The relation of Persians, our earliest extant play (472), to history is, at first glance, the least problematic. It is the only surviving tragedy whose focus is a historical event, the defeat of the Persian king Xerxes at Salamis by the Greek fleet a mere eight years before the performance of the play. Aeschylus himself is thought to have been a veteran of Salamis (on the difficulties in extrapolating historical details from Persians, see Pelling 1997a). The tragedy is also unusual in that we can directly compare it with a fifth-century historical account of the same engagement (Herodotus 8.40-94). The exercise, however, is more complicated than it may seem. Although Herodotus does not agree with Aeschylus on all points, it is likely that he used Persians when composing his own account of Salamis (Said 2002b, 137-38). Conversely, although the historical referent of Persians is clear, modern scholars’ interpretations of the poet’s use of the event are shaped in large part by how far they believe the Athenians had moved toward empire by the end of the 470s. Both Herodotus and Thucydides play important roles in conditioning those beliefs.
Whereas Herodotus places Salamis within the context of a number of engagements between Greeks and Persians on land and at sea, Aeschylus conspicuously plays down the importance of land battles. The chorus, comprised of Xerxes’ advisors, does refer to the Persian defeat at Marathon (244), but as the audience knows, they are wrong to overlook the importance of Athens’ navy. Toward the end of the play the ghost of Darius predicts a Greek victory (on land) at Plataea (816-17), but the battle seems to be an appendage to the defeat of Persia’s naval forces (e. g., Podlecki 1966a, 12). From a dramatic perspective, the diminution of the importance of land battles dissociates Darius from Marathon and allows the poet to portray him as an exemplary king, embodying the virtues of moderation and self-control in contrast to the rashness of Xerxes (Pelling 1997a, 10).
Said (2002b, 145) may be right to conclude that Herodotus’ version of Salamis contains a warning to the Athenians about their own expansionism (more generally, Moles 2002). After all, Herodotus may have been composing his Histories well into the 420s or later (Fornara 1971), by which time Athens had firmly established its empire. Some have seen in Persians a similar warning (e. g., Rosenbloom 1995). The tragedy’s emphasis on sea power seems to point out a parallel between Persia and Athens. The poet’s reference to territories that once formed part of the Great King’s domain, but which in 472 were part of Athens’ alliance (864-906), would seem to highlight the Athenians’ inheritance of Xerxes’ position. At the very least, in 472 some Athenians - whether supporters or opponents of rule over the allies - may have been wary of the rapid pace and nature of the changes they were witnessing (Raaflaub 1998, 15-19).
The possibility that a reflection of Athens is to be seen in Aeschylus’ Persian mirror could explain why the poet asks his audience to look at Salamis through Persian eyes and elicits great sympathy for the Persians, including Xerxes. Reminding us of the compassion that Achilles shows Priam in Iliad 24, Pelling (1997a) explains, ‘‘[Xerxes’] fate can still capture something of the human condition, and exemplify a human vulnerability which the audience can recognize as their own’’ (16).
Unlike Xerxes, however, Priam and the Trojans fought to defend their own city, not to conquer Greece. Nor did the Trojan king defy natural boundaries, as Aeschylus implies Xerxes does when he yokes the Hellespont (e. g., 65-71). Even without subscribing to a cultural stereotype of the barbarian East that had been crystallized by the Persian Wars (Hall 1989), many members of Aeschylus’ audience had personal reasons to view the Persians with hostility: they would have witnessed the destruction that Xerxes wreaked on their city and lost friends and family in battles against Persian forces. Is it possible, then, that the sympathy the poet elicits for the Persians prompted his audience to imagine their city suffering a fate similar to that of Xerxes? To what extent does Aeschylus draw the recent past into the present - and extend it to a warning about the future?
Because modern readers know the ending of the story of Athenian imperialism and cannot ‘‘unread’’ the narratives of Herodotus or Thucydides, it is difficult to answer this question. There are, however, grounds for caution. That there is only a single passage alluding to Athens’ alliance weakens the appeal of a minatory interpretation of the tragedy, as does the play’s positive view of Greeks. The messenger reports that the gods saved the city (347). The song he hears at the beginning of the attack is noble: ‘‘Sons of Greeks, come, free your land; free your children and wives, and the temples of your ancestral gods and tombs of your forebears’’ (402-5). To the queen’s question, ‘‘Does Athens remain unsacked?’’ (348), the messenger’s response, ‘‘When [their] men live, [their] defense is secure’’ (349), echoes what seems to have become an Athenian commonplace after Salamis (e. g., Thucydides 1.74.3). By placing praise in the mouths of enemies, Aeschylus elevates the Athenians and would seem to agree with the boast of Thucydides’ Pericles: ‘‘This city alone does not irritate the enemies who attack it, because of the kind of men they are at whose hands they suffer’’ (2.41.3).
World History
