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Mycalessus: Narrative Compression and Emotional Power in Thucydides

This essay is still in draft form.  Portions of this text may be quoted without permission, provided credit is given.
Thucydides has the ability to expand and contract parts of his narrative, much as an accordion player works with his instrument. He can say little or nothing about some major topics, or save detailed discussion of them until he feels the right place in his narrative has been reached.

For example, he may well have passed over mid-fifth century peace negotiations with Persia, and surely says only the bare minimum about the embassies in 431 BC  (2.7.1) and 424 BC (4.50.3). Persia is, in effect, left in the shadows until the phase of the war that Thucydides begins to describe in book eight.

Some episodes, it has often been noted, receive far greater attention than their strategic significance seems to warrant, for example, the Athenians’ annihilation of Melos at the end of book five.

Thucydides’ account of this episode may be called “an atrocity narrative,” that is, the military operation turns brutal, and Greek nomoi are violated. Atrocity narratives, such as the Melos episode, provide especially revealing opportunities to watch changes in the scale of Thucydides’ work. His account in book seven (chapters 29 and 30) of the attack on Mycalessus is a revealing example of a compressed atrocity narrative.

Thucydidean atrocity narratives often begin with a surprise as in the case of the inhabitants of this little Boeotian village, who felt confident that their town was too insignificant, too far off the beaten track, to be vulnerable to the vicissitudes of war. Then on a summer morning in 413 BC, the unexpected happens. An Athenian commander unleashes his Thracian auxiliaries against the village, and takes it. At this point, Thucydides’ focus steadily shifts from the Athenian commander, Dieitrephes, first to the villagers and then to the Thracians. The inhabitants of the town were, he says,    

… off their guard and not expecting (aprosdoketois) that anyone would ever come up so far from the sea to molest them, the wall too being weak, and in some places having tumbles down, while in others it had not been built to any height, and the gates also having been left open through their feeling of security (4). The Thracians bursting into Mycalessus sacked the houses and temples, and butchered (ephoneuon) the inhabitants, sparing neither youth nor age but killing all they fell in with, one after the other, children and women, and even beasts of burden, and whatever other creatures with life in them that they saw; … (5). Everywhere confusion reigned and death in all its shapes; and they fell upon (epipesontes) a boys’ school, the largest that there was in the place, into which the children had just gone, and cut them all to pieces (katekopsan). This disaster for an entire city was second to none, greater than any, falling upon (epepesen) them unexpected (adoketos) and horrible. (7.29; modified) [1]
The power of the passage comes largely from its ability to combine carefully selected details with broad generalization. The story comes fast and ferociously at us, as the attack did to the people who lived—and died—in Mycalessus. I particularly admire the way Thucydides seems to draw the story to a close: “Everywhere confusion reigned and death in all its shapes …”—before, abruptly, adding the most horrible part— “… and they fell upon a boys’ school, … and cut them all to pieces.” Then as he tries again to draw the story to a close, he seems to grope for the right word, using pairs rather than his usual succinct mot juste, as if he were groping for language that could sum up the horror: “This disaster … was second to none, greater than any, falling upon them unexpected and horrible.”

But the story isn’t over yet. The Thebans move swiftly against the booty-laden Thracians, chase them to the sea, and kill many of them. Of their Athenian commander, Dieitrephes, nothing more is said, though he reappears a few years later (8.64.1), once again linked to Thracian affairs. Instead when the casualties on both sides recounted, Thucydides again sums up the disaster: “The events affecting Mycalessus, which experienced a calamity, for its extent, as lamentable any that happened in the war, were of this sort” (7.30.3; modified).

Similar summing up or rounding off sentences occur in many of Thucydides’ atrocity narratives, but Mycalessus lacks one characteristic of these narratives—an exploration of the process by which the atrocity took place. That is handled in two swift brush strokes, a brief characterization of Dieitrephes’ orders (“as they were to pass through the Euripus, to make use of [the Thracians] ... to injure the enemy” (29.1) and a generalization about the Thracians (“the Thracian race, like the bloodiest of the barbarians, being ever most so when it has nothing to fear (29.4). Little more is added. In particular, unlike most other atrocity narratives in Thucydides, there is no debate or other exploration of motives. In this respect the Mycalessus account resembles one part of the first stage of the Plataean story; there the Plataeans slaughter their Theban captives soon after they have seized them (2.5.7). In each case no deliberative process was involved. The Thracians are simply bloodthirsty when emboldened; the Plataeans acted in the heat of the moment.

More commonly, Thucydides expands his atrocity narratives well beyond the scale we have just examined, and does so by exploring the role of logos (language and argument) in the decision. He incorporates speeches in direct discourse, as in the cases of Mytilene (3.37-48) and Melos (5.86-111), or examines the shifting valence of words as he does in his account of the revolution in Corcyra (3.87). All of these accounts reflect on the language and arguments used to justify or ward off the atrocity. In addition, one can expect an indication of what really shaped the decision, often the ability of self-interest to outweigh considerations of justice. One can see that clearly in the Spartans’ decision to kill off the Plataeans who have surrendered to them, which is analyzed in another essay.


Reactions? Comments? Suggestions for revision? I can be reached at [email protected].


Notes
[1] All translations in this essay are Richard Crawley’s (1874) unless otherwise indicated.
  

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