excavation Campaign,” 7; Pulak,
“1994 Excavation at Uluburun,” 8.
67. Wachsmann, Seagoing Ships and Seamanship, 44.
68. Bass, “Cape Gelidonya,” 164.
69. Pulak, “The Uluburun Shipwreck,” 249.
70. I. Negueruela, J. Pinedo, M. Gómez, A. Miñano, I. Arellano, and J. S. Barba, “Seventh-
Century-b.c. Phoenician Vessel Discovered at Playa de la Isla, Mazarrón, Spain,” 196, figure
12. I calculated this scale from measurements of the keel and frames published in Carlos
Azipurua and Juan Méndez’s “Extracción y tratamientos del barco Fenicio (barco 1) de la
playa de la isla (Puerto de Mazarrón, Mazarrón),” 219, which were confirmed by a drawing
published in Per Åkesson’s “Mazarrón Wrecks,” figure 513.
71. Azipurua and Méndez, “Extracción y tratamientos,” 219.
72. Negueruela, Pinedo, Gómez, Miñano, Arellano, and Barba, “Seventh-Century-b.c.
Phoenician Vessel,” 189–97.
73. Mensun Bound, “Early Observations on the Construction of the Pre-Classical Wreck
at Campese Bay, Island of Giglio: Clues to the Vessel’s Nationality,” 49.
74. Ibid., 51.
75. Strabo 6.2.2.
76. Michael Grant, The Etruscans, 47 (eighth century); Apostolos Athanassakis, The Ho-
meric Hymns, 97 (no later than the sixth century); Martin L. West, Hesiod Theogeny, 435 (no
earlier than the fifth century).
77. See, respectively, Hugh G. Evelyn-White, Hesiod: The Homeric Hymns and Homerica,
429n. 1, and Henry A. Ormerod, Piracy in the Ancient World, 152.
78. Evelyn-White, Hesiod, 429n. 1.
79. By authors including Ephorus, Isocrates, and Philochrus.
80. See also Strabo 5.2.2.
81. John Boardman, The Greeks Overseas, 202; Pliny HN 35.152; Livy 1.34; Dionysius Hali-
carnassensis 3.46.
82. Boardman, The Greeks Overseas, 206.
83. J. M. Turfa, “International Contacts: Commerce, Trade, and Foreign A¬airs,” 70.
84. Boardman, The Greeks Overseas, 162, 217.
85. Defense Mapping Agency, Sailing Directions (Planning Guide) for the Mediterranean, 175.
86. Mensun Bound, “The Giglio Wreck,” 14–25.
87. Bound, “Early Observations,” 51.
88. Herodotus 4.152.
89. Herodotus 4.152.
90. Boardman, The Greeks Overseas, 206.
91. Herodotus 1.163.
92. Boardman, The Greeks Overseas, 200.
93. Bass, “Cape Gelidonya,” 165.
94. See, respectively, Bound, “The Giglio Wreck,” 21, and Mensun Bound, “A Wreck of
Likely Etruscan Origin o¬ the Mediterranean Island of Giglio,” 43.
95. A. J. Parker, Ancient Shipwrecks of the Mediterranean and the Roman Provinces, 192.
96. Bound, “Early Observations,” 51.
97. Ibid., 51, 53; Bound, “The Giglio Wreck,” 31.

Notes to Pages 37–43 197

 98. Joncheray, “L’épave grecque,” 5–22; Parker, Ancient Shipwrecks, 74–75.
99. Joncheray, “L’épave grecque,” 5–6.
100. Ibid., 23–34; Ste¬y, Wooden Ship Building, 39–40.
101. These measurements are based on the figures from Joncheray, “L’épave grecque,”
24, 25, 27, 29.
102. Patrice Pomey, “L’épave de Bon-Porté et les bateaus cosus,” 225–44; Pomey, “Medi-
terranean Sewn Boats,” 38.
103. Pomey, “Mediterranean Sewn Boats,” 38, 93.
104. P. G. Bahn, “Ancient Ships in Marseille,” 15; Patrice Pomey, “Les épaves grecques
et romaines de la place Jules-Verne à Marseille,” 470–79.
105. Ste¬y, Wooden Ship Building, 56.
106. Patrice Pomey, “Bon Porté Wreck,” 69.
107. A. Freschi, “Note tecniche sul relitto greco arcaico di Gela,” 201–10; see figure on
page 202; R. Panvini, “L’attività delle soprintendenze di Agrigento e Caltanissetta nel campo
dell’archeologia subacquea,” 197–200; Parker, Ancient Shipwrecks, 189.
108. Elisha Linder, “Ma’agan Mikhael Shipwreck: Excavating an Ancient Merchant-
man,” 34.
109. Ibid., 32, 35.
110. Ibid., 29.
111. Yaacov Kahanov, “Conflicting Evidence for Defining the Origin of the Ma’agan
Michael Shipwreck,” 245.
112. Conversation in 2001 with William Charlton, who is publishing a study of the ropes
and knots recovered from this wreck.
113. Jay Roslo¬, “The Ma’agan Michael Shipwreck Excavation: 1989 Season,” 4.
114. Herodotus 2.179.
115. Ada Yardeni, “Maritime Trade and Royal Accountancy in an Erased Customs Ac-
count from 475 b.c.e. on the Ahiqar Scroll from Elephantine,” 67–78.
116. Cynthia Eiseman and Brunilde S. Ridgeway, The Porticello Shipwreck: A Mediterranean
Merchant Vessel of 415–385 B.C., 13.
117. Ibid., 16.
118. Ibid., 107.
119. Lloyd, “Herodotus 2.96.1–2,” 47.
120. Parker, Ancient Shipwrecks, 192.
121. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 184–99.
122. Henry Yule, The Book of Ser Marco Polo, the Venetian, 111.
123. Yule, Cathay, 66–67.
124. Hornell, Water Transport, 235.
125. Hornell, “The Sea-Going Mtepe and Dáu,” 59–62; Hornell, Water Transport, 235;
Bowen Jr., “Arab Dhows,” 87–132.
126. C. J. W. Lydekker, “The Mtepe Dhau of the Bajun Islands,” 91.
127. Hornell, “The Sea-Going Mtepe and Dáu,” 62.
128. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 202.
129. Pulak, “The Uluburun Shipwreck,” 253, 256–57.
130. Muhly, “Homer,” 198–200.
131. Finley, World of Odysseus, 40; Mark, “Odyssey 5.234–53: A Reappraisal,” 444–45.

198 Notes to Pages 43–53

 132. Mark, “Odyssey 5.234–53: A Reappraisal,” 445.
133. Boardman, The Greeks Overseas, 39, 43.
134. Glenn E. Markoe, Phoenicians, 172.
135. For a more detailed discussion, see David L. Conlin, “Ship Evolution, Ship ‘Ecol-
ogy,’ and the Masked Value Hypothesis,” 3–15.
136. Severin, “Constructing the Omani Boom Sohar,” 280–85. See also Bowen Jr., “Arab
Dhows,” 107–109.
137. Ibid. (both Severin and Bowen Jr.)
138. Bowen Jr., “Arab Dhows,” 108.
139. Ibid.; F. H. Titmuss, Commercial Timbers of the World, 243.
140. Bowen Jr., “Arab Dhows,” 108–109.
141. John F. Coates, “Some Structural Models for Sewn Boats.” 18.
142. Hornell, “The Sea-Going Mtepe and Dáu,” 55; E. Gilbert, “The Mtepe: Regional
Trade and the Late Survival of Sewn Ships in East African Waters,” 46.
143. Severin, “Constructing the Omani Boom Sohar,” 279.
144. Bowen Jr., “Arab Dhows,” 100–101.
145. Hornell, Water Transport, 235.
146. See, respectively, Yule, Book of Ser Marco Polo, 119; Ross Dunn, The Adventures of Ibn
Battuta, 120; and Severin, Sinbad Voyage, 27.
147. Raymond Faulkner, “Egyptian Seagoing Ships,” 3.
148. Charles J. Poncet, “A Voyage to Aethiopia in the Years 1698, 1699, and 1700,” 156.
149. Pulak, “The Uluburun Shipwreck,” 249, 257.
150. See, respectively, Ste¬y, Wooden Ship Building, 12, 43; Michael Katzev, “Assessing a
Chance Find near Kyrenia,” 45; and Eiseman and Ridgeway, The Porticello Shipwreck, 107.
151. E. Hadidaki, “The Classical Shipwreck at Alonnesos,” 125, 128, 132.
152. Thucydides 7.25.6.
153. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 171.
154. Ibid., 171–72.
155. Yule, Book of Ser Marco Polo, 111; Yule, Cathay, 66–67; Severin, Sinbad Voyage, 20;
George F. Hourani, Arab Seafaring, 28, 94–95.
156. Ovid Met. 11.480–513.
157. Ovid Met. 11.514–15: iamque labant cunei, spoliataque tegmine cerae rima patet praebetque
viam letalibus undis.
158. P. G. W. Glare, Oxford Latin Dictionary, 471, s.v. cuneo.
159. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 202n. 7.
160. A. E. Watts, The Metamorphoses of Ovid: An English Version, 255.
161. Pomey, “L’épave de Bon-Porté,” 225–44.
162. Fede Berti, Fortuna maris: la nave romana di Comacchio, 25–42.
163. Hourani, Arab Seafaring, 3–114.
164. Severin, Sinbad Voyage, 18.
165. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 270–72.
166. James Bruce, Travels to Discover the Source of the Nile, 107.
167. Ibid., 236.
168. Bertram Thomas, Arabia Felix: Across the Empty Quarter of Arabia, 2–3.
169. Muhammad Ibn Jubayr, The Travels of Ibn Jubayr, 70.

Notes to Pages 54–59 199

 170. Coates, “Some Structural Models,” 11.
171. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 270.
172. Alan Villiers, Sons of Sinbad, 43–44, 252, 325.
173. Ibid., 326–27, 398.
174. Hornell, “The Sea-Going Mtepe and Dáu,” 62.
175. Walter Ashburner, The Rhodian Sea-Law, lxxv; clxvi–clxxvii.
176. George F. Foster, “The Sociology of Pottery: Questions and Hypotheses Arising
from Contemporary Mexican Work,” 43–48.
177. Ibid., 49–50.
178. Ste¬y, “The Kyrenia Ship,” 92–93; 94.
179. Foster, “The Sociology of Pottery,” 51.
180. See Herodotus 1.51, 1.70.
181. The small bases on the amphorae from the Porticello wreck were 5 cm in diameter,
and the large ones were 10 cm. See Eiseman and Ridgeway, The Porticello Shipwreck, 37–51.
182. Ibid.
183. Ste¬y, “The Kyrenia Ship,” 100.
184. This evolution was originally thought to have ended in the eleventh century a.d. See
Ste¬y, Wooden Ship Building, 79–91. However, now it is thought to have been complete in the
ninth century. See Matthew Harpster, “Asking the Reason Why,” 31.
185. Herodotus 3.39, 6.89, 6.92, 7.144; Thucydides 13.6, 14.1.
186. Herodotus 7.144.

chapter 5
1. Od. 5.234–41, 5.243–53, 5.256–57. The lines pertaining to the mast and sails are cov-
ered in a later chapter.
2. E. Warre, “On the Raft of Odysseus,” 209–19.
3. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 319–21.
4. Od. 5.174.
5. Od. 5.368.
6. Frank Brewster, “The Raft of Odysseus,” 49–53.
7. Casson, “Odysseus’ Boat (Od. V, 244–57), 61; Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 217.
8. Stanford, Odyssey of Homer, 293n. 33. See also Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 217. Din-
dorf (Scholia Graeca, 1: 243, s.v. scedivh" [line 33]) seems to favor a meaning of a vessel built
quickly.
9. 85 D: to;n gou'n bevltiston tw'n ajnqrwpivnwn lovgwn labovnta kai; dusexelegktovtaton,
ejpi; touvtou ojcouvmenon, w{sper ejpi; scediva" kinduneuvonta, diapleu'sai to;n bivon, eij mhv
ti" duvnaito ajsfalevsteron kai; ajkindunovteron ejpi; bebaiotevrou ojchvmato" . . . dia-
poreuqh'nai.
10. For example, see Raymond Larson, The Symposium and the Phaedo, 82.
11. See, respectively, Od. 5.251, and 16.41. See also Cecil Torr, Ancient Ships, 122.
12. LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1744, s.v. scediv-a. See also Torr, Ancient Ships, 122; Georg
Autenrieth, A Homeric Dictionary, 262, s.v. scedivh.
13. Xenophon An. 2.4.28.
14. LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1744, s.v. scediv-a.
15. Hornell, Water Transport, 26–28.

200 Notes to Pages 59–72

 16. Ibid., 101, 104.
17. See, respectively, John Gardner and John Maier, Gilgamesh, tablets 11.56, and 11.76;
Genesis 6:14–16.
18. See, respectively, Il. 5.302–304, 12.445–60, and 20.285–87.
19. See, respectively, Il. 6.319, and 15.678. A cubit is about 45.7 cm, or 1.5 feet. See also
Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 665.
20. André Tchernia, “Eustathe et rafiot d’Ulysse (Od. 5),” 625–31.
21. Il. 10.240–531 (warrior), 10.220–24 (speaker); Od. 5.269–80 (sailor), 17.514–21 (story-
teller), 10.158–73 (hunter), and 5.234–57, 23.190–200 (carpenter).
22. Il. 15.411–12.
23. Od. 5.445, 9.519–536, 11.100–103.
24. Od. 12.324–419.
25. Od. 5.175.
26. Od. 5.205–209.
27. See chapter 5, pages 57–58.
28. Basch, Le musée imaginaire, 138–40.
29. Frank Brommer, Herakles II: die unkanonischen Taten des Helden, 65–67; Basch, Le musée
imaginaire, 138–40.
30. Hornell, Water Transport, 20–37.
31. Pliny HN 8.16.
32. Hornell, Water Transport, 34; Florus Epit. 2.20.
33. Theophrastus HP. 5.8.2; Diodorus Atheniensis 19.54.3.
34. Aghion, Barbillon, and Lissarrague, Gods and Heroes, 70.
35. Od. 5.370–74.
36. See, respectively, Villiers, Sons of Sinbad, 36; and Severin, Sinbad Voyage, 38.
37. Od. 5.239.
38. Russell Meiggs, Trees and Timber in the Ancient Mediterranean World, 108–109.
39. Il. 23.110–26.
40. Meiggs, Trees and Timber, 108–109.
41. Il. 2.543, 16.143; Od. 14.282, 22.259.
42. Meiggs, Trees and Timber, 110; Herbert Stone, The Timbers of Commerce and Their Identifi-
cation, 160; Titmuss, Commercial Timbers, 31.
43. Il. 13.612; Theophrastus HP 5.7.8; Meiggs, Trees and Timber, 111.
44. Meiggs, Trees and Timber, 109.
45. Ibid., 241.
46. Theophrastus HP 5.7.1; Stone, Timbers of Commerce, 273; Meiggs, Trees and Timber, 119.
47. Theophrastus HP 5.7.1.
48. Stone, Timbers of Commerce, 217–18; Titmuss, Commercial Timbers, 22.
49. Michael Fitzgerald, “The Ship,” 172.
50. Torr, Ancient Ships, 32n. 83.
51. Stone, Timbers of Commerce, 237.
52. Ste¬y, Wooden Ship Building, 46.
53. Fitzgerald, “The Ship,” 163, 176.
54. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 65, s.v. ajcerwi?"; see also 10, s.v. ai[geirov".
55. Il. 13.389–91.

Notes to Pages 72–79 201

 56. Ste¬y, Wooden Ship Building, 41, 43; Fitzgerald, “The Ship,” 170–75.
57. Fitzgerald, “The Ship,” 172, 176.
58. Theophrastus HP 4.28, 5.1.17, 5.7.1–2; Vegetius, de Re Mil 4.34; Torr, Ancient Ships,
31–33; Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 86, 212–13, 221.
59. Od. 5.240; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 325, s.v. perivkhlo"; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1376, s.v.
perivkhlo". The etymology of this word is unknown, but the context suggests it denotes
timber that has completely dried. “Sapless” or “well seasoned” are other possible interpre-
tations.
60. Vitruvius de Arch. 2.9.3.
61. Charles Desmond, Wooden Ship-Building, 12.
62. Theophrastus HP 5.6.3.
63. Apollonius Rhodius Argonautica 1.1003–1005.
64. Peter Goodwin, The Construction and Fitting of the English Man of War, 1650–1850, 38.
65. Bob Darr, “Milling Your Own,” 23.
66. Theophrastus HP 5.7.4; Torr, Ancient Ships, 34; Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 205n. 21.
67. Torr, Ancient Ships, 34; Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 205n. 21.
68. Od. 18.309.
69. Severin, “Constructing the Omani Boom Sohar,” 283.
70. Od. 5.240.
71. William L. Goodman, The History of Woodworking Tools, 111–13.
72. Od. 17.341.
73. Il. 15.410; Od. 5.245, 17.341, 21.44, 21.121, 23.197.
74. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 363, s.v. stavqmh.
75. Severin, “Constructing the Omani Boom Sohar,” 283.
76. Il. 2.765. See also Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 364, s.v. stafuvlh.
77. Od. 9.382–88.
78. Alex W. Bealer, Old Ways of Working Wood, 124.
79. Ibid., 125.
80. Goodman, History of Woodworking Tools, 162.
81. W. M. Flinders Petrie, Tools and Weapons Illustrated by the Egyptian Collection in University
College London, 39, plate 43.28.
82. M. Udell, “Woodworking Tools from the Ma’agan Micha’el Shipwreck in Their Ar-
chaeological, Historical, and Technological Context,” 28.
83. Goodman, History of Woodworking Tools, 162–64.
84. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 376, s.v. tevktwn.
85. Od. 17.384–85.
86. Od. 23.190–200.
87. See, respectively, Il. 5.59–63, 6.314–15.
88. Il. 15.411–12.
89. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 387, s.v. tornovomai.
90. Il. 23.255.
91. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 203.
92. Ste¬y, “The Kyrenia Ship,” 99.
93. See, respectively, Od. 19.574; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 451, s.v. druvocoi; and Il. 1.486;
Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 158 s.v. e{rma.

202 Notes to Pages 80–89

 94. At this time detailed cross sections of the Jules Verne 7 wreck have not been published.
95. Field: The Country Gentlemen’s Newspaper, Sept. 24, 1925, 524.
96. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 199, s.v. i[kria; forward deck, Od. 12.229; and stern deck, Il. 15.729.
97. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 364, s.v. stami'ne"; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 841, s.v. i{sthmi.
98. Nonnus Dionysiaca 40.446, 40.452; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1633, s.v. sta± mivn; Cas-
son, Ships and Seamanship, 218.
99. Murray, Homer, The Odyssey, 189.
100. Warre, “On the Raft of Odysseus,” 218.
101. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 221.
102. Autenrieth, Homeric Dictionary, 81, s.v. druv-oco". See also Procopius Goth. 4.22.12.
103. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 99, s.v. dru'".
104. LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 749–50, s.v. e[cw; Autenrieth, Homeric Dictionary, 81, s.v.
e[cw; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 173–74, s.v. e[cw.
105. Autenrieth, Homeric Dictionary, 81, s.v. druv-oco".
106. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 223.
107. Il. 1.86; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 99, s.v. drutovmo".
108. LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 451, s.v. dru'".
109. Od. 19.573–76.
110. Stanford, Odyssey of Homer, 338–39; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 99, s.v. druvocoi; Casson,
Ships and Seamanship, 223; Robert Fagles, The Odyssey, 408.
111. LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 451, s.v. druvocoi; Lattimore, Odyssey of Homer, 297.
112. See, respectively, Aristophanes Th. 52; and Plato Ti 81b.
113. LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 451, 445, s.v.v. dru'", dovru.
114. Ibid., 620, s.v. ejphgkenivde".
115. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 321n. 3; Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 218n. 5; 384,
s.v. gunwales.
116. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 48.
117. LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 10, s.v. ajgkwvvn.
118. Ibid.
119. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 218n. 5; and 384, s.v. gunwales.
120. Cemal Pulak, “The Shipwreck at Uluburun, Turkey: 1992 Excavation Campaign,” 11.
121. Od. 5.257.
122. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 321n. 1; Od. 14.49, 16.47.
123. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 219.
124. Bass, “Cape Gelidonya,” 49.
125. Wallace, Malay Archipelago, 424–26.
126. Parfitt, “Dover Boat,” 4–8.

chapter 6
1. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 190, s.v. qoov"; Od. 9.86.
2. Od. 4.708.
3. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 45.
4. See Il. 1.26, 2.454.
5. See, respectively, Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 44n. 3; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 79, 231, s.v.v.
glafurov", koi'lo".

Notes to Pages 89–97 203

 6. Il. 18.338; Od. 19.182.
7. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 234, s.v. korwniv"; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 983, s.v. korwvn-h.
8. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 307. See also Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 45.
9. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 45.
10. Wachsmann, Seagoing Ships and Seamanship, 186.
11. Ibid., 176–97.
12. John Lenz, “Homer’s nhusi; korwnivsin,” 199–200.
13. See, respectively, Od. 1.441; Il. 4.111; and Lenz, “Homer’s nhusi; korwnivsin,” 199.
14. Lenz, “Homer’s nhusi; korwnivsin,” 200.
15. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, plates 1–7.
16. LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 839, s.v. i[so"; Od. 4.349.
17. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 202, s.v. i\so"; Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 307n. 3; Od. 4.349.
18. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 45.
19. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 202, s.v. i\so".
20. Il. 2.165; Od. 6.264.
21. LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 91, s.v. ajmfievlissa. See also Casson, Ships and Seamanship,
45n. 17.
22. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 28, s.v. ajmfievlissa.
23. Ibid., 27, s.v. ajmfiv; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 89, s.v. ajmfiv.
24. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 124, s.v. eJlivssw; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 534, s.v. eJlivssw.
25. See Il. 22.95, 23.320.
26. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 45.
27. Ibid., 37–38.
28. Richard L. Gregory, Eye and Brain: The Psychology of Seeing, 114, 188.
29. Ibid.
30. Lattimore, Odyssey of Homer, 109; Od. 6.264.
31. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 260–61, s.v. mevla"; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1095, s.v. mevla".
32. Il. 2.524; Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 307.
33. Ste¬y, Wooden Ship Building, 277.
34. Meiggs, Trees and Timber, 468–69.
35. Il. 2.637; Od. 9.125; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 270, s.v. miltopavrh/o"; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon,
1134, s.v. miltopavrh/o"; Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 45–46.
36. Od. 11.124; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 410, s.v.v. foinikopavrh/o", foi'nix; LSJ, Greek-English Lexi-
con, 1948, s.v.v. foinikopavrh/o", foi'nix; Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 45–46.
37. Michael Ventris and John Chadwick, Documents in Mycenaean Greek, 366.
38. Od. 9.125.
39. Od. 11.124.
40. Od. 9.482; Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 307; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1004, s.v.
ku±a±novprw/o"; Autenrieth, Homeric Dictionary, 170, s.v. kuanov-prw/o".
41. See, respectively, Il. 2.637; Od. 10.127.
42. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 240, s.v. kuanovprw/o".
43. Ibid., s.v. kuvano"; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1004, s.v. kuvano".
44. Il. 11.24–36.
45. Od. 7.87.
46. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 191, s.v. qrigkov"; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 806, s.v. qrigkivon.

204 Notes to Pages 97–100

 47. See, respectively, Arthur Evans, The Palace of Minos at Knossos I, 533–34; Wilhelm
Dörpfeld, “The Buildings of Tiryns,” 284–92.
48. Ventris and Chadwick, Documents in Mycenaean Greek, 339 [Py 239], 344 [Py 244].
49. Ibid.
50. Il. 11.629.
51. Ventris and Chadwick, Documents in Mycenaean Greek, 340.
52. Theophrastus Lap. 31, 37, 39, 40, 55.
53. Od. 7.86–89.
54. Hornell, Water Transport, 285–86.
55. Od. 12.60; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 240, s.v. kuanw'pi".
56. Aeschylus Supp. 743; Aeschylus Pers. 559.
57. Torr, Ancient Ships, 69.
58. Troy J. Nowak, “A Preliminary Report on Opthalmoi from the Tektaş Burnu Ship-
wreck,” 86–90.
59. Ibid., 90–91, figure 14.
60. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 307; Virgil Aen. 3.549.
61. Autenrieth, Homeric Dictionary, 211, s.v. ojrqov-krairo".
62. LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1249, s.v. ojrqov-krairo".
63. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 45; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 298, s.v. ojrqovkrairo".
64. Il. 8.231, 18.573; Od. 12.348; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1249, s.v. ojrqovkrairo".
65. Il. 18.3, 19.344; Guy Prendergast, A Complete Concordance to the Iliad of Homer, 298.
66. Il. 18.3, 19.344: propavroiqe new'n ojrqokrairavwn.
67. Ibid., 1.482; Od. 2.428. See also Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 47n. 19.
68. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 364, s.v. stei'ra; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1637, s.v. stei'ra.
69. Il. 1.482–83; Od. 2.428–29: ajmfi; de; ku'ma steivrh/ porfuvreon megavl∆ i[ace nhov"
ijouvvsh".
70. See, respectively, Theophrastus HP 5.7.3; Nonnus Dio. 40.451. See also John Morri-
son, “Parmenides and Er.” 65; Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 50–51.
71. Od. 15.300; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 803, s.v. qoov".
72. Ste¬y, Wooden Ship Building, 277.
73. Powell, Homer and the Origin, 219.
74. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 43n. 1.
75. Ibid., 49; Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 7.
76. Lionel Cohen, “Evidence for the Ram in the Minoan Period,” 489–93.
77. Geo¬ry Kirk, “Ships on Geometric Vases,” 117–18.
78. George F. Bass, “The Earliest Seafarers in the Mediterranean and the Near East,” 22.
79. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 10, BA 3.
80. Wachsmann, Seagoing Ships and Seamanship, 140.
81. Lucien Basch and Michel Artzy, “Ship Gra~ti at Kition,” 325–27.
82. Wachsmann, Seagoing Ships and Seamanship, 147.
83. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 49.
84. Kirk, “Ships on Geometric Vases,” 118–19; Basch, Le musée imaginaire, 159; Casson,
Ships and Seamanship, 67.
85. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 12.
86. Ibid.

Notes to Pages 100–109 205

 87. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 67.
88. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 12.
89. Dorothea Gray, Seewesen, 57.
90. Frederick H. van Doorninck, “Protogeometric Longships and the Introduction of
the Ram,” 282.
91. There is some disagreement on the dating of this pottery. See ibid., 283.
92. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 49–50.
93. Van Doorninck, “Protogeometric Longships,” 283–85. Curiously, Basch (Le musée
imaginaire, 191) dates this fibula to the beginning of the eighth century. He not only fails to
cite any convincing evidence to support such a late date but also ignores the evidence van
Doorninck cites.
94. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 50.
95. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 19–20; Gunnar Ahlberg, Fighting on Land
and Sea in Greek Geometric Art, 25–27, 58.
96. Ahlberg, Fighting on Land, figures 29, 32, and 44.
97. Van Doorninck, “Protogeometric Longships,” 284.
98. Basch, Le musée imaginaire, 395.
99. Thomas Gillmer and Bruce Johnson, Introduction to Naval Architecture, 212.
100. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 50.
101. Van Doorninck, “Protogeometric Longships,” 284; Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 43.
102. See chapter 2, pages 14–15.
103. Lord, “Characteristics of Orality,” 63.
104. See, respectively, Ong, Orality and Literacy, 46, 48; Finnegan, Oral Poetry, 28–29.
105. See, respectively, Med-edović, The Wedding, 243; Lord, The Singer of Tales, 44.
106. See chapter 2, pages 13–14.
107. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 43.
108. Il. 4.123, 4.485, 7.141, 18.34, 5.723, 18.476–77, 23.261, 23.850; Od. 9.393, 19.13,
19.587, 21.97, 21.114.
109. Od. 7.86.
110. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 38.
111. See chapter 2, pages 14–15.
112. Il. 15.717; Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 307.
113. Il. 15.716–17; Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 47, 57n. 2.
114. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 47, 57n. 3.
115. Il. 14.410, 1.486, 2.154; Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 315.
116. Il. 15.717.
117. Il. 9.241.
118. See, respectively, Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 64, 234, s.v.v. a[flaston, kovrumbon; Seymour, Life
in the Homeric Age, 307n. 4.
119. LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 291, 982, s.v.v. a[flaston, kovrumbo". See also Casson, Ships
and Seamanship, 46n. 19.
120. Il. 15.685–86.
121. Il. 15.717.
122. Herodotus 6.114.

206 Notes to Pages 109–15

 123. Apollonius Rhodius Argonautica 2.601: e[mph" d∆ ajflavstoio parevqrisan a[kra
kovrumba.
124. See, respectively, Il. 15.729; Od. 12.229.
125. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 199, s.v. i[kria; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 827, s.v. i[kria; Seymour,
Life in the Homeric Age, 309; Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 47–48.
126. Il. 15.685–86.
127. Od. 12.413–14; Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 47.
128. Od. 13.74–75; Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 48.
129. See, respectively, Od. 2.416–18, 15.285–86; Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared
Ships, 48.
130. Od. 12.229–30; Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 48.
131. Od. 15.282–83, 15.551–52; Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 48, 57n. 7–11.
132. Od. 9.99.
133. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 310.
134. Od. 12.206.
135. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 310.
136. Gray, Seewesen, 62.
137. See chapter 1, page 6. See also Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 51, 59n. 33;
Od. 12.410–11.
138. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 71–73; Wedde, 1996: 573–96.
139. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 51, 59n. 33; Od. 12.410–11.
140. Thucydides 1.14.3.
141. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 51, 59n. 33, 161–62.
142. Il. 2.293; Od. 13.116, 17.288.
143. Od. 9.98–99, 13.20–22.
144. Od. 13.21; Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 310; Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared
Ships, 51.
145. Od. 12.225.
146. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 310. See also Autenrieth, Homeric Dictionary, 128, s.v.
zugovn.
147. Od. 15.479: a[ntlw/ d∆ ejndouvphse.
148. Il. 1.309; Od. 11.4.
149. Il. 1.309.
150. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 118, s.v. eJkatovmbh.
151. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 310.
152. Herodotus 2.96; Sophocles Ajax 249–50.
153. Il. 5.730, 9.187; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 176, s.v. zugovn. See also LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon,
757, s.v. zugovn.
154. Il. 20.247.
155. Robert M. Adams, “Designed Flexibility in a Sewn Boat of the Western Indian
Ocean,” 50.
156. Il. 2.170, Od. 2.390; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 732, s.v. eu[selmo".
157. Hesiod Th. 7.47–48.
158. levwn d∆ ejpi; sevlmato" a[krou deino;n uJpovdra ijdwvn.

Notes to Pages 115–19 207

 159. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 48, 196–97. See also Autenrieth, Homeric
Dictionary, 124, s.v. ejuv-sselmo".
160. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 220. For a beam or thwart see Aeschylus Pers. 358–59;
Euripides Cyclops 505–506. For decking see Euripides Helen 1563–66; Philostratus Vita Ap.
3.35.
161. LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1590, s.v. sevlma.
162. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 169, s.v. eju?sselmo". See also Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 307.
163. Il. 15.728–29.
164. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 48–49, 58n. 13.
165. Il. 14.240; Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 49, 58n. 14. See also Autenrieth,
Homeric Dictionary, 139, s.v. qrh'nu".
166. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 49. See also Seymour, Life in the Homeric
Age, 311; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 806, s.v. qrh'nu".
167. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 49.
168. Od. 12.413–14.
169. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 191, 153, s.v.v. qrh'nu", eJptapovdh" [seven foot].
170. Torr, Ancient Ships, 46n. 110.
171. Il. 14.240, 18.390; Od. 1.131, 4.136, 10.315, 10.367, 17.409, 17.462, 17.504, 19.57.
172. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 156 s.v. ejretmovn; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 686, s.v. ejret-movn.
173. See, respectively, Il. 7.5; Od. 12.172. See also Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 310.
174. See, respectively, Od. 7.328; Od. 9.489.
175. Il. 1.219 (hilt), Od. 21.7 (handle), 9.489, 12.214 (oar); Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age,
310n. 1; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 242, s.v. kwvph; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1019, s.v. kwvp-h.
176. Od. 7.328, 13.78; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 329, s.v. phdovvn; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1400, s.v.
phdovvn.
177. See, respectively, Il. 7.5; Od. 12.205; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 168, s.v. eu[xesto"; LSJ, Greek-
English Lexicon, 724, s.v. eu[xesto"; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 343, s.v. prohvkh"; LSJ, Greek-English Lex-
icon, 1480, s.v. prohvkh"; Od. 12.205.
178. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 310–11; Od. 11.121–30.
179. Od. 11.77; Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 307–308.
180. Od. 8.37, 8.53, 4.782, 12.203–204; Autenrieth, Homeric Dictionary, 273, s.v. tropov";
Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 391, s.v. tropov"; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1827, s.v. tropov"; Autenrieth,
163, s.v. klhi?"; Cunli¬e, 229, s.v. klhi?"; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 957, s.v. kleiv".
181. Od. 12.203–204.
182. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 229, s.v. klhi?"; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 957, s.v. kleiv".
183. Od. 4.782, 8.53.
184. Ibid., 8.53; Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 52.
185. Od. 8.53, 4.782.
186. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 311. See also Aeschylus Pers. 376.
187. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 329, s.v. phdavlion; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1400, s.v. phdavli-on.
188. Autenrieth, Homeric Dictionary, 231, s.v. phdavlion.
189. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 53.
190. Od. 5.255, 7.328, 13.78.
191. Lawrence V. Mott, The Development of the Rudder: A Technological Tale, 48, 50–52.
192. Ibid.

208 Notes to Pages 119–22

 193. G. A. Cariolou, “Kyrenia II: The Return from Cyprus to Greece of the Replica of a
Hellenic Merchant Ship,” 95.
194. See, respectively Od. 3.281, 5.255; Hesiod Op. 629.
195. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 311n. 2; Od. 12.218.
196. Il. 19.43, 24.269.
197. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 52, 59n. 41.
198. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 286, s.v. oijhvi>on; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1201, s.v. oijhvi>on. See also
Il. 19.43; Od. 9.483, 12.218.
199. Autenrieth, Homeric Dictionary, 204, s.v. oijhvion.
200. In Od. 9.482, the stone lands near the bow of the ship, while in Od. 9.539, it lands
near the stern. Yet, both times it nearly hits the blade of the quarter rudder. This is simply
not possible and, for the passage to make sense, Od. (9.483) should be ignored. Forcing the
passage to make sense means equating oijhvi>on with the top of the quarter rudder or tiller in
the first passage, with the stone nearly hitting it as it travels over the top of the ship before
landing near the bow. However, oijhvi>on must equate with rudder blades in the second sec-
tion, when the stone lands in the water near the stern; but this still leaves an incorrect se-
quence of events in the first passage. The only way for the passage to make sense is if oijhvi>on
refers to the quarter rudder as a whole.
201. Od. 9.483, 9.540. It is not unusual for some translators to reject line 483.
202. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 52, 59n. 41.
203. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 261, s.v. melivh.
204. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 53, 60n. 42, 43.
205. Od. 2.424, 15.289; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 204, s.v. iJstov" (also a loom, a web, and a gen-
eral term for weaving); LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 842, s.v. iJstov" (anything upright).
206. Gray, Seewesen, 58.
207. Od. 7.409–13.
208. The prefix mes- can have a meaning of “middle.” See Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 264, s.v.v.
meshvei", mevso", mevsato", mevssaulo".
209. Il. 1.434; Od. 2.422–27. Autenrieth, Homeric Dictionary, 148, s.v. iJstodovkh; Cunli¬e,
Lexicon, 204, s.v. iJstodovkh; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 842, s.v. iJstodovkh.
210. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 53, 60n. 44.
211. Ibid., 54, 60n. 45.
212. Od. 9.322; Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 311–12.
213. Od. 2.424, 15.289; Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 312. See also Morrison and
Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 52.
214. LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1106, s.v. mesovdmh. See also Autenrieth, Homeric Dictionary,
188, s.v. mesovdmh.
215. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 264, s.v. mesovdmh; Od. 2.424, 15.289.
216. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 264, s.v. mesovdmh; Od. 19.37, 20.354.
217. Od. 2.425; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 7, s.v. ajeivrw [to raise or carry].
218. Il. 1.434, Od. 2.425, 12.409, 15.290; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 348, s.v. provtonoi; LSJ, Greek-
English Lexicon, 1537, s.v. provton-oi.
219. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 231, s.v. koi'lo".
220. Ibid., 7, s.v. ajeivrw; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 27, s.v. ajeivrw.
221. Od. 5.316; Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 312n. 2.

Notes to Pages 122–25 209

 222. Od. 12.409; Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 312.
223. Od. 15.496.
224. Autenrieth, Homeric Dictionary, 273, s.v. trovpi"; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 391, s.v. trovpi";
LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1826–27, s.v. trovp-i"; Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 50–
51; Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 222.
225. Lattimore, Odyssey of Homer, 196; Od. 12.420–22: aujta;r ejgw; dia; nho;" ejfoivtwn, o[fr
ajpo; toivcou" lu'se kluvdwn trovpio", th;n de; yilh;n fevre ku'ma, ejk dev oiJ iJsto;n a[raxe poti;
trovpin.
226. Aristophanes Thesm. 52; Polybius 1.38.5.
227. For example, there is no mention of fasteners on the first wreck at Bon Porté; see
Joncheray, “L’épave grecque,” 31–32.
228. Od. 12.51, 12.162, 12.179.
229. Ibid., 12.178–79: oiJ d∆ ejn nhiv m∆ e[dhsan oJmou' cei'rav" te povda" te ojrqon ejn iJsto-
pevdh/,ejk d∆ aujtou' peivrat∆ ajnh'pton.
230. Il. 1.432–36, Od. 3.10–12, 15.495–98.
231. Autenrieth, Homeric Dictionary, 148, s.v. iJsto-pevdh.
232. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 52, 59n. 34.
233. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 47n. 32.
234. See, respectively, Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 204, s.v. iJstopevdh; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 842,
s.v. iJstopevda. See also Od. 12.51, 12.162, 12.179; Alcaeus 18.6.
235. LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 842, s.v. iJstov".
236. Autenrieth, Homeric Dictionary, 240, s.v. pouv"; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 341, s.v. pouv"; LSJ,
Greek-English Lexicon, 1456, s.v. pouv".
237. Apollonius Sophista Lex. s.v. pedavw.
238. LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1351, s.v. pedavw; 1352, s.v. pevdh.
239. Od. 21.391.
240. LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 441, s.v. dokavvnh; 842, s.v. iJstov".
241. LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 842, s.v. iJstopovde".
242. W. Kaiser et al., “Stadt und Tempel von Elephantine,” 174–77; Samuel Mark, “The
Earliest Mast Step,” 24–25.
243. Od. 5.316–17.
244. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 151, s.v. ejpivtono"; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 667, s.v. ejpivton-o".
245. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 312. The placement of the backstay in figure 55 is
just a guess based on Archaic and Classical iconography.
246. Ibid., 313n. 1; Il. 2.135.
247. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 362, s.v. spavrta; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1624, s.v. spavrton.
248. See chapter 4, page 26.
249. Norman de Garis Davies, The Tomb of Rekh-mi-Rê at Thebes, 50; Raymond Faulkner,
The Ancient Egyptian Coffin Texts, 49 [Spell 404]; William Charlton, “Rope and the Art of Knot
Tying in the Seafaring of the Ancient Eastern Mediterranean,” 3.
250. LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1858, s.v. uJpevra; Od. 5.260; Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age,
313.
251. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 395, s.v. uJpevrai.
252. Od. 5.260, 10.32; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 341, s.v. pouv"; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1457, s.v.
pouv".

210 Notes to Pages 125–31

 253. Od. 10.32; Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 56.
254. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 210, s.v. kavlo"; Od. 2.246, 5.210.
255. LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 871, s.v. kavlw".
256. Herodotus 2.36; Torr, Ancient Ships, 81.
257. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 56.
258. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 314n. 1.
259. Od. 14.346, 21.390.
260. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 313n. 1.
261. Od. 13.100; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 88, s.v. desmov".
262. Od. 5.259.
263. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 204, s.v. iJstivon; Il. 1.433.
264. Od. 5.258; Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 314; Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared
Ships, 55.
265. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 54.
266. See o[cea, Il. 5.794 [a single chariot]; dwvmata, Il. 6.313 [a house].
267. Od. 14.350; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 172, s.v. ejfovlkaion; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 746, s.v.
ejfovlk-aion.
268. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 54.
269. Od. 14.350–52.
270. Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 49, 58n. 15.
271. Ibid., 49.
272. Ibid., 49, 58n. 15.
273. LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 742, 746, s.v.v. ejfevlkw, ejfovlk-aion.
274. Strabo 2.3.4; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 746, s.v. ejfovlkaion.
275. Autenrieth, Homeric Dictionary, 126, s.v. ejf-ovlkaion.
276. Od. 14.350–51: . . . xe"to;n ejfovlkaion kataba;" ejpevlassa qalavssh/ sth'qo".
277. Thucydides 1.10.4.
278. See, respectively, Il. 16.170, 2.719; Od. 8.48.
279. See, respectively, Od. 10.208 [forty-six], 9.60 [six die], and 9.289, 9.311, and 9.344
[two die at each meal].
280. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 257, s.v. megakhvth"; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1086, s.v. mega-
khvth"; Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 45; Il. 8.222, 15.160 (also used to describe
the depth of the mighty sea [Od. 3.158]).
281. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 307.
282. Il. 2.510.
283. Thucydides 1.10.4.
284. Herodotus 1.166, 1.164.
285. See, respectively, Strabo 10.4.5; Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 287.
286. See, respectively, Il. 1.309; Od. 1.28, 4.669.
287. Il. 1.309.
288. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 118, s.v. eJkatovmbh.
289. Od. 4.634–37.
290. Od. 9.322–23.
291. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 308.
292. Hornell, “The Sea-Going Mtepe and Dáu,” 62.

Notes to Pages 131–36 211

 293. Od. 2.354, 5.266.
294. Od. 5.266, 2.349, 9.165; Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 307.
295. Od. 13.10–11; 13.68–69.
296. Od. 15.479.
297. Od. 7.411.
298. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 310; Od. 13.21.
299. See, respectively, LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 967, s.v. kovi>lo"; Herodotus 8.119.

chapter 7
1. Arthur M. Shepard, Sea Power in Ancient History, 42.
2. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 305; Il. 18.483–607.
3. See chapter 3, pages 19–24.
4. Il. 23.262–897.
5. Od. 3.165–78.
6. Od. 4.514.
7. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 305.
8. Il. 2.135; Od. 10.40.
9. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 270–72.
10. Gray, Seewesen, 1.
11. Jamie Morton, The Role of the Physical Environment in the Ancient Greek Seafaring, 145–46.
12. Od. 12.274.
13. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 306.
14. Ibid.
15. See, respectively, Od. 10.28, 9.82, 14.257, and 5.278.
16. Od. 10.20–34.
17. Od. 14.252–57.
18. Gray, Seewesen, 3.
19. Boardman, The Greeks Overseas, 39, 43.
20. See, respectively, Od. 14.255–57, and Strabo 10.4.5.
21. Od. 14.291–301.
22. Villiers, Sons of Sinbad, 71, 74, 164.
23. Ibid., 116–17.
24. Ibid., 75, 132, 149.
25. Ibid., 35, 38.
26. Ibid., 74.
27. Ibid., 43–45.
28. Od. 12.287–89.
29. Od. 12.166–262.
30. Od. 2.434, 15.296.
31. Od. 16.365–68.
32. Od. 5.270.
33. Od. 5.273.
34. See, respectively, Od. 12.284 (Eurylochus), and 9.142–48.
35. Od. 11.125: ptera; nhusiv; Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 309. See also Euripides Iphi-
genia Taurica 1346.

212 Notes to Pages 136–44

 36. See chapter 6, note 179.
37. Il. 7.4–7.
38. Od. 10.78.
39. Od. 4.360.
40. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 309.
41. Od. 4.360.
42. Od. 4.466–67.
43. Od. 4.472–83.
44. Od. 4.481–83.
45. See, respectively, Od. 14.252–57, 4.360–62.
46. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 309n. 4.
47. Od. 9.136–39.
48. Od. 19.409–10.
49. Hesiod Op. 648–55.
50. Od. 20.187: porqmh'e".
51. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 20, s.v. aJlieuv"; Od. 24.419.
52. Od. 4.634; Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 318.
53. Od. 9.129.
54. Od. 11.355–61.
55. See, respectively, Od. 4.652, 4.666, 2.402, and 16.326.
56. Od. 4.671–73.
57. Od. 15.28–35.
58. Il. 15.388–89.
59. See, respectively, Il. 15.678; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 232, s.v. kollhtov"; LSJ, Greek-English
Lexicon, 972, s.v. koll-htov"; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 71, s.v. blh'tron; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 318,
s.v. blht-ov".
60. See, respectively, Il. 6.319, and 15.678. A cubit is about 45.7 cm or 1.5 feet. See also
Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 665.
61. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 48n. 48.
62. See, respectively, Il. 12.445, 5.302, and 20.285.
63. Il. 15.674–88.
64. Od. 5.262.
65. Il. 15.730–31 (Aias); Herodotus 8.90; and Roderick T. Williams, “Ships in Greek
Vase-Painting,” 131. See also Gray, Seewesen, 126.
66. Il. 15.388; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 221, s.v. kei'mai; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 934, s.v. kei'mai.
67. Od. 15.282–83, 15.551–52 (stern deck); 12.228–30 (bow deck). See also Morrison
and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 48, 57nn. 7–11.
68. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 673–74.
69. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 275, s.v. nauvmaco"; LSJ, Greek-English Lexicon, 1162, s.v. nauma±c-evw.
70. Od. 12.370–73.
71. Elizabeth Greene, “The Critical Element in the Embarkation Scenes of the Odyssey,”
217–30.
72. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 300.
73. Il. 23.316–17.
74. Od. 3.276–300.

Notes to Pages 144–48 213

 75. Od. 12.403–25.
76. Il. 19.42–44.
77. Od. 10.496–515.
78. Il. 15.189–91.
79. Il. 13.10–31.
80. Od. 4.384–86.
81. Il. 18.34–55.
82. Od. 12.61–68.
83. Od. 12.39–46.
84. Od. 12.85–110.
85. See, respectively, Od. 10.110–24, 9.275–94, 9.282–92, and 9.91–97.
86. Od. 7.18–92.
87. See, respectively, Od. 7.36, 7.108–109, 7.321–26, and 8.557–61.
88. Od. 8.111–16. There is considerable di¬erence of opinion in the translation of these
names. See also William Rouse, Homer: The Odyssey: The Story of Odysseus, 90; Robert Fitzger-
ald, The Odyssey: Homer, 128; and Fagles, Odyssey, 195. This lack of agreement highlights the
di~culty of understanding the nuances of a language, especially one created for traditional
songs and poetry. For my translation of Qovwn as “cutwater” see page 104.
89. Il. 4.76.
90. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 65, s.v. ajcerwi?"; see also 10, s.v. ai[geiro".
91. Il. 13.389–91.
92. See, respectively, Il. 15.381–82, and 3.60–62.
93. Il. 15.619–21.
94. See chapter 2, pages 10–11.
95. Cecil Bowra, Tradition and Design in the Iliad, 72.
96. See, respectively, Il. 2.494–759, and 2.816–77; Mededović, The Wedding, 182–201.
97. Lord, The Singer of Tales, 86, 106.
98. Kenneth Atchity, Homer’s Iliad: The Shield of Memory, 277.
99. Od. 19.574. See Atchity, Homer’s Iliad, 149, 154–56.
100. Od. 21.388–91.
101. See chapter 3, pages 22–24.
102. See chpater 6, pages 101–102.
103. Od. 5.175–76.

chapter 8
1. Od. 10.87–90.
2. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 168, eu[ormo"; Il. 21.23; Od. 4.358, and 9.136.
3. Od. 9.136–39.
4. Od. 13.96–101.
5. Il. 1.432–36; Od. 3.10–12, and 15.495–98 (short stay for lunch).
6. Od. 9.142–49.
7. Od. 9.487.
8. Od. 2.389–90, 2.414–33, 3.153–54, 3.577–78, 4.780–86, 11.2–5, and 11.7–9.
9. Od. 13.114–16.

214 Notes to Pages 148–54

 10. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 314.
11. Francesco da Barberino, Documenti d’amore, 275.
12. Od. 10.87, 10.95–96, and 10.127.
13. Od. 22.465.
14. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 315.
15. Od. 3.424.
16. Od. 3.353, 3.365, and 12.32.
17. Od. 12.317.
18. Villiers, Sons of Sinbad, 216–17.
19. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 314. See also Il. 1.436.
20. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 314; Morrison and Williams, Greek Oared Ships, 56;
Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 48n. 45.
21. Od. 13.77.
22. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 314.
23. Casson, Ships and Seamanship, 48n. 45.
24. See, respectively, Il. 3.445, Od. 4.438, 14.14, 5.482; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 167–68, s.v. eujnhv.
25. Wachsmann, Seagoing Ships and Seamanship, 255–93.
26. Bound, “The Giglio Wreck,” 14–25.
27. Jay Roslo¬, “A One-Armed Anchor of ca. 400 b.c.e. from the Ma’agan Michael
Vessel, Israel: A Preliminary Report,” 223–24.
28. Ibid., 225.
29. Ibid., 226.
30. Eiseman and Ridgeway, The Porticello Shipwreck, 23n. 21; Jay Roslo¬, “A One-Armed
Anchor,” 226.
31. Wachsmann, Seagoing Ships and Seamanship, 275.
32. Austin M. Knight, Modern Seamanship, 232.
33. H. Wallace, “Ancient Anchors: Taking Stock,” 14–17; Wachsmann, Seagoing Ships and
Seamanship, 286–87.
34. Od. 9.546, and 11.20.
35. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 315
36. Od. 4.360, 4.428, 4.573, 4.358.
37. Od. 10.402–405, 10.423–25.
38. Il. 2.153.
39. Il. 14.77.
40. Il. 1.486; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 158, s.v. e{rma.
41. Hornell, “The Sea-Going Mtepe and Dáu,” 62.
42. Il. 14.410, 1.486, 2.154; Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 315.
43. Hesiod Op. 624.
44. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 316.
45. Gardner and Maier, Gilgamesh, tablets 11.20–24, 56–65.
46. Il. 14.31–36.
47. Apollonius Rhodius Argonautica 1.388; Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 315.
48. Od. 5.261; Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 274, s.v. moclov".
49. Od. 6.263–69, 10.96, 13.77.

Notes to Pages 154–60 215

 50. Od. 4.671, 4.842, 4.847.
51. Od. 10.30; Il. 19.375.
52. Morton, Role of the Physical Environment, 212.

chapter 9
1. Victor Bérard, Les Phéniciens et l’Odyssée, 1: 49–55.
2. See, respectively, ibid., vol. 2, 95–113, 114–79, 183–208, 209–57, 264–310, 311–29,
349–64; ibid., vol. 1, 260–83, 481–87.
3. Louis Moulinier, Quelques hypotheses relative à la géographie de l’Homère dans l’Odyssée, 61–63.
4. See ibid., 77–83, and 109–18.
5. Ibid., 85–93.
6. See Ernle Bradford, Ulysses Found, 43–62, 67, 78, 179–95, 104–15.
7. Butler, The Authoress of the Odyssey, 158–207.
8. A. Rousseau-Liessens, Géographie de l’Odyssée: La Phéacie, 13–102; ibid., Géographie de
l’Odyssée: Les récits, 9–134.
9. Rousseau-Liessens, Les récits, 32–33.
10. Lewis Pocock, Reality and Allegory in the Odyssey, 20.
11. Ibid., 13–32, 47–133.
12. Gilbert Pillot, The Secret Code of the Odyssey, 44–114.
13. Henriette Mertz, The Wine Dark Sea, 17–165.
14. Strabo 1.1.2.
15. See Strabo 1.2.17 and 1.29.
16. Strabo 1.2.11.
17. Strabo 1.2.15–17.
18. Strabo 1.2.18. See also Strabo 1.2.31 and 1.2.37 (If “Oceanus” equates with the At-
lantic, 1.2.26–27).
19. Strabo, 1.2.15.
20. Od. 7.36, 7.321–26.
21. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 58–60.
22. Ibid., 60–61.
23. Pocock, Reality and Allegory, 22–23.
24. Ibid., 12, 20.
25. Strabo 1.2.9, 1.2.15.
26. Strabo 1.2.17.
27. Strabo 1.2.16.
28. Strabo 1.2.9.
29. Strabo 1.1.4; 1.2.11.
30. Strabo 1.1.4–5.
31. Strabo 1.2.12.
32. Strabo
33. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 57–58.
34. Page, Folktales in Homer’s Odyssey, 4–5.
35. Od. 4.230–32.
36. Il. 9.381–84.
37. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 55n. 2.

216 Notes to Pages 160–67

38. Od. 4.354–57.
39. Pliny HN 5.31.1.
40. Strabo 1.2.23, 1.2.30; Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 55n. 1.
41. Stanford, Odyssey of Homer, 278. See also Gray, Seewesen, 106–107.
42. Od. 14.260–80.
43. Strabo 1.2.29.
44. Strabo 1.2.30.
45. Od. 4.85, 14.295–301.
46. Od. 1.24.
47. Il. 1.423; Od. 1.22.
48. Strabo 1.2.31.
49. Strabo 1.2.26–27.
50. Il. 6.291; Od. 4.617, 14.288–300.
51. Od. 21.391.
52. August Köster, Das Antike Seewesen, 78.
53. Od. 17.443.
54. Od. 8.362–63.
55. See Od. 14.255–57, and 14.291–301.
56. Od. 1.184.
57. E. D. Phillips, “Odysseus in Italy,” 54. See also Stanford, Odyssey of Homer, 223–24.
58. Od. 20.383.
59. See, for example, John A. Scott, The Unity of Homer, 4–7; Gray, Seewesen, 1.
60. Od. 11.307–316.
61. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 55.
62. Il. 2.493–760.
63. Il. 2.496, 2.502, 2.503; Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 64–65.
64. Il. 4.52, 7.180.
65. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 64.
66. Ibid., 56.
67. William Taylour, The Mycenaeans, 11.
68. Od. 2.421, 2.434.
69. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 53, 68.
70. Od. 3.481–4.1.
71. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 68
72. Scott, The Unity of Homer, 4–5.
73. Strabo 1.2.21.
74. See Strabo 1.2.30, and 1.3.18.
75. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 68–76 [Ithaca], 66 [Agamemnon].
76. Scott, The Unity of Homer, 52.
77. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 53, 56.
78. Scott, The Unity of Homer, 4–8.
79. Ibid., 6–7.
80. John Cook, “Old Smyrna, 1948–1951,” 22.
81. Gray, Seewesen, 12, 137.
82. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 53.

Notes to Pages 167–71 217

 83. Hammond and Scullard, Oxford Classical Dictionary, 61–62.
84. Herodotus 5.49.
85. Aristophanes Nub. 206.
86. Herodotus 7.176.
87. Gray, Seewesen, 1.
88. Boardman, The Greeks Overseas, 39, 43.
89. Ibid., 202; Pliny HN 35.152; Livy 1.34; Dionys. Hal. 3.46.
90. Boardman, The Greeks Overseas, 213; Herodotus 4.152.
91. Boardman, The Greeks Overseas, 162, 217.
92. Strabo 1.2.14.
93. Seymour, Life in the Homeric Age, 58–60.
94. Ricardo Quintana, Swift: An Introduction, 23.
95. For geological examples see George Rapp and John Gi¬ord (Troy: The Archaeological
Geology). For an example of human impact on the site read Schliemann’s site reports (Ilios:
The City and Country of the Trojans; Troy and Its Remains).
96. Defense Mapping Agency, Sailing Directions (Enroute) for the Western Mediterranean, 359.
97. Cunli¬e, Lexicon, 404, s.v. fa'ro".
98. Strabo 1.1.16.
99. William Smyth, The Mediterranean: A Memoir, Physical, Historical, and Natural, 180–81.
100. Strabo 1.2.9.

218 Notes to Pages 171–77

Glossåry

Definitions are restricted to the context used in this book.

Amidships. At or near the midpoint between the bow and stern of a ship. Sometimes
corresponds with the beam of a ship.
Amphora, amphorae (pl.). Two-handled storage container. The bodies of amphorae
designed to be transported by ship taper down to a small base; see figure 21.
Archaic period. From about 630 to 479 b.c., but can vary depending upon the subject.
Askos, askoi (pl.) [ascos]. A ceramic container used to hold and dispense wine; it appears to
have been patterned after a wineskin.
Baghla [baggala]. Appears to come from the Arabic word baghl (“mule”). It is the largest
known of the Arab cargo ships and seems to have originated in Kuwait. These ships
were known for making the long voyage to India. Besides size, baghlas were
distinguished by ornate carvings at the stern, and as early as the late-eighteenth
century, they were built with a European-style square stern or flat transom.
Batten. A thin strip of pliable wood used to temporarily connect hull timbers during
construction, allowing the determination of frame curvatures.
Beam. Maximum width of a vessel (See deck beam).
Bole. Trunk of a tree
Boom [bhum, bum]. Double-ended ships, lacking ornamentation, which were smaller
than baghlas, but are believed to also have originated in Kuwait; they may have been
the forerunner of the baghla. This vessel was used for trade and pearling, especially in
the Arabian [Persian] Gulf and was typically sailed to East Africa ports.
Bulkhead. An upright, transverse partition that separates a hull into compartments.
Burden. Cargo capacity of a vessel.
Cabotage. Navigation or trade along a coast.
Ceiling planking. Internal planking on the upper surfaces of frames.
Center-to-center spacing. A measurement taken from the center of one element to the center
of a corresponding element.
Cheops [Khufu]. Khufu, who is most commonly known by his Greek name Cheops, was
the second king of the fourth dynasty of Old Kingdom, Egypt (ca. 2551–2528 b.c.).He
is most famous for the construction of the Great Pyramid, which was regarded as one
of the seven wonders of the ancient world. Around the pyramid five funerary barges
were buried, of which only two survive, and one, the Cheops I vessel, has been
reconstructed and is now on display next to the pyramid.
Chocks. Angular blocks of wood placed in open spaces between timbers.
Classical and classical. When spelled with an uppercase “C,” it refers to the Classical period
of Greece. If spelled with a lowercase “c,” it refers to Greek and Roman times.
Deck beam. A timber that connects the port and starboard sides, supports decking, and
supplies lateral strength to a hull.
Deck head. Underside of a deck.
Dhow. Generic term used by Europeans to describe all medium and large traditional
Arabic ships.
Dipinti. Refers to some type of painting. In the context used by Boardman, it refers to the
painted merchant marks on pottery. Gra~ti, by contrast, refers to merchant marks
that were scratched into the pots.
Dowel. A wooden pin with a roughly constant diameter throughout its length and which is
fitted into holes in two adjacent pieces of wood to form a joint.
Dunnage. Material usually consisting of brushwood that is laid in the hold to protect the
hull planking. It prevents the cargo stored on it from either abrading the wood or
stripping o¬ the pitch used to coat the planking. Dunnage may also have been used to
protect the cargo from seawater.
Fibula. A clasp resembling a brooch or safety pin; it was used to fasten garments.
Floor timber. A frame timber that crosses above a keel at a right angle and spans the bottom
of a vessel.
Frame. A transverse timber or row of timbers that are fastened to hull and ceiling planking.
Futtock. A naturally curving timber that begins at the end of a floor timber and extends up
the hull.
Garboard strake. Planking strake located next to the keel. The garboard strake is usually
thicker than the adjoining hull strake.
Gla. Site located in the Copaic basin, Greece. The defensive walls around this site measure
about three kilometers around the periphery.
Gunwale [gunnel]. In sixteenth-century ships, the wale against which the guns rest. In later
ships, the upper strake of a boat’s planking; upper edge of bulwarks; upper edge of a
planksheer; the line of intersection of the planksheer with the topmost side plank;
caprail assembly.
Half frame. A naturally curving timber that begins at or near the keel and extends up the
same side of the hull.
Ingot. Raw material, usually metal, cast in a convenient shape for transport or storage.
Keel. Lowest longitudinal timber of a vessel. In medieval times it was the main structural
timber, or “backbone,” of a ship. For earlier ships it acted as the capstone of an arch;
in e¬ect its primary function is to join the port and starboard sides of the hull
planking.
Keel plank [king plank]. A plank that is much thicker than other bottom planks; used
instead of a keel.
Keelson. An internal timber or row of timbers laid over the frames and running from bow to
stern in a line parallel to the keel; it is fastened to the keel and acts as an internal keel,
strengthening the bottom of the hull.
Kithara [lyra, lyre]. A stringed, musical instrument.
Kylike [cylix]. A broad, shallow drinking cup with two horizontal handles and a tall stem.
Laced construction. Most commonly referred to as sewn construction, but the word “sewn”
does not accurately describe the process and can confuse those who are unfamiliar
with ancient or traditional ship construction. Vessels built with ligatures or cords are
commonly referred to as either sewn or laced, but these words have narrow definitions
in the English language; a proper usage of them results in a clearer understanding of

220 Glossary
 construction techniques. Sewing requires a needle and thread, and stitches are made
by moving the needle and thread through the fabric or material being joined. In
contrast, when lacing, the holes are made first, and then a cord is passed through
them. These cords are then either pegged or lashed into place. Therefore, lacing is a
more appropriate description of the construction techniques used to build vessels
such as mitepe. Although the word “sewn” has been used to describe this type of
construction for more than a century, it has never been so described by any English-
language dictionary.
Lath. Pliable wooden strip laid on top and parallel to a seam to protect and secure the
wadding.
Limber holes. Holes cut along the base of a frame to allow water to drain. In laced ships,
such holes are cut to correspond with the seams, so the frame does not sit directly on
the wadding, thus reducing wear and the possibility of damage.
Mast step [step]. A piece of timber set parallel to the keel with a mortise cut in the upper
surface to accept the foot of the mast.
Mortise-and-tenon joint. A rectangular piece of hardwood [tenon] placed into two slots
[mortises]. Each mortise is half the length of the tenon, and these are cut into
adjoining planks or timbers.
Mtepe, mitepe (pl.). East African laced ships built especially around the Lamu archipelago.
They are similar in appearance to a boom, except mitepe carried a square rig, in
contrast to the lateen rig that Arab seafarers favored. Mitepe were primarily used to
haul timber along the east coast of Africa.
Oinochoe. A vase similar in appearance to a modern pitcher; used to pour liquids.
Peg. A small, round, tapered wood pin that is hammered into a drilled hole.
Planksheer [sheer strake]. The uppermost strake; defines the longitudinal curvature of a
vessel.
Rabbet. A deep notch or groove cut in a timber to receive the edge of board to make a tight
joint.
Raised longitudinal girder. A heavy beam running from bow to stern at or near deck level to
strengthen the hull.
Room and space. The distance from a point on the edge of one frame to a corresponding
point on an adjacent frame. The room is the width (sided dimension) of a frame, and
the space is the area between two adjacent frames.
Scarf [scarph]. Joint used to unite the ends of two overlapping timbers or planks without
increasing their dimensions.
Seam. A watertight line formed where plank edges abut.
Sewn construction. See laced construction.
Sheathing. A protective covering of metal or wood that protects the underwater surface of a
hull from marine life or fouling.
Sheer strake. See planksheer.
Shelf clamp. A thick ceiling strake for longitudinal strength usually located opposite a wale
and often used to support deck beams.
Stanchion. A vertical post usually supporting a deck beam.
Stem. An upright or forward-curving timber or assembly of timbers scarfed to the fore end
of a keel or keel plank to which the fore ends of the hull planking are fastened.

Glossary 221
Sternpost. An upright or forward-curving timber or assembly of timbers scarfed to the aft
end of a keel or keel plank to which the aft ends of the hull planking are fastened.
Strake. A continuous row of planks joined to the ends of each other; these run from bow to
stern.
Stringer. Longitudinal timbers fastened to the inside surfaces of the frames.
Tallow. Fatty tissue or suet of animals separated by melting; used to make soap and
candles and to coat the exterior of some traditional ships.
Teredo worms. Also called shipworms and “termites of the sea,” these are not worms but
bivalve mollusks that thrive in a warm, saltwater environment. During their pupal
stage, they are small enough to enter openings the size of a pinprick. As they grow,
their shells, which are located at the front end of the body, allow them to cut through
wood. They are able to digest the wood as a result of a symbiotic relationship with a
bacterium. Depending on the species and availability of food, teredo worms can be as
small as a fraction of an inch and grow up to several feet long. In ancient times more
ships were probably destroyed by these creatures than the total number that were lost
due to storms and sunk in naval engagements.
Through-beam. A timber connecting and extending through the hull planking of the port
and starboard sides of a vessel.
Treenail [trenail, trunnel, trennal]. A large, tapered wood pin that is hammered into a
drilled hole usually to join a frame to hull planking. A treenail appears round because
it is tightly hammered into a round hole. In fact, because treenails are shaped with a
knife, they are actually multisided.
Wadding. A roll or bundle of organic or fibrous material that is laid on top of an inner
planking seam, tied in place by small cords, and secured with more lacing to make a
seam watertight.
Wales. Heavy strakes of planking that can be di¬erent heights and thicknesses; used to
sti¬en a hull.
Withe. Any tough and flexible stem or slender branch that can be used to bind things
together.

222 Glossary
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Bibliography 233
GENERåL INDEX

Achilles, 19, 22, 134, 138–39, 148, 149 Arabian seafaring, 54–55, 58, 59, 83–84.
Achilles in Vietnam (Shay), 1 See also booms (ships); mitepe
Adriatic Sea, 162 Archaic ships, 89, 92, 101, 136
adzes, 81–84 architecture, 10–11, 15
Aeneas, 74 Argonautica (Rodius), 28–29, 80
Aeneid (Virgil), 1 Aristonothos vase, 5
Aeolus, 140, 161, 162, 164, 165 Aristotle, 1, 19
Aeschylus, 26, 28, 101 Aritstonothos krater, 109
Aethiopia, 168 armor, Mycenaean, 9
Africa, 163, 168. See also Egypt; Egyptian artistic representations, interpretation dif-
ships ficulties, 5–7, 179–80
Agamemnon, 19, 23, 100, 130, 140, 159 Artzy, Michel, 107
agora, 20–21 ash wood, 78
agricultural labor, 17–18 Asius, 79, 151
Aias (Ajax), 74, 115, 120, 146, 147 Assine stirrup jar, 106, 107
Alalia battle, 135 Asteris, 160
Albright, William, 10 Athena: as barter illustration, 19, 136; and
Alcinous, 100–101, 118, 137, 151 geography interpretations, 170; and
alder wood, 77–78, 79 Odysseus, 21, 74, 87; and Paris, 87; as
Aleppo pine, 25 seafaring tradition evidence, 145, 146;
Alexander the Great, 1 stern seating significance, 116
Alexandria, 174 Atlantic Ocean, geographic interpreta-
Alicudi, 162 tions, 163
Al Mina, 171 augers, 85–86
Alonnesos ship, 56 Aulius, 169
Amphitrite, 101 Autenrieth, Georg, 91–92, 104, 123, 128,
amphorae, 56, 63–64, 183, 200n181. See also 133–34
cargos Azores, 163
anachronism theory, 14–15, 113–14, 186. See
also oral-traditional epics (generally) backstays, 125, 129–30
Anaximander, 171 baghlas, 55
anchors, 42, 154, 155–58. See also mooring banushes, 58
procedures Barberino, Francesco de, 154
Ancient Ships (Torr), 2. See also Torr, Cecil bards, 175–77, 187–88
Anderson, J. K., 11 barter, 19–20, 136, 181–82
Andocides, 20 Basch, Lucien, 107, 108, 206n93
Antinous, 146 Bass, George, 10, 42, 94, 106
Aphrodite, 169 battens, 31. See also caulking techniques
Apollonius Rhodius, 28–29, 115, 160 Bay of Naples, 166
Bear constellation, 143
benches, 119–20
Bérard, Victor, 161–62
Blegen, Carl, 12
boar’s tusk helmets, 8–10
Boeotian ships, 135
Bon Porté I shipwreck, 43–45, 46–47, 157
booms (ships), 54–55, 83, 141–42
Bosporus, 177
Bound, Mensun, 40, 41, 42
bow areas: gangways to, 116–18; landing
planks, 132; mooring cables/proce-
dures, 133, 154; ornaments/motifs, 97–
104, 115; platforms, 115–16, 119–20;
rams, 106–9; weapon storage, 146–47
bow drills (tools), 84–86
Bowen, Robert, Jr., 55
bow strings (weapons), 32–33
Bozburun shipwreck, 67
Bradford, Ernie, 162
brailing lines, 125, 131
Brewster, Frank, 71
Bronze Age theory. See dating theories/
evidence
bronze swords, 15
Bruce, James, 58
brushwood, 94
Bruttium, 169
Butler, Samuel, 162
Byblos, 168–69
cabling/lines: etymological variations, 29;
hanging of maids, 152, 154; mast as-
semblies, 125, 130–31; mooring proce-
dures, 133, 154–55, 157–59
Caesarea shipwreck, 79
Calypso: and geography interpretations,
162, 163; home setting, 77, 78; Pacuvi-
ous’s portrayal, 26; shipbuilding materi-
als for Odysseus, 70, 75, 77, 86, 131
Canaanite ships: archaeological evidence,
35–37, 183; Kenamun tomb art, 37, 38,
39, 94; sizes, 136
Canary Islands, 166
Cape Faro, 166
236 General Index
Cape Gelidonya shipwreck, 37
Cape Malea, 164, 167
caprails, 94
cargos: Bon Porté I shipwreck, 43; Cape
Gelidonya shipwreck, 37; and decking
interpretations, 118–19; Gela shipwreck,
45; Giglio shipwreck, 41, 42; influence
on ship design, 63–67, 183; Ma’agan
Michael shipwreck, 49; Porticello ship-
wreck, 50; Roman ships, 51; size possi-
bilities, 55–56, 136–37; Uluburun
shipwreck, 37, 53
Carpenter, Rhys, 10
carpenters, status of, 86–87
Casson, Lionel (writing on): anchors, 156;
brushwood purposes, 94; caprails, 94;
cargo capacity, 56–57; crossbeams, 120;
decking, 91, 92; framing process, 88;
joinery style, 25–26, 29–30, 32–34;
masts, 128; Ovid’s ship, 57; pikes, 146;
platforms, 120; raft theory, 71; rams, 106,
108, 110, 113; ships generally, 2–3, 97
Catalogue of Ships, 10–11, 152, 169
catchplate drawings, 5, 6, 110–11
catenary stones, 158, 159
Catling, Hector, 9
caulking techniques, 30–32, 33–34
cedar wood, 35
Chadwick, John, 100
chalk lines, 81, 83
Charon, 71
Charybdis: and geography interpretations,
162, 163, 164, 165–66, 172, 177; as sea-
faring tradition evidence, 150
Cheops I vessel, 31
chiefdom societies, 17, 22, 23–24, 181–82
China, 58
Cicero, Mount, 161
Cicones, 167
Ciconians, 134
Circe, 149, 159, 161, 163, 164
Clashing Rocks, 163
clay boat, 77
coastal routes, benefits, 139–40
Coates, John, 55
Cohen, Lionel, 106 economic activities, 17–24, 181–82
Colaeus, 41, 172 Egypt: furniture decoration, 100; geo-
colors of ships, 99–100 graphic accuracy about, 167–68, 171,
Comacchio shipwreck, 57 174–75, 177; Menelaus’s journey, 144,
constellations, 143, 165 148; Odysseus’s voyage to, 135, 140–41;
Cook, John, 170 sea god, 149; shipwright culture, 62;
Corfu, 162 trading, 49
Corsica, 162 Egyptian ships: capacities, 56; caulking,
cremation rites, 9, 10, 78 31; joinery, 28, 37; masts, 126, 127;
Crete, 9, 49, 148, 168 mooring procedures, 154, 155; tools, 82
Crete to Egypt voyage, 140–41 Eleans, 18
crews, 59–60, 134–36 Elpenor, 122, 149
Croesus, 63 Else, Gerard, 9
crossbeams, 116, 119–21, 124–25 Elysian fields, 166
Cuba, 163 Epano Englianos, 169
Cumae, 161 Ephialtes, 169
Cunliffe, Richard (writing on): bow motifs/ Ephorus, 40
ornaments, 100, 101, 104; decking, 121; Eratosthenes, 164, 166, 172
landing planks, 131–32; mast assemblies, Etruria/Etruscans: Demaratus’s voyages,
124, 127, 131; platforms, 120; quarter 171–72; piracy theme, 40–41; ships,
rudders, 123; ships generally, 98; stern 43–46
areas, 115 Eumaeus, 18, 20
curvature creation, hull, 87, 88, 185 Euryalus, 19–20
cutwaters, 104, 105, 110. See also rams Eurylochus, 143
Cyclopes, 145, 151, 162, 164, 165 eye symbols, 101–102, 103, 152
cypress wood, 77–78
Cyprus, 141, 169, 171 falling stars as omens, 151
Cyrene, 162 family structure, 17
fasteners: cargo stresses, 64, 183; drilling
dating theories/evidence, 8–16, 179–81 holes for, 84–86; of gods, 29; interpreta-
decking construction, 91–93, 116–18 tions summarized, 25; shipwreck evi-
Demaratus, 40–41, 171–72 dence, 26, 37; and storytelling success,
Dendra, Mycenaean armor, 9 28; wood for, 79. See also laced joinery;
departure procedures, 149, 153 mortise-and-tenon joinery
dhows, 55, 58 fibula, catchplate drawings, 5, 6, 110–11,
dingys, 133 206n93
Diomedes, 74, 139, 140 Finnegan, Ruth, 13, 14, 113
Dionysus, 40, 119 fir wood, 77–79
Djerba, 161, 163–64 fish, Homer’s aversion, 170, 174
Dmetor, 169 footrests, 120, 121
dowels. See laced joinery; mortise-and- forefoots, 104, 105, 110, 112–13, 126. See also
tenon joinery rams
drain plugs, 160 forestays, 125, 129
drilling process, 84–86 Fortetsa krater, 108–10
dunnage, 94 Foster, George, 60–61

General Index 237

frame-first construction method, 87–88
framing methods: and cargo stresses, 65–
66; and decking interpretations, 91–93;
quffas, 72; shipwreck evidence, 25–26,
35–38, 43–44, 46–48; types summa-
rized, 87–90; warfare influences, 68. See
also laced joinery; mortise-and-tenon
joinery
friezes, 100–101
futtocks, 43, 45, 47, 65, 88, 91
gangplanks, 131–33
gangways, 116–18, 121
Gela shipwreck, 45–46, 47, 48
geography: as bard knowledge, 187–88;
cultural context, 171–73, 175–76;
Homer’s accuracy, 167–71; joinery styles,
50–51; return route interpretations, 161–
67. See also seafaring tradition (argu-
ments for)
Geography (Strabo), 163–64. See also Strabo
Geometric art, perspective interpretations,
5–7, 179–80
gift exchanges, 22–24, 181–82
Giglio shipwreck, 40, 41, 42–43, 156
Gilbraltar, 163
Glaucus, 23
glossary, 219–22
grave markers, 122, 149
Gravisca site, 41, 42
Gray, Dorothea (writing on): gangways,
117; geographic routes, 170–71, 174;
Greek seafaring, 3, 139, 141; masts, 123;
rams, 109–10
Great Bear constellation, 165
Greek Oared Ships (Morrison and Williams),
2. See also Morrison, John (writing on)
Gulf of Salerno, 166
Gulf of Sicily, 162
Gulf of Taranto, 167
gunwales, 93, 94
Hades: geography interpretations, 161, 162,
163, 164, 177; Odysseus’s response, 149
Haliartus, 169
238 General Index
harbors, ideal, 153
hardwoods, shipbuilding benefits, 79. See
also wood for shipbuilding
hectacomb, 118–19, 135
Hector, 19, 74, 114–16, 146, 151
Helios, 143, 148, 155, 164
helmets, 8–10
helmsmen: footrests, 120, 121; impor-
tance, 148–49; seating location, 93, 116,
123–24
Hephaestus, 138, 151
Heraclitus, 32–33
Hercules, 75, 76
Herodotus (writing on): amphora, 63;
brailing lines, 131; crossbeams, 119;
Egyptian shipbuilding, 28; Homer, 1, 16;
Phocaean seafaring, 42; Phoenician
trading, 21; stern areas, 115; Thermopy-
lae, 171
hero traits, 74, 86, 146
Hesiod, 16, 19, 20, 145, 160
Hiero II, 51
Hippocrates, 33
Hippolytus, 32
Hispaniola, 163
Homer: biographical highlights, 15–16; in-
fluence, 1–2, 174–75; scholarly attention
to, 2–4; as traveling bard, 176–77; writ-
ing style, 15, 34, 167, 173–74, 180
Homeric Hymn to Dionysus, 40, 119
Homeric Seafaring, title controversy, 4–5
Hornell, James, 60
horn interpretations, 104
household economics, 17, 24, 181–82
hull construction. See specific construction
steps, e.g. framing methods; laced joinery
Iberia, 164, 166
Ibn Jubayr, 58–59
Iceland, 163
Ida, Mount, 78, 173, 176
immigrants, 172–73
India, 168
Indian Ocean, 58
Ireland, 163
Iron Age, artifact scarcity, 9
Ischia, 40
Israel shipwreck, 46–49
Italy, 165, 166, 169, 172, 177
Ithaca: ferrymen, 145; geography interpre-
tations, 140, 161, 164, 165, 170; as length
of voyage illustration, 140; Odysseus’s
furniture building, 87; Phorcys harbor,
153
Janko, Richard, 16
Jason and the Argonauts, 29
John of Monte Corvino, 31, 52
joinery techniques. See laced joinery;
mortise-and-tenon joinery
Jones, Henry S. (writing on): bowmotifs/
ornaments, 104; decking, 92; joinery
style, 34; mast assemblies, 124, 128, 131;
platforms, 120; quarter rudders, 123;
shapes of ships, 97; stern areas, 115
Jules Verne shipwrecks, 45, 46, 48
Kahn, Charles, 32
Kallithea, grave site, 9
kedging technique, 155–56
keels: etymological interpretations, 104;
and mast assemblies, 126–27, 128; ship-
wreck evidence, 43, 48, 65–66. See also
framing methods
keleks, 72, 73
Kenamun tomb, 37, 38, 39, 94
Kerameikos cemetery, catchplate drawing,
110–11
killicks, 157, 158
Kirk, Geoffrey, 13, 106, 108
Kition, ship graffiti, 107
Knossos palace, 100
ku-wa-no inlays, 100
Kyrenia shipwreck: capacity, 56; framing
approach, 88, 89, 90; joinery, 25–26, 27,
67; keel, 48, 65–66
laced joinery: booms, 54–55; capacities,
55–57; cargo stresses, 63–67; caulking
techniques, 30–32, 33–34; construction
process, 28, 30, 34–35, 81, 88–90, 93,
130; crew responsibilities, 59–60; geo-
graphic distribution, 50–51; grounding
advantages, 58–59; Kenamun tomb, 37;
literature portrayals, 26, 28–29; mainte-
nance, 59–60; mitepe, 52–53, 54, 55;
mooring procedures, 159; perceptions
of, 51–52, 56; shipwreck evidence, 38–
40, 42–47, 48, 49, 57; storm vulnerabili-
ties, 57–58; transition from, 50–51, 60–
69, 183–85. See also Odysseus (shipbuild-
ing activity)
Laestrygonians, 154, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165
Lake Avernus, 161
landing planks, 131–33
landing procedures. See mooring procedures
latrines, 103, 104, 113, 132
Lattimore, Richard, 99
launching procedures, 160
Lazenby, John, 10
lead-filled anchors, 156–57
lead sheathing, 49–50
legends as seafaring evidence, 150–51
Lenz, John, 97–98
Lesbos to Eubeoa route, 139, 140
Libya, 168
Liddell, Henry G. (writing on): bow
motifs/ornaments, 104, 115; decking,
92; joinery style, 34; mast assemblies,
124, 128, 131; platforms, 120; quarter
rudders, 123; shapes of ships, 97; stern
areas, 115
Life in the Homeric Age (Seymour), 2. See also
Seymour, Thomas (writing on)
lines/cables. See cabling/lines
Lipari Islands, 161, 162, 164, 165
Lippold, Georg, 9
Lloyd, A. B., 51
Lord, Albert, 11, 12, 13, 14, 34, 113
Lorimer, Hilda, 9, 10
Lotus Eaters: geographic interpretations,
161, 162, 163, 164, 167; as long voyage
illustration, 140; as seafaring tradition
evidence, 151; and storage area interpre-
tations, 116
General Index 239
Luce, John, 15
lyre strings, 32–33
Ma’agan Michael shipwreck, 46–49, 85,
89, 156, 157
Madeira, 163
Malta, 162
mangrove wood, 52
Marseille, 41, 42, 45–46, 47–48
Massilia, 45, 172
master frames, 87–88
masts: anchorage procedures, 153; on
Asine stirrup jar, 106; and gangways,
116–17; length of, 123–24; lines/cablings,
125, 130–31; location/securing of, 124–
30; during Odysseus’s shipwreck, 116,
118, 123; rafts, 73–74; shipwreck evi-
dence, 46–47
Mazarrón shipwreck, 37–39, 67
Meiggs, Russell, 77–78
Menelaus (as illustration): economic activi-
ties, 19, 22–23; geography interpreta-
tions, 166–67, 168, 174, 177; mooring
procedures, 159; seafaring tradition,
139, 144–45, 148
Mentes, 169
merchants, 19–21, 24. See also traders and
trading patterns
Mertz, Henriette, 163
Metamorphoses, 57
Metellus, 75
Mexico, potter study, 60–61
Minoans, 100
mitepe: booms compared, 54–55; con-
struction process, 30, 52, 90; crews, 60,
136; crossbeams, 119; disadvantages,
52–53; mooring procedures, 159
Molchos clay boat, 77
mooring procedures: anchors, 42, 154,
155–58; cabling, 133, 154–55; at land-
ings, 153–54, 158–60
Morris, Ian, 16
Morrison, John (writing on): cargo holds,
118; decking, 117–18; elbow rest, 93–94;
footrests, 120; landing planks, 132;
240 General Index
masts, 123–24, 127, 128; mooring cables,
133; platforms, 119; quarter rudders,
122, 123; ships generally, 2, 98; stern
areas, 97, 114–15; storage areas, 116;
tillers, 123
mortise-and-tenon joinery: capacities, 51,
56; cargo stresses, 64–67; Casson’s
translations, 25, 26, 32–35; construc-
tion process, 29–30; crew responsibili-
ties, 59–60; framing methods, 89–90,
93; geographic distribution, 50–51;
maintenance, 59; mooring procedures,
159–60; storm strengths, 57–58; transi-
tion to, 50–51, 53–54, 60–69, 183–85;
wood types, 79, 81
mortise-and-tenon joinery, shipwreck evi-
dence: Bozburun, 67; Cape Gelodonya,
37; Comacchio, 57; Jules Verne, 45;
Kyrenia, 25–26, 67; Ma’agan Michael,
46–48; Mazarrón, 37–38; Porticello, 49–
50; Uluburun, 30, 35–37, 38–39, 53, 56;
Yassi Ada, 67
Morton, Jamie, 139–40, 160
Moulinier, Louis, 162
Mount Cicero, 161
Mount Ida, 78, 173, 176
Mount Olympus, 169, 176
Mount Ossa, 169, 176
Mount Pelion, 169, 176
Mount Taygetus, 170
Muhly, James, 10
Mycenaeans, 8–11, 53–54, 100, 169
nails: and cargo stresses, 65; shipwreck
evidence, 26, 45, 48, 49
Naucratis, 49, 167–68
Nausicaä, 162
naval ships, influence on construction
styles, 68, 184–85
navigation aids, 143, 160, 165
Naxos, 171
negative reciprocity, 23–24, 181–82
Nereus, 149
Nestor, 18, 139, 140
night sailing, 141–44, 160, 186
Nile River, 167–68 Ossa, Mount, 169, 176
Nilsson, Martin, 9 Otus, 169
Niptra (Pacuvius), 26 Ovid, 57
Noëmon, 136, 145
Nonnus, 104 Page, Denys, 10, 15, 167
Nova Scotia, 163 Palestine shipwreck, 46–49
Paphos, 169
oak wood: etymological interpretations, Paris, 87
91–92; Patroculus’s funeral pyre, 78; Parry, Adam, 12–13
shipbuilding advantages, 79; shipwreck Parry, Milman, 12
evidence, 26, 35, 48–49 Patroclus, 22, 78, 87
oars, 121–22, 123, 149. See also rowing pegs. See laced joinery; mortise-and-tenon
oculi, 101–2, 103, 152 joinery
Odysseus (as illustration): attitudes toward Pelion, Mount, 169, 176
Phoenicians, 21–22; bow areas, 116, Penelope, 146, 174
132–34; crew size, 134; decking, 116, Penteconters, 135
118; economic activity, 17, 18–20, 23, 24; Perejil, 162, 163
geography interpretations, 168; helms- Phaeacians: crew sizes, 134, 155; and geo-
man’s importance, 148, 149; launchings, graphy interpretations, 162, 163; gift to
160; length of voyages, 135, 140–41, 145; Odysseus, 23, 24, 118, 136–37; mooring
mast assemblies, 128–29; moorage pro- procedures, 153–54, 155, 160; seafaring
cedures, 154, 159; night sailing, 142–43; reputation, 42, 151
oar shapes, 121; pitch application, 94; Phaedo (Plato), 71
sails, 131; seafaring gods, 149–50; stern Pharos Island, 144, 159, 167, 170, 174–75
areas, 116, 132–34 Phemius, 14
Odysseus (shipbuilding activity): decking Phereklos, 87
construction, 91–93; drilling of fastener Philoetius, 152
holes, 84–86; framing process, 87–89; Phocaeans, 45, 135, 172
hull curvature creation, 87, 88; joinery Phoebus Apollo, 148
interpretations, 25, 29–30, 32–34; pitch Phoenicians: attitudes toward, 21–23, 182;
application, 94; planking fastening, 32, dating of, 10; and geography interpreta-
86; planksheers, 93; quarter rudders, tions, 163, 168, 177; shipwrecks, 37–39;
122–23; raft theory, 71–77; sails, 131; as traders, 20, 21, 54
timber preparations, 79–84; tree felling, Phoenician slave, 118–19
77–79; withies, 94; summarized, 25, 70. Phorcys, 153
See also specific construction activities, e.g. Phrontis, 148
laced joinery pikes, 146–47
Ogygia, 163 Pillot, Gilbert, 163
olive wood, 78 pine wood, 25, 49, 79
Olympus, Mount, 169, 176 Pisistratus, 170
Ong, Walter, 14, 113 pitch (sap), 43, 59, 94, 99
oral-traditional epics (generally), 12–15, Pithekoussai, 40, 171
113–14, 180–81, 186 planking, shipwreck evidence, 25, 35–37,
ornaments/motifs, bow areas, 97–104, 115 42–46, 79. See also framing methods
Oropos boat model, 110, 111 planksheers, 93, 118

General Index 241

Plato, 1, 20, 32, 71
Pliny, 26
plumb bobs, 84
Pocock, Lewis, 162–63, 165
Polo, Marco, 51–52
Polybius, 164
Polyphemus (as illustration): crew sizes,
134; geography interpretations, 161, 163;
mast assemblies, 124; quarter rudder
location, 123; raft theory, 74; seafaring
tradition, 149–50
Pomey, Patrice, 26, 28, 43–44
Poncet, Charles Jacques, 56
poplar wood, 77–78, 79–80
Porticello shipwreck, 49–50, 56, 64,
200n181
Porto Pozzo, 161
Poseidon: and Amphitrite, 101; and geo-
graphy interpretations, 163, 169; gift-
exchange complaint, 23; and Odysseus’s
fears, 74; Odysseus’s task, 121; as sea-
faring tradition evidence, 149–50
pot rafts, 75–76
potter study, Mexico, 60–61
prahu kulis, 30, 31, 95–96
Protesilaus, 114, 134, 147
Proteus, 144, 149, 174
Punt, 154
Pylos, 169–70
quarter rudders: art representations, 106,
108–109; Odysseus’s escape, 133–34;
operation of, 93, 122–23; Polyphemus’s
stone damage, 134, 209n200
quffas, 72, 73
raft theory, 71–77
raiding lifestyle, 18–19, 181
rams, 104, 106–14, 185–86
Redfield, James, 23
Rembrandt, 1
Rhodian Sea Law, 60
rigging, 125, 130–31
Romans: pot rafts, 75; ship construction,
35, 51, 57
242 General Index
ropes. See cabling/lines
Rousseau-Liessens, A., 162
rowing: circumstances for, 143–45, 158;
crew sizes, 134–36; galley arrangement,
116; oars for, 121–22, 123, 149
rudders. See quarter rudders
sacrifice ceremonies, 147–48
sails, 106, 131, 153. See also rowing
St. Gervais 2 shipwreck, 79
Samos, 41–42
Santa Maria, 163
Sardinia, 161
scarfing, 93
Scheria, 162, 163, 165
schist, 49
Scotland, 163
Scott, John, 170, 174
Scott, Robert (writing on): bow motifs/
ornaments, 104; decking, 92; joinery
style, 34; mast assemblies, 124, 128;
platforms, 120; quarter rudders, 123;
shapes of ships, 97; stern areas, 115
Scylla, 150, 162, 163, 164, 165, 172
seafaring tradition (arguments for):
gods/legends, 149–51; grave markers,
149; helmsman’s importance, 148–49;
length of voyages, 140–41; literary analo-
gies, 151; night sailing, 141–44; sacrifice
ceremonies, 147–48; sailing vs. rowing,
144–45; summarized, 152, 186–87; trade
goods, 152; warfare motifs, 149
Seewesen (Gray), 3. See also Gray, Dorothea
(writing on)
sewn construction. See laced joinery
Seymour, Thomas (writing on): anchors,
156; benches, 120; bow motifs/
ornaments, 97, 102, 104; brushwood
purposes, 94; cargo holds, 118–19; crew
sizes, 136; gangways, 116; geographic
routes, 164, 165, 169, 170, 171; Greek
seafaring, 2, 138–39, 140; lines/cabling,
131; mast assemblies, 124–25, 130;
mooring procedures, 154, 158; naviga-
tion guides, 160; oars/rowing, 121, 144;
 pikes, 147; raft interpretations, 71, 72– point, 154, 158–59; platforms, 119–20;
73, 74; rowing, 144; stern areas, 97, 115 weapon storage, 146–47
Shay, Jonathan, 1 stirrup jar, 106, 107
sheer strakes, 93 stone anchors, 155–57
sheets, 131 storage areas, 116, 117, 118–19, 136, 146–
shell-first construction method, 88–89, 47. See also cargos
90, 93 Strabo, 1, 141, 163–64, 165–66, 168, 170
Ships and Seamanship in the Ancient World Straits of Gilbraltar, 162
(Casson), 2–3. See also Casson, Lionel Straits of Messina: and geography interpre-
(writing on) tations, 162, 164, 165–66, 171, 174, 177;
shipwreck evidence: anchors, 156, 157; pot raft crossings, 75; as trade route, 41
keels, 43, 48, 65–66; laced joinery, 38– Stromboli, 161
40, 42–47, 48, 49, 57; masts, 46–47; Stubbings, Frank, 10
planking, 25, 35–37, 42–46, 79; withies Suleiman the Magnificant, 13, 14
structure, 94; wood types, 79. See also Supplices (Aeschylus), 26, 28
cargos; mortise-and-tenon joinery, ship- sutural ligaments, 33
wreck examples swords, 15
shipwrecks: artistic representations, 149, Symposium (Plato), 32
150; map, 36 Syracusia, 51
shipwrights, conservative nature, 60–63,
183–85 Tamasos, 169
shovels, oars compared, 121 Tarquinia, 41
Sicily, 162, 164, 166, 169, 172 Tartessus, 172
Sidon, 168, 177 Taygetus, Mount, 170
Simpson, R. Hope, 10 teak wood, 54, 55
Sirens, 127, 150, 163, 164, 166, 172 Teiresias, 121
sleeping arrangements, 141–42, 154–55 Telemachus (as illustration): geography
Smyrna, 170, 174 interpretations, 170; gift-exchange, 22–
Smyth, William, 177 23; mast assemblies, 125–26; night sail-
Snodgrass, Anthony, 8–10 ing, 143; seafaring tradition, 145; ship
social structures, 17, 22, 23–24, 181–82 sizes, 135, 136; stern seating, 116; war-
softwoods, shipbuilding benefits, 79. See fare, 146
also wood for shipbuilding Temese, 169
Sohar, 55 tenons. See mortise-and-tenon joinery
Sostratos, 41–42 Thebes, 167
Soter, Ptolemy, 174 Themistocles, 118
Sparta, 170 Theocritus, 71
Spartacus, 75 Theogony (Hesiod), 16
spears, 146–47 Theophrastus, 80, 104
St. Gervais 2 shipwreck, 79 Thetis, 149
Stanford, William, 71 Thisbe, 169
star navigation, 143, 165 Thoas, 23
stems, ship, 104 tholepins, 122
stern areas, 114–16; gangways to, 116–18; Thomas, Bertram, 58
landing planks, 132–33; as mooring Thrace, 167

General Index 243

Thrinacia, 163
Thucydides, 18, 56, 118, 134, 135
tillers, 93, 123. See also quarter rudders
Tiryns palace, 100
title controversy, Homeric Seafaring, 4–5
tools, shipbuilding, 25, 30, 81–87
Torr, Cecil, 2, 101–102, 121, 131
towing bars, 133, 134
traders and trading patterns: cultural con-
text, 19–24, 181–82; and geography in-
terpretations, 172, 175–76; as seafaring
evidence, 152; Tyrrenhian Sea, 40–41. See
also cargos
Tragana Pylos, 106–107
Tranpani, 162
triremes, 68
The Triumph of Righteousness (Villiers), 141–
42, 155
Troy (as illustration): economic activity, 18,
19; mooring procedures, 159; pike uses,
147; return route interpretations, 139,
161–67, 176; seafaring tradition, 151–52.
See also Hector
Tunisia, 161, 163–64
Tydeus, 23
Tyrrhenian Sea, 40–41
Tzintzuntzan, Mexico, 60–61
Uluburun shipwreck: anchor, 156; capac-
ity, 35, 56; cargo, 37, 53; joinery, 30, 35–
37, 38–39; withies structure, 94
Ustica, 162, 163
Utnapishtim, 74, 160
van Doorninck, Frederick, 110–11, 112,
206n93
244 General Index
Vansina, Jan, 13–14
Varro, 26
Ventris, Michael, 100
Villiers, Alan, 59–60, 141–42, 155
Virgil, 1
Wachsmann, Shelley, 97, 106
wadding, 31, 33–34, 38–39, 52
Wain constellation, 143
Wallace, Alfred, 30
warfare: art interpretation difficulties, 5–6;
games for honoring, 138–39; for goods,
18, 181; helmsman’s role, 148–49; in-
fluence on ship design, 68, 184–85;
landing procedures, 153–54; ram inter-
pretations, 104–14, 185–86; seafaring
analogies, 151; ship sizes, 135; stern
areas, 114–16; tradition of, 145–46, 149;
weapon storage, 116, 117, 146–47
Warre, E., 71, 91
weapons. See warfare
Wedding of Smailagić, 14, 113
Williams, Roderick, 2, 6, 98–99, 106, 108–
109
withies, 94
wooden anchors, 156–57
wood for shipbuilding, 78–81
wrecks. See shipwreck entries
Xenophon, 72
yards, 102, 104, 125
Yassi Ada shipwreck, 57, 67
Zephyrus, 166, 170
Zeus, 23, 148
Greek Index

ajgauov", 21 drutovmo", 92, 203

ajgkwvn, 93, 203 duwkaieikosivphcu", 74, 146
ajgorhv, 20, 160 dw'ma, 211
∆Agcivalo", 151 ejgkoivlio", 91
ajeivrw, 124, 125, 209 ei[dw, 21
a[qurma, 20 eJkatovzugo", 119
ai[geiro", 77, 201, 214 eJkatovmbh, 119, 135, 207, 211
aijdoi'o", 18 ejlaivh, 78
ajkevomai, 29, 195 ejlavth, 77
a[klhro", 17 ∆Elatreuv", 151
∆Akrovnewv", 151 ejlafrw'", 81
a[kro", 119 eJlivssw, 98, 99, 204
aJlieuv", 145, 213 e[mporo", 20, 193
ajllhvlwn, 32, 34, 194 eJndekavphcu", 146
a{l", 97 ejntov", 118
ajmfiv, 98, 204 ejphgkenivde", 93, 94, 203
∆Amfivalov", 151 ejpivkrion, 129
ajmfievlissa, 98, 99, 204 ejpivtono", 129, 210
∆Anabhsivnewv", 151 eJptapovdh", 120
a[ntlo", 207 ∆Eretmeuv", 151
ajpathvlio", 21, 194 ejretmovn, 121, 208
ajrarivskw, 34, 196 e{rma, 89, 92, 159, 202, 215
ajravssw, 25, 32, 33, 34, 194, 196 eujnhv, 155, 156, 157, 158, 215
a[rhren, 34, 196 eju?zugo", 118
aJrmovzw, 32, 34, 194 eu[xesto", 121, 208
aJrmonivh, 25, 32, 33, 86, 194, 196 eu[ormo", 153, 214
a[flaston, 114, 115, 132, 206 Eujruvalo", 151
ajcerwi?", 79, 151, 201, 214 eju?sselmo", 119, 120, 207, 208
bivoto", 20 ejfevlkw, 133, 211
blh'tron, 146 ejfovlkaion, 131, 132, 133, 134, 211
buvblino", 168 e[cw, 91, 203
glafurov", 97, 203 zugovn, 118, 119, 120, 207
govmfo", 25, 32, 86, 194 qoov", 97, 104, 203, 205
deinov", 18 Qovwn, 151
desmov", 29, 131, 154, 195 qrh'nu", 120, 121, 132, 208
dokavnh, 210 qrigkov", 100, 204
dovru, 92, 130, 195, 203 i[kria, 91, 115, 116, 131, 203, 207
druovcoi, 89, 91, 92, 93, 151, 202, 203 i{ppo", 97
dru'", 79, 91, 92, 151, 203 i\so", 98, 99, 204
i{sthmi, 91, 203 oijhvi>on, 123, 127, 209
iJstivon, 131, 211 oi[hke", 123
iJstodovkh, 123, 128, 209 oi\ko", 17, 181
iJstopevdh, 124, 127, 128, 129, 210 o{plon, 131
iJstopovde", 129, 210 ojrqovkrairo", 102, 104, 205
iJstov", 123, 128, 208, 210 oujrov", 159
kavlo", 131, 211 o[cea, 211
kaphleiva, 19 pavlai, 80
katastrwvmata, 118 palivntono", 33
kei'mai, 147, 213 parhvi>on, 135
keraoxovo", 86 pedavw, 128, 210
klhvqrh, 77 pevdh, 128, 210
klhi?", 122, 208 pei'sma, 154
koi'lo", 97, 124, 125, 137, 203, 209, 212 perivkhlo", 80, 202
kollhtov", 146, 213 phdavlion, 122, 123, 208
kontov", 153 phdovn, 121, 123, 208
kovrumbon, 115, 206 pivtu", 79, 151
korwvnh, 97, 98 poludaivdalo", 21
korwniv", 97, 98, 204 poluvzugo", 118
kuanovprw/o", 100, 101, 102, 115, 204 Polunhvou, 151
kuvano", 100, 101, 204 polupaivpalo", 21
kuanw'pi", 101, 205 Ponteuv", 151
kubernhvth", 148 porqmeuv", 145, 213
ku'do", 18 pouv", 128, 131, 210
kwvph, 121, 123, 208 prhkthvr, 20, 194
livqo", 156 prohvkh", 121, 208
makrov", 146 provtonoi, 124, 209
megakhvth", 135, 211 Prumneuv", 151
melaivnw, 99 prumnhvsia, 154
mevla", 204 Prw/reuv", 151
melivh, 78, 123, 209 pterovn, 144, 212
mevsato", 209 rJavptw, 33, 196
meshvei", 209 rJafhv, 33
mesovdmh, 123, 124, 125, 126, 127, 209 sevlma, 119, 120, 208
mevso", 209 spavrta, 130, 195, 210
mevssaulo", 209 stavqmh, 81, 83, 202
metablhtikov", 19 stami'ne", 91, 203
miltopavrh/o", 99, 100, 115, 204 stafuvlh, 84, 202
moclov", 160, 215 stei'lai, 131
Naubolivdh", 151 stei'ra, 97, 104, 115, 126, 127, 205
nauvmaco", 146, 147, 213 scedivh, 29, 71, 72, 77, 92, 129, 185, 200
Nauteuv", 151 Tektonivdao, 151
nhu'", 71, 77, 119, 137, 144, 210 tevktwn, 86, 202
novhma, 165 Temevshn, 169
xustovn, 146 tevretron, 84, 85

246 Greek Index

tornovomai, 87, 90, 185, 202 fa'ro", 131, 174, 218
trhtov", 156 Favro", 174, 218
trovpi", 126, 127, 210 foinikopavrh/o", 99, 100, 115, 204
tropov", 122, 208 foi'nix, 204
truvpanon, 84 w\ka, 165
uJpevrai, 131, 210 ∆Wkuvalo", 151
falavggion, 160

Greek Index 247

INDEX OF CITåTIONS

All translations by author unless otherwise cited

ancient authors aristophanes

Nubes [Clouds]
Greek 206 171, 218

aeschylus Thesmophoriazusae [Women at the

Persae [Persians] Thesmophoria]
358–59 120, 208 52 92, 126, 203, 210
376 122, 208
559 101, 205 aristotle
Poetica [Poetics]
Supplices [Suppliants] 8 3, 191
134–35 26, 195 23 3, 191
743 101, 205 24 3, 191
11.439–41 26, 195
Politica [Politics]
1256b28–1258b49 19, 193
alcaeus
18.6 128, 210
de Respiratione [On Breathing]
2.6 20, 194
andocides
2.11 20, 194
arrianus
Anabasis
apollonius rhodius 1.12 3, 191
Argonautica [Argonauts]
1.388 160, 215 dio cassius
1.1003–1005 80, 202 43.11 33, 196
1.1005 28, 29, 32, 195, 196
2.80–82 28, 29, 195 diodorus atheniensis
2.601 115, 207 19.54.3 75, 201
2.614 28, 29, 195
2.1112 28, 29, 32, 195, 196 dionysius halicarnassensis
3.46 41, 171, 172, 197,
apollonius sophista 218
Lexicon Homericum
s.v. aJrmoniavwn 34, 196 euripides
s.v. a]rhren 34, 196 Cyclops
s.v. pedavw 128, 210 505–06 120, 208
Helen hippocrates
1563–66 120, 208 kat∆ ijhtrei'on [On the Surgery]
25 33, 196
Iphigenia Taurica [Iphigenia in Tauris]
1346 144, 212 peri; tw'n ejn kefalh'/ trwmavtwn [On Injuries
of the Head]
heraclitus 1 33, 196
51 D-K 32, 33, 196
homer
herodotus Ilias [Iliad]
1.1 21, 194 1.26 97, 203
1.51 63, 200 1.86 92, 203
1.70 63, 200 1.219 121, 208
1.163 42, 197 1.309 118, 119, 135, 207,
1.164 135, 211 211
1.166 135, 211 1.423 168, 217
2.36 131, 211 1.432–36 128, 153, 210, 214
2.53 3, 16, 191, 193 1.433 131, 211
2.179 49, 198 1.434 123, 124, 209
2.96.1–2 28, 32, 51, 119, 195, 1.436 155, 215
196, 198, 207 1.482 104, 205
3.39 68, 200 1.482–83 104, 205
4.152 41, 172,197, 218 1.486 89, 115, 159, 160,
5.49 171, 218 202, 206, 215
6.89 68, 200 2.135 26, 130, 139, 195,
6.92 68, 200 210, 212
6.114 115, 206 2.153 159, 215
7.144 68, 200 2.154 115, 160, 206, 215
7.176 171, 218 2.165 98, 204
8.9 146, 147, 213 2.170 119, 207
8.119 137, 212 2.292–98 23, 194
9.83 33, 196 2.293 118, 207
2.454 97, 203
hesiod 2.494–759 152, 169, 214, 217
Opera et Dies [Works and Days] 2.496 169, 217
624 160, 215 2.502 169, 217
629 122, 209 2.503 169, 217
633–40 20, 194 2.510 135, 211
643–44 19, 193 2.524 99, 204
648–55 145, 213 2.543 78, 201
689–94 19, 193 2.637 99, 100, 204
2.719 134, 211
Theogonia [Theogony] 2.765 84, 202
7.47–48 119, 207 2.816–77 152, 214

250 Index of Citations

2.846 18, 193 14.77 159, 215
3.60–62 151, 214 14.240 120, 121, 208
3.445 156, 215 14.410 115, 160, 206, 215
4.52 169, 217 15.160 135, 211
4.76 151, 214 15.189–91 149, 214
4.111 98, 204 15.381–82 151, 214
4.123 114, 206 15.388 147, 213
4.485 114, 206 15.388–89 146, 213
5.59–63 87, 202 15.410 83, 202
5.302 146, 213 15.411–12 74, 87, 201, 202
5.302–304 74, 201 15.619–21 151, 214
5.723 114, 206 15.674–88 146, 213
5.730 119, 207 15.678 74, 146, 201, 213
5.794 131, 211 15.685–86 115, 206, 207
6.211–31 23, 194 15.716–17 114, 206
6.216–20 22, 194 15.717 114, 115, 206
6.230–36 23, 194 15.728–29 120, 208
6.291 168, 217 15.729 91, 115, 203, 207
6.313 131, 211 15.730–31 147, 213
6.314–15 87, 202 16.143 78, 201
6.319 74, 146, 201, 213 16.170 134, 211
7.4–7 144, 213 18.3 104, 205
7.5 121, 208 18.34 114, 149, 206, 214
7.141 114, 206 18.338 97, 204
7.180 169, 217 18.390 121, 208
7.470–75 19, 23, 193, 194 18.476–77 114, 206
8.222 135, 211 18.483–607 138, 212
8.231 104, 205 18.573 104, 205
9.187 119, 207 19.42–44 148, 214
9.241 115, 206 19.43 123, 209
9.381–84 167, 216 19.344 104, 205
9.443 20, 194 19.375 160, 216
10.220–24 74, 201 20.247 119, 207
10.240–531 74, 201 20.285 146, 213
11.24–36 100, 204 20.285–87 74, 201
11.629 100, 205 21.23 153, 214
11.671–89 18, 193 22.95 98, 204
12.433–35 19, 193 23.110–26 78, 201
12.445 146, 213 23.255 87, 202
12.455–60 74, 201 23.261 114, 206
13.10–31 149, 214 23.262–897 138, 212
13.389–91 79, 151, 201, 214 23.316–17 148, 213
13.612 78, 201 23.320 98, 204
14.31–36 160, 215 23.741–43 21, 22, 194

Index of Citations 251

23.741–45 23, 194 4.358 153, 159, 214, 215
23.850 114, 206 4.360 144, 159, 213, 215
24.269 123, 209 4.360–62 145, 213
4.384–86 149, 214
Odyssea [Odyssey] 4.428 159, 215
1.22 168, 217 4.438 156, 215
1.24 168, 217 4.466–67 144, 213
1.28 135, 211 4.472–83 144, 213
1.131 121, 208 4.481–83 144, 213
1.184 19, 169, 193, 217 4.514 139, 212
1.398 18, 193 4.573 159, 215
1.434 124, 209 4.590–19 22, 23, 194
1.441 98, 204 4.617 168, 217
2.246 131, 211 4.634 145, 213
2.349 136, 212 4.634–37 136, 211
2.354 136, 212 4.652 146, 213
2.389–90 153, 214 4.666 146, 213
2.390 119, 207 4.669 135, 211
2.402 146, 213 4.671 160, 216
2.414–33 153, 214 4.671–73 146, 213
2.416–18 116, 207 4.708 97, 203
2.421 170, 217 4.780–86 153, 214
2.422–27 123, 209 4.782 122, 208
2.424 123, 124, 209 4.842 160, 216
2.425 124, 209 4.847 160, 216
2.428 104, 205 5.33 29, 195
2.428–29 104, 205 5.174 71, 200
2.434 143, 170, 212, 217 5.175 75, 201
3.10–12 128, 153, 210, 214 5.175–76 152, 214
3.71–74 22, 194 5.205–209 75, 201
3.153–54 153, 214 5.210 131, 211
3.158 135, 211 5.234–57 70, 74, 200, 201
3.165–78 139, 212 5.239 77, 201
3.276–300 148, 213 5.240 80, 81, 202
3.281 122, 209 5.245 83, 202
3.353 154, 215 5.247–48 25, 194
3.365 154, 215 5.251 71, 200
3.424 154, 215 5.253 32, 196
3.481–4.1 170, 217 5.255 122, 208, 209
3.577–78 153, 214 5.257 94, 203
4.85 168, 217 5.258 131, 211
4.136 121, 208 5.259 131, 211
4.230–32 167, 216 5.260 131, 210
4.349 98, 204 5.261 160, 215
4.354–57 167, 217 5.262 146, 213

252 Index of Citations

5.266 136, 212 9.142–49 153, 214
5.269–80 74, 201 9.165 136, 212
5.270 143, 212 9.275–94 151, 214
5.273 143, 212 9.282–92 151, 214
5.278 140, 212 9.289 134, 211
5.316 125, 209 9.311 134, 211
5.316–17 129, 210 9.322 124, 136, 209, 211
5.368 71, 200 9.344 134, 211
5.370–74 76, 201 9.382–88 84, 202
5.445 74, 201 9.393 114, 206
5.482 156, 215 9.482 100, 123, 204, 209
6.263–69 160, 215 9.483 123, 209
6.264 98, 99, 204 9.487 153, 214
6.266–69 20, 194 9.489 121, 208
7.18–92 151, 214 9.539 123, 209
7.36 151, 165, 214, 216 9.540 123, 209
7.86 114, 206 9.546 158, 215
7.86–89 101, 205 9.519–536 74, 201
7.87 100, 204 10.20–34 140, 212
7.108–109 151, 214 10.28 140, 212
7.148–50 17, 193 10.30 160, 216
7.321–26 151, 165, 214, 216 10.32 131, 211
7.328 121, 122, 208 10.40 139, 212
7.409–13 123, 209 10.41–42 18, 193
7.411 137, 212 10.78 144, 213
8.37 122, 208 10.87 154, 215
8.48 134, 211 10.87–90 153, 214
8.53 122, 208 10.95–96 154, 215
8.111–16 151, 214 10.96 160, 215
8.159–64 20, 23, 193, 194 10.110–24 151, 214
8.362–63 169, 217 10.127 100, 154, 204, 215
8.444 29, 195 10.158–73 74, 201
8.557–61 151, 214 10.208 134, 211
9.39–40 18, 193 10.315 121, 208
9.60 134, 211 10.367 121, 208
9.82 140, 212 10.402–05 159, 215
9.86 97, 203 10.423–25 159, 215
9.91–97 151, 214 10.496–515 149, 214
9.98–99 118, 207 11.2–5 153, 214
9.99 116, 207 11.4 118, 207
9.125 99, 100, 204 11.7–9 153, 214
9.129 145, 213 11.20 158, 215
9.136 153, 214 11.77 122, 208
9.136–39 145, 153, 213, 214 11.100–103 74, 201
9.142–48 143, 212 11.121–30 121, 208

Index of Citations 253

11.124 99, 100, 204 13.74–75 116, 207
11.125 144, 212 13.77 156, 160, 215
11.307–316 169, 217 13.78 121, 122, 208
11.355–61 23, 145, 194, 213 13.96–101 153, 214
11.401 18, 193 13.100 29, 131, 195, 211
11.489–90 17, 193 13.114–16 154, 214
12.32 154, 215 13.116 118, 207
12.39–46 150, 214 13.135–38 23, 194
12.51 127, 128, 210 13.215–19 23, 194
12.60 101, 205 13.272–286 21, 194
12.61–68 150, 214 14.14 156, 215
12.85–110 150, 214 14.85–88 18, 193
12.162 127, 128, 210 14.222–23 18, 193
12.166–262 143, 212 14.224–34 18, 193
12.172 121, 208 14.226 18, 193
12.178–79 127, 210 14.234 18, 193
12.179 127, 128, 210 14.252–57 141, 145, 212, 213
12.200 29, 195 14.255–57 141, 169, 212, 217
12.203–4 122, 208 14.257 140, 212
12.205 121, 208 14.260–72 18, 193
12.206 116, 207 14.260–80 168, 217
12.214 121, 208 14.282 78, 201
12.218 123, 209 14.288–89 21, 194
12.225 118, 207 14.288–300 168, 217
12.228–30 147, 213 14.291–301 141, 169, 212, 217
12.229 91, 115, 203, 207 14.295–301 168, 217
12.229–30 116, 207 14.296 20, 194
12.274 140, 212 14.325 24, 194
12.284 143, 212 14.346 131, 211
12.287–89 143, 212 14.350 132, 211
12.317 155, 215 14.350–51 134, 211
12.324–419 74, 201 14.350–52 132, 211
12.348 104, 205 14.382–83 29, 195
12.370–73 148, 213 15.28–35 146, 213
12.403–25 148, 214 15.282–83 116, 147, 207, 213
12.409 124, 209 15.285–86 116, 207
12.409 125, 210 15.289 123, 124, 209
12.410–11 117, 118, 207 15.290 124, 209
12.413–14 116, 120, 207, 208 15.296 143, 212
12.420–22 126, 210 15.300 104, 205
13.10–11 137, 212 15.403, 415–83 20, 194
13.20–22 118, 207 15.419 21, 194
13.21 118, 137, 207, 212 15.455 21, 194
13.68–69 137, 212 15.479 118, 137, 207, 212

254 Index of Citations

15.495–98 128, 153, 210, 214 lysias
15.496 126, 210 6.19 20, 194
15.551–52 116, 147, 207, 213 6.47 20, 194
16.41 71, 200
16.326 146, 213 nonnus
16.365–68 143, 212 Dionysiaca
17.288 118, 207 40.446 91, 203
17.341 81, 83, 202 40.451 104, 205
17.384–85 87, 202 40.452 91, 203
17.409 121, 208
17.443 169, 217
philostratus
17.462 121, 208
de vita Apolloni Tyanei [Life of Appollonius
17.504 121, 208
of Tyana]
17.514–21 74, 201
3.35 120, 208
18.309 81, 202
18.356–386 18, 193
19.13 114, 206 plato
19.37 124, 209 Leges [Laws]
19.57 121, 208 4.704b5–705b8 20, 194
19.182 97, 204 951a–951c 20, 194
19.409–10 145, 213
19.573–76 92, 203 Phaedo
19.574 89, 152, 202, 214 85 D 71, 200
19.587 114, 206
20.187 145, 213 Politicus [Politics]
20.354 124, 209 280c 33, 196
20.383 169, 217
21.7 121, 208 Republica [Republic]
21.44 83, 202 377d–379e 3, 191
21.97 114, 206 595c 3, 191
21.114 114, 206 598e 3, 191
21.121 83, 202 607a 3, 191
21.241 29, 195
21.388–91 152, 214
Timaeus
21.390 131, 211
76a 33, 196
21.391 128, 168, 210, 217
81b 92, 203
22.186 33, 196
22.259 78, 201
22.465 154, 215 polybius
23.190–200 74, 87, 201, 202 1.38.5 126, 210
23.197 83, 202
23.357 18, 193 procopius
24.265–85 23, 194 de Bello Gothico [The Gothic War]
24.419 145, 213 4.22.12 91, 203

Index of Citations 255

sophocles de Lapidibus [On Stones]
Ajax 31 100, 205
249–50 119, 207 37 100, 205
39 100, 205
strabo 40 100, 205
1.1.2 3, 163, 191, 216 55 100, 205
1.1.4 166, 216
1.1.4–5 166, 216 thucydides
1.1.16 175, 218 1.5.4 18, 193
1.2.9 164, 165, 166, 177, 1.10.4 134, 135, 211
216, 218 1.14.3 118, 207
1.2.11 164, 166, 216 7.25.6 56, 199
1.2.12 166, 216 13.6 68, 200
1.2.14 172, 218 14.1 68, 200
1.2.15 164, 165, 216
1.2.15–17 164, 216
xenephon
1.2.16 166, 216
Anabasis
1.2.17 164, 165, 216
2.4.28 72, 200
1.2.18 164, 216
1.2.21 170, 217
1.2.23 167, 217
1.2.26–27 164, 168, 216, 217 Latin
1.2.29 168, 217
1.2.30 167, 168, 170, 217 aulus gellius
1.2.31 164, 168, 216 Noctes Atticae [Attic Nights]
1.2.37 164, 216 27.3.4 26, 195
1.3.18 170, 217
2.3.4 133, 211 florus
5.2.2 40, 197 Epitome bellorum omnium annorum DCC
6.2.2 40, 197 [Epitome of Roman History]
10.4.5 135, 211, 212 2.20 75, 201
16.1.11 32, 196
livy
theophrastus
1.34 171, 172, 218
Historia Plantarum [Writings on Plants]
4.28 80, 202
5.1.17 80, 202 ovid
5.6.3 80, 202 Metamorphoses [Metamorphosis]
5.7.1 79, 201 11.480–513 57, 199
5.7.1–2 80, 202 11.514–15 57, 199
5.7.3 104, 205
5.7.4 80, 202 pacuvius
5.7.8 78, 201 Niptra [Bath Scene]
5.8.2 75, 201 277–78 25, 195

256 Index of Citations

pliny vegetius
Historia Naturalis [Natural History] de Re Militari [Epitome of Military Science]
5.31.1 167, 217 4.34 80, 202
8.16 75, 201
16.158 34, 196 vitruvius
24.40.65 26, 195 de Architectura [On Architecture]
35.152 41, 171, 172, 197, 2.9.3 80, 202
218

Index of Citations 257