The Micro Scale of Political Analysis

Up to now, I have considered politics from the perspective of Maya states and their rulers and political elites. This has placed undue emphasis on political power emanating from the top levels of society, or from the political institutions in which individuals interact. But recent scholarship has underscored that power is more fluid and more contingent on actors and situations. Because political power is dynamic, what matters is not only how much power individuals have but also how this power is materialized in interactions between all participants (elite and non-elite). Emerson and Pauketat (2002) summarize this new perspective: “We argue for an archaeology of power that holds that people’s practices, embodiments, and interactions are generative, power-laden, historically situated, and contingent. . . . We should not remove and segment power from the theater of practice where it was enacted and embodied by all people” (118-119).

In ancient states, the political power of the state was what was seen in state-sponsored rituals or spectacles that included feasts, construction projects, receptions for foreign ambassadors, and presentations of tribute and captives (Inomata 2006b). In these rituals, the position and behavior of the different political actors and factions made their relations of power with the others visible, but the responses by some factions or actors, which ranged from acquiescence to resistance, could affect the whole ceremony, adding to or decreasing the power of the host. Thus, resistance is as much a part of ancient politics as obedience to the state (Scott 1990).

In this chapter I want to follow some of the theoretical threads introduced in Chapter 2 by examining the foundations of Classic Maya political power, the processes of establishing authority and legitimacy and their contradictions, the performances of power and the dynamics of those performances, and the role of commoners in Classic Maya politics. I use Motul de

San Jose as the central case study, but I compare it with other Classic Maya polities.

Foundations of Classic Maya Political Power

Kurtz (2001), Mann (1986), Earle (1997), and Yoffee (2005), among others, note that political power derives from multiple sources. While the Classic Maya appear to have defined political power in religious terms as divine kingship, we need to go below the surface of this dominant ideology (which the rulers presented in the “public transcript”) to look at what they did in practice. As in all other societies, Maya political power likely came from more than one source (economic, social, religious, and military), and as archaeologists we need to ask which sources of power existed on a case-by-case basis. Furthermore, we need to ask if these sources of power were restricted to particular groups. For example, it is possible that elites with social power (or religious power) may not have been allowed to be involved in economic pursuits. Elites who chose to practice such economic activity may have lost social status (or social power) even as they were gaining economic wealth or economic power. Incongruities between these sources of power would have impacted the success of some polities and may have caused their collapse. Alternatively, different sources of power may complement each other and lead to the success of a state. The variety of sources of power Maya elites drew upon leads one to consider that there must have been multiple hierarchies of social, economic, political, and religious power in the Maya lowlands. This theory is congruent with the heterarchical propositions that Potter and King (1995) and King and Shaw (2003) put forth.

Military strength underpins coercive power, the power achieved through the threat of bodily harm. As Foucault (1979, 1991) has stressed in his work, the degree of coercion possible in premodern states was of a very different kind and scale from what is possible in present-day modern states in which communication, transportation, and monitoring (or surveillance) technologies are much more developed. So it is likely that coercive or military means of achieving political power were less significant in premodern states such as the Classic Maya. However, I think we understate or negate the role of military power in some of these ancient polities. For example, the leaders of Teotihuacan appear to have resettled a large portion of the valley population into that city’s apartment compounds early in the polity’s history (Millon 1981). During the fourth millennium BC, early in its history, Uruk carried out the same kind of resettlement (Rothman 2004; Stein

1994). Tikal also may have resettled nearby population into the urban center at the beginning of the Late Classic (Chase, Chase, and Haviland 1990). Unless these population movements were due only to the attractions of city life, an element of coercion backed by military power must have been involved.1 Beyond this population movement at Tikal, evidence for direct coercion by Maya rulers over their subjects is not clear (Inomata 2004), and many Maya archaeologists believe that these demographic shifts are attributable to the commoners’ freedom to vote with their feet (Ashmore, Yaeger, and Robin 2004; Inomata 2004; Robin, Yaeger, and Ashmore 2010; Yaeger 2003b).

The theory that Maya rulers were partially sustained by military power is supported by the frequent depiction of captives under the feet of kings and the enumeration of war events in hieroglyphic texts throughout the Classic period (Houston, Stuart, and Taube 2006; Demarest 1978; Webster 2000, 2002; Brown and Stanton 2003). Some rulers adopted titles that named how many warriors they had captured in battle (for example, “he of X captives”) (Houston, Stuart, and Taube 2006, 204).2 The evidence for titles related to captive-taking is concentrated at smaller sites and has not been found at Tikal or Calakmul (ibid.). Thus, we conclude that the declaration of martial prowess served to enhance the social status (and power) of rulers of smaller sites. Houston, Stuart, and Taube write that the shaming and dishonoring of captives was an important element of warfare and of elite and royal culture in general, suggesting that Classic Maya society may have been a timocracy like early Classical Greece, in which “a sharp sense of personal value (‘pride’ [and honor]), especially among men, played a marked role in face-to-face interaction” (ibid., 202-26, quote on 202). Houston and colleagues argue that this system of personal pride and honor was the root cause of the political fragmentation of the Classic Maya, who were unable to end long-term feuds or vendettas against each other caused by the “loss of face” on the battlefield or in captivity afterward. If Houston, Stuart, and Taube are correct, then Classic Maya society was a warrior society, although the militaristic tones became stronger in the Terminal Classic and the Postclassic, when scenes of dozens of warriors and battles appear more frequently (Baudez and Latsanopoulos 2010). However, we have to keep in mind that most Classic Maya warfare involved only elites, so any coercive elements would have involved the upper class more than commoners (Webster 2000; Inomata and Triadan 2009).

Although most Maya warfare during the Classic period may have been limited in scope (Demarest 1978; Webster 2000),3 entire sites were burned

And abandoned in some episodes (e. g., Aguateca). In others, rulers and their gods and families were imprisoned or killed (e. g., Yaxuna, Cancuen, Palenque), and in others, only the milder sanction of tribute was imposed (Freidel, MacLeod, and Suhler 2003; D. Chase and A. Chase 2003; Bey 2003; Ambrosino, Ardren, and Stanton 2003; Webster 2000, 2002; Ino-mata 2007; Martin and Grube 2000; Stuart and Stuart 2008, 191). Because of this variability in the consequences of warfare, we need to explore the impact of individual cases of Maya warfare on both the conquerors and the losers. Victorious centers that benefited substantially from these conflicts embarked on major construction projects and may have attracted more population, as in the case of Caracol during the Middle Classic (A. Chase and D. Chase 1996; D. Chase and A. Chase 2003). In contrast, the losing side could sustain short to long periods of little architectural activity and/ or more substantial disturbances.

Even though military power was one aspect of political leadership, Classic art centers on the Maya rulers’ display of ritual power. Late Classic period kings called themselves divine rulers, k’uhul ajaw (Houston and Stuart 1996; Zender 2004; Schele and Freidel 1990; McAnany 2008; McAnany 2010, 158-98). They are most often portrayed enacting religious rituals, such as bloodletting, burning incense at specific calendrical/ritual points, and communicating with or materializing ancestors, gods, and other supernatural beings (Schele and Miller 1986; Schele and Freidel 1990; De-marest 1992; Sanchez 2005; Lucero 2006).4 Most scholars agree that the basic foundation of the power of Maya rulers was their control over the supernatural sphere through shamanistic rituals (but see the critique of this view in Zender 2004; and Klein et al. 2002). As described in Chapter 4, the religious sphere was clearly important; it even affected the political structure by dictating the quadripartite organization of some realms. There is no doubt that the Late Classic k’uhul ajaw drew most of his power from his control of the religious sphere. There is even evidence from some Late Classic sites that ruling elites may have attempted to control the ritual sphere even more tightly by restricting access to the central plazas where the royal family and priests held the most important state rituals. Joyce and Weller (2007) describe how the main plazas of Caracol, Tikal, Xunantunich, Altun Ha, Baking Pot, and Blue Creek were closed off by new construction that transformed them from public ritual space to royal residential space by the end of the Late Classic (155-60). However, we have to turn to the archaeological record to move beyond the “public transcripts” of these monuments and plazas and consider whether Maya rulership was also founded on economic and/or social power.

Social power may also come into play if the royal elite were seen to be of a different origin from the rest of society. This is true for the Postclassic and Contact period Maya of the Yucatan Peninsula and for other Postclassic societies, such as the Mixtecs and Aztecs. For example, in the Mixtec area, the rulers traced their descent back to 11 divine couples “who were born supernaturally from trees, rivers, or mountains” (Lind 2000, 571). In Postclassic times, the Maya lords also claimed faraway origins in the supernatural realm (Restall 1997, 2001). In the Classic period, Maya rulers claimed descent back to mythical times and major gods, such as the Palenque Triad (of gods GI, GII, and GIII) (Schele and Freidel 1990; Houston and Stuart 1996). Social power among the Classic Maya, then, was predicated on the divine descent of the noble rank (or estate), which contrasted with the mortal origins of the commoner rank (or estate).This distinction in the origins of the two ranks was also surely accompanied by an acute sense of difference between noble and commoner that translated into social power for the elites. Because social power is tied to the divine origins of the noble rank, it is also religious power. However, the presence of a moral code of conduct similar to the European aristocratic principle of noblesse oblige (Houston and Stuart 2001) probably limited the social power of Maya elites.

Scholars debate whether Classic Maya political power was based on economic power, probably because economic power varied considerably among the many lowland polities. Economic power in premodern, precapitalist, agrarian societies is predicated on control over land, production and/or exchange, or human labor (McAnany 1993a). For the Classic period, control over land has been difficult to ascertain, although large-scale agricultural projects (where they have been found) have been interpreted as being under state supervision. Here I am referring to the standardized system of terraces at Caracol (Chase and Chase 1996) or the possible drainage system and raised fields in bajos around Tikal (Grazioso Sierra et al. 2001). However, these large-scale agricultural projects are limited in number and extent, and archeologists believe that most land was held by families, lineages, “houses,” or communities (Lohse 2004). This does not deny the possibility that the elites held large tracts of land as their private estates (Taschek and Ball 2003; Foias 2002).

Another source of economic power may have been control over water (specifically fresh or pure water) by constructing reservoirs and other water

Control systems or by conducting water purification rituals (Scarborough 1998; Lucero 1999b, 2006). Again, this applies to some Classic Maya centers but not to all. Water control systems have been documented at Tikal and Calakmul, but none have been found at Motul de San Jose, Aguateca, Dos Pilas, or Seibal.

When we turn to elite control over production and/or exchange, mixed results appear, as only some rulers controlled markets in the core of their sites (e. g., Chunchucmil) and a few others may have controlled some workshops where obsidian was processed and pottery was made (e. g., Quirigua). The variation in elite control over production and exchange is quite likely one of the causes of the political dynamics of the Classic period (Foias and Emery 2012). Generally, the elite seem to have managed only the production and distribution of valuables that had meaning in terms of ideology or status (e. g., carved jade, marine shells, or elaborate polychrome pots). Sometimes the elites themselves crafted these items in palace workshops, as at Aguateca and Motul de San Jose (Foias and Emery 2012; Halperin and Foias 2010, 2012; Inomata 2001b, 2007; Inomata and Triadan 2000; Inomata et al. 2002).

Another way to gauge economic power is to consider differences in control over human labor, as reflected in the volume of constructed architecture (Abrams 1994). Royal palaces at Copan involved almost 500 times more labor than housing for low-status commoners living in outlying villages, which consisted of perishable houses made of wood, adobe, and thatch: royal palaces required approximately 25,000 person-days to build, while commoner houses required only 50 person-days. Architectural volume analyses at Copan and at Motul de San Jose (Foias et al. 2012; see also Chapter 5) shed light on the hierarchical nature of Maya society and the higher control over human labor by the elite rank (or estate).

Pyburn (1997) advocates an architectural and material approach to understanding the foundations of Classic Maya political power. She argues that the scale of temple-pyramid architecture provides an estimate of elites’ ideological power and that the size of residential elite architecture (e. g., stone palaces) marks the royalty’s political and economic power (162).5 She also proposes that if elites drew most of their power from agricultural resources, we should expect them to have lived close to these resources and therefore that we should find more elite structures in rural areas. Py-burn also feels that the quantity of imported objects is further evidence of the degree to which elite power was based on economics (163). Using this approach, Pyburn compares the investment of elites at Albion Island

And Nohmul (both in Belize) in the construction of temple-pyramids and/ or elite residential structures and the rate at which elites imported exotic goods. She finds a decline in temple/shrine construction during the Late Classic, or “a shift to more centralized religion and more government involvement” (165-66).

All of the evidence above makes it clear that rulers depended on distinct constellations of a variety of sources of power, including religious, military, social, and economic power. For example, Lucero and Scarborough have pointed to the intersection between ritual and economic power. Lucero (2006) emphasizes that the rituals for water purification that Maya royals conducted were crucial for extracting surplus, which she finds to be the economic foundation of political power.6 Both Scarborough (1993, 1998, 2003) and Lucero (1999b, 2006) focus on the importance of water to the ancient Maya: seasonal and long-term fluctuations in rainfall could be a matter of life and death. The Maya lowlands are characterized by a dry season from November to May when there is little to no rain. In addition, surface water sources are few and far between on the karstic landscape of the northern and southern lowlands. According to Lucero (2006), Maya kings not only performed water purification rituals, rituals of “life, death and renewal,” but also helped build and maintain systems for catching water, including major reservoirs next to royal courts at Tikal, Calakmul, and Caracol (2; see also Lucero 1999a, 1999b). However, at other Maya centers, for example Motul de San Jose, Seibal, or Palenque, water was plentiful, and Maya rulers did not invest in water-catching systems. Therefore, the kings of the latter polities derived power from other sources.

The articulation and interplay of these different sources of power provides insight into political dynamics because they may work against or complement each other. We can learn about which of these sources of power were most important in each Maya polity if we view material culture as a discourse about power between individuals, factions, communities, and polities.

Leaders, Followers, Authority, and Legitimacy

Archaeologists and ethnographers of Africa make an important distinction between material wealth (wealth in things) and people wealth (wealth in people) (Guyer and Belinga 1995; Nyerges 1992; Fleisher and Wynne-Jones 2010; Robertshaw 2010). Robertshaw (2010) observes that material “wealth (wealth-in-things) may not have been particularly valuable in tropical

Africa, where potential agricultural land was generally abundant but labor was often in short supply” (264). Demarest (1992, 151) has made a similar point about the Classic Maya, but his observation is based on ethnographic evidence from Southeast Asia (relying on Geertz 1980 and Tambiah 1977). Control over human labor was of great importance for the Classic Maya, as it was for tropical Africa and tropical Southeast Asian states (see also Lucero 2006; Chase, Chase, and Smith 2009). Chase, Chase, and Smith (2009) reach a similar conclusion: Mesoamerican polities “were defined not on the basis of land or territory, but on the basis of personal ties to a ruler” (181). Graham (2011) also concurs with this conclusion from her reassessment of Maya states in Belize on the eve of the Spanish Conquest: rather than focusing on the territorial state model, we should envision Maya states as a set of relationships of allegiance and tribute centered on the ruler. This has implications for political dynamics.

In the tropical African context, a powerful ruler was one who attracted many followers or dependents, forming extensive networks of clients or allies (Robertshaw 2010, 264). Fleisher and Wynne-Jones (2010) describe the political implications of a system of wealth in people: “The need to attract and retain followers or clients is a never-ending process, during which allegiance must be continuously deserved and re-enacted. The impermanent state of power derived from wealth-in-people means a constant situation of performance, through which society is composed and authority is constituted and understood” (189). Thus, in tropical Africa and probably in the Classic Maya lowlands, political power was predicated at least in part on the number of followers that a leader could attract and the degree to which that leader could sustain the loyalty of followers through constant political performances.

One of the key strategies for attracting and keeping a loyal following is maintaining a convincing claim to authority and/or legitimacy.7 Legitimacy means that leaders are seen as the rightful holders of power and therefore are entitled to exercise power. But even in complex societies such as the Classic Maya, where the political hierarchy was institutionalized and different offices were invested with legitimacy, likely candidates competed for political positions and had to work continuously to maintain their legitimacy and authority. Without legitimacy, power is diluted or entirely lost. Even today in U. S. politics, particular offices (including the presidency) are sometimes described as “losing authority,” which impedes the ability of the officeholders to carry out their duties. In other words, the process of legitimating power is always a work in progress.

Scholars often categorize the strategies by which authority and legitimacy are established as either coercion or persuasion. Although coercion may work in the short term and over short distances, most methods of legitimation are persuasive and involve ideology, emotional attachment, and/or rational benefits. Recent scholarship has examined these persuasive strategies (Doyle 1986; Fleisher and Wynne-Jones 2010; Smith 2000; Schor-tman and Urban 2004). Since we have weak evidence for coercive methods of establishing authority among the Classic Maya, persuasive means must have been most important.

Schortman and Urban (2004) have described how legitimacy may be established using rational persuasive means: rulers convince the ruled that it is to their benefit to follow and obey them using some kind of system of economic rewards. In contrast, Adam Smith (2000) emphasizes that persuasive means of legitimation rely on emotive ties to rulers: Urartian “political ideologies. . . [strove] to create affective ties between regimes and those they rule by rendering the political aesthetic [beautiful on an emotional level]” (132). Smith finds that the political strategies for securing legitimacy in the Urartian empire of the Near East appear in both words (cuneiform texts) and images (pictorial representations in metal or stone artifacts) and appeal most to the emotions of “triumphalism” or “sacrality” rather than to “rational assessments of costs and benefits” (157).

Among the many possible persuasive ideological strategies, three come to the forefront: naturalizing the political structure (Bourdieu 1990; Kertzer 1988; Bauer 1996; McAnany 2010), creating a society-wide shared identity (Yaeger 2003a; Inomata 2006a, 2006b; Pauketat 2007; LeCount 2010), and transforming the landscape (A. Smith 2003).

These methods of legitimization need further explanation. Both Bourdieu (1990) and Kertzer (1988) explore how rulers and the ruling class use supernatural associations, powers, or origins to naturalize the political structure. This strategy enables them to claim that their political power has “natural” origins (see also McAnany 2008, 2010).8 These supernatural associations are gained, performed, and remembered through rituals. Although texts and/or monuments may also record and speak of the supernatural powers of the rulers, the materialization of these associations in rituals brings full force to this process of legitimation.

A second method of legitimation is to create a shared identity across a society (Yaeger 2003a; Inomata 2006a, 2006b; Pauketat 2007). In his work at San Lorenzo near Xunantunich, Belize, Yaeger (2003a) discovered that specific rituals accompanied by feasts took place in this village and involved

Ruling elites (or their representatives) from the capital of Xunantunich. These rituals, which were hosted in a special nonresidential building, reinforced the shared experience of ruled and ruling, creating a feeling of common identity. Smith (2000) describes a similar strategy in his studies of the Urartian empire:

Urartian political programs appealed to emotions in order to stimulate an embrace of and identification with charismatic triumph and a sense of reverence and deference towards the sacred. The product of such programs. . . is not consent to the state, but a profound interest in its continuance as it is the vehicle of “civilizing” the wastelands and making manifest the gods on earth. (157)

A third strategy for legitimating political leaders and their power is to transform the landscape. The built environment of political centers, fortresses, palatial and administrative edifices, and monuments is an active constituent of political power, not simply “a pale reflection of transformations in political organization” (A. Smith 2003, 76; see also Baines and Yoffee 2000, 15). These constructions functioned not only as ever-present symbols of the power to control human labor but were also the sites where political ceremonies, meetings, rulings, decisions, and so forth took place (see Smith 2003, 233-35). Because political institutions are manifested and made effective through political rituals, these events become the central arena where political power was created, reinforced, or contested (see Kertzer 1988; Dirks 1991; Lucero 2006). Baines and Yoffee (2006) also stress the importance of rituals to political power: “Without celebration, [political] order may be threatened; with it, everyone may internalize its significance” (16).

Maya Rituals of Politics: Performances of Political Power

By viewing the political process through rituals of politics, or performances of political power, we can study these phenomena archaeologically. Kertzer (1988) writes: “Ritualization entails the repetitive use of emotionally charged symbols in symbolically significant locations at symbolically appropriate times” (92). Ritualized events thus become visible archaeologically since repetitive action involving the same “symbols” at the same place and time will leave behind material patterns year after year or month after month, depending on the frequency of the political rituals (DeMarrais, Castillo, and Earle 1996; Lucero 2003, 2006; McAnany 2010).

However, this is where we run into an archaeological dilemma: the locations where these performances took place were also public spaces that were generally kept clean. Inomata (2006b) argues that the principal arenas for state political ceremonies were the large central plazas, where all or most of a state’s population could attend, observe, and participate. Smaller political performances would have played out in the lesser courtyards associated with palaces and in the plazuelas of small (commoner) residential groups, where we can imagine that rituals involving lineage heads and the rest of the family were observed (Hutson, Magnoni, and Stanton 2004; Lucero 2003, 2006; Gonlin and Lohse 2007). Holding political performances inside Maya structures would have been ineffective, since only a small number of people could have fit in those spaces. (That is not to say that politicking wasn’t done behind closed doors.)

In a recent contribution, Dahlin and colleagues (2009) looked at geochemical signatures in medium and large plazas at Chunchucmil and Trinidad (a secondary center under the control of Motul de San Jose). Their findings enabled them identify differences in the functions of these plazas. They found increased concentrations of phosphate in medium plazas that are indicative of feasting, and in the largest plazas they found extremely high phosphate concentrations that seem to correlate with nonfeasting market activities. Their research confirms that medium plazas had a role in performances, and in fact they suggest that feasting took place only in these smaller plazas. They posit that other ceremonies that did not include feasting were held in the larger central plazas where stelae are erected and that the larger central plazas that had no stelae were the locations of markets (see also Bair and Terry 2012). The medium-sized plazas and the adjoining elite palaces may have been places where political rituals happened, but their floors were generally swept clean and all remains of these festivities would have been dumped into middens.9 Thus, it is not so easy to study the details of political events from material evidence, and we are left with the task of reconstructing them from depictions in art and descriptions in hieroglyphic texts.

As we turn to the artistic and hieroglyphic evidence of the nature of these political performances, a number of questions come to mind: Who was involved in these events? What rules did they follow? Who had power to affect these situations and rules? Depictions of reunions or meetings among several individuals (or even a whole royal court) that could be conceived as political rituals are not depicted frequently on Classic Maya stone monuments, but they are portrayed more frequently on art that was more

Private, such as the Bonampak murals (Miller 1986, 2001) and polychrome pottery (Reents-Budet 2001; Jackson 2009). I thus turn to polychrome pottery art to gather more details about Classic Maya political performances.

Before we enter the discourses found in Maya art, we need to consider the limitations of art, be it modern or ancient. Looper (2009) stresses that “images. . . in Maya art transcribed memories of performances into permanent media. As products of memory work, images provide an opportunity for montage, deletion, and creativity that radically alters the semantic and formal relationships between the image and the performance(s) that inspired them. . . . The images are not photographic records. . . but are carefully composed in order to crystallize the most important elements of the rites from the point of view of both patron and artist” (45). Central to this problem are a number of processes, including deletion and focal-ization; that is, some elements and/or participants of the performance are deleted and others become the focus, especially the main performer. The political valence of images comes from their role as a “reference point for the conceptualization of future performances. This function of images is profoundly political in that it ascribes an authority to a particular representation as a means of sustaining powerful emotions experienced during the event” (46). The permanent image is created as evidence of how things are done, should be done, and will always be done. In the Maya case, the political overtones of the image are even more powerful because of Maya beliefs that the self could be materialized in many places at the same time, such as in stelae, on murals, on pottery, and on other artifacts that depicted these individuals (Houston, Stuart, and Taube 2006).

Because political power was “what was seen” in premodern societies such as the Classic Maya, we can gain a more detailed understanding of these rituals from how they were depicted on polychrome vessels. These vases were used for serving, eating, and drinking during the feasting events that accompanied political rituals. Thus, they were highly visible to those who participated in these feasts. Members of the elite class were the audience for and the consumers of this imagery, and the concerns that we see in the iconography are the concerns of the elite (see further discussion below).

Since Classic k’uhul ajaws were political and religious leaders, the rituals recorded on Maya vases are both political and religious in nature. Although we cannot assume that these pottery scenes represent the full range of political performances that Maya elite engaged in, we can get a sense of the importance of different activities by considering how frequently they appear in pottery paintings. I have used Barbara and Justin Kerr’s Maya

Table 6.1. Types of political events depicted on Ik’ Style polychrome vessels

Source: Maya Vase Database, Www. mayavase. com.

Vase Database of rollout photographs of hundreds of Maya polychrome vases (available at Www. mayavase. com) as a basis for my analysis, although this is not a complete set of all Maya pottery art. I selected only pots that were tied by style or text to the Ik’ emblem glyph, which most epigraphers believe to refer to Motul de San Jose and its zone north of Lake Peten Itza. This produced a sample of 41 vessels. Only certain activities are recorded on these vases: 1) dances (39 percent, or 16 vessels)10; 2) presentation and/ or sacrifice of captives (17 percent, or 7 vessels); 3) small court reunions (20 percent, or 8 vessels)11; 4) adornment in preparation for dance, war, or other state ritual (12 percent, or 5 vases); and 5) presentation of tribute (ca. 12 percent, or 5 vases).12 Dance was by far the most common event, followed by presentations or sacrifice of captives and small meetings (or rituals involving drinking or enemas) (see Table 6.1). Scenes of adornment (or preparations for ritual, dancing or war) are less common, as are presentations of tribute. Based on these numbers, dance seems to have been the most important political ritual and tribute does not appear to have been a primary concern. However, war booty (and hence tribute) appears together with a captive presentation on one vase (K6674), on which the captive’s outfit and weapons are placed on the throne in front of the ruler. Thus, the distinction between tribute scenes and captive presentation scenes may be more fluid that we suspect.13

Depictions of tribute may have been rare because the elite were not worried about their ability to extract it from commoners.14 Alternatively, tribute may have been depicted only rarely because rulers and the elite promoted a specific ideological program to secure legitimacy that focused on the same emotive aspects that the Urartian state emphasized: “triumphalism” (because of their success in war) and “sacrality” (the ability of the king to “make manifest the gods on earth,” or the sacred nature of the kings) (Smith 2000, 157).

Multiple actors were involved in these pottery scenes, but generally the most powerful actor (typically the k’uhul ajaw) was clearly marked and identified. The frequency with which individuals are portrayed indicates the existence of several “power blocs”: 1) the k’uhul ajaw, who is placed in a central role, either sitting on a throne or standing in the middle of the scene (sometimes accompanied by his queen wife); 2) lower noble courtiers, who surround the k’uhul ajaw in more peripheral positions (these are often named by glyphic captions as sajal, ajk’uhuun, ebet or muut ebet messengers, dwarves, and other secondary administrators who are not always named); and 3) warriors, who are identified by their battle attire and weaponry.15 Political power is clearly marked in these scenes by an individual’s position (the higher the position, the higher the power), size, and symbols of political power (such as specific costume elements or actual objects that the power holders carry). The absence of ambiguity about who was the most powerful in many of these pottery scenes hints that ranking was a central concern for the Classic Maya, as it still is for their modern descendants: for example, even today, hosts and guests at ritual ceremonies in Zinacantan, Chiapas are carefully seated in the order of their social status (Vogt 2004, 2007). In addition, the absence of ambiguity about who was the most powerful in many (if not most) of these pottery scenes demonstrates the hierarchical organization of political power.

Vases, bowls, jars, and/or baskets full of food and drink are displayed prominently below the throne of the k’uhul ajaw in many pottery scenes, underscoring that political events involved feasting and rich displays of royal generosity through gifts of foods, drinks, and other goods (Wells and Davis-Salazar 2007; Schortman and Urban 2004; Wells 2006; Foias 2007). Landa describes how all rituals were accompanied by feasts and merriment (including dance and music) in Contact period Yucatan (see Tozzer 1941). Not surprisingly, musicians are also commonly depicted in pottery scenes, and figurine-whistles have been found in many Maya households (Foias 2007; Reents-Budet, Ball, and Kerr 1994; Reents-Budet 2001; Miller 2001;

Halperin 2007). Thus, when we think of political performances, we must remember that they involved feasting, dancing, music, and gift-giving. Witnessing these events must have been very important for Classic Maya states—the more public the ritual, the better, and the more prolonged the event, the more memorable. Witnessing was still important in Colonial times, as is revealed by Maya wills and court cases of the period, both of which always included a long list of witnesses (Restall 1997).

Political performances required significant amounts of food, drink, specialized paraphernalia, and possibly other items that were given as gifts. The elaborate paraphernalia involved in such political performances is exemplified by the huge costume-headdress of a supernatural bird that is twice as tall as its wearer, ruler Ahkal Mo’ Nahb, depicted on the Palenque limestone panel found in Temple XIX (Stuart and Stuart 2008, 228, Plate 12). R. Joyce (2000), Tate (1999), and McAnany (2008, 2010) among others, explore the importance of women as the producers of the food, drinks, textiles, pottery, and other items that were used in political rituals and feasts. Political power cannot be disentangled from economic resources or from the gendered production of these resources. It is not surprising that elite households at Motul de San Jose were involved in more textile production than small or medium households (Halperin 2008), as cloth may have been one of the items given as gifts in these feasts. Foias et al. (2012) also document an extraordinary concentration of maize-grinding equipment (manos and metates) in Group D, one of the royal compounds at Motul de San Jose, presumably for the preparation of massive amounts of food for royal feasts. The largest and most dense middens at Motul were discovered adjacent to the Acropolis royal court, and evidence from them shows the court’s major investment in feasting.

Dancing

As dance is the most commonly depicted activity on the Ik’-related pots, I discuss that topic in more detail here. The most extensive study of Classic Maya dance was carried out by Looper (2009). Rather than viewing it as an aesthetic performance or as a completely religious undertaking, Looper stresses how it functioned socially and politically as well as ritually (3-13). Dancing is recognized through textual evidence that includes the verb for dancing, ahkOt (17), and through depictions of individuals in the process of dancing (with one foot lifted off the ground and/or with highly formal poses of knees, hands, wrists, and arms or in wilder positions

For supernaturals). The dance verb ahk’ot often appears with another verb, yahka (w), “to give” or “make an offering,” underlining the ritual overtones of the performance as “a form of tribute or offering to the gods or to overlords” (18). In some texts, the dances are “received” by paramount lords together with tribute or offerings, evidence of the political role of dancing. In these cases, “dance is used as a means of bolstering [or sealing] alliances [or political ties] between rulers and their subordinates” (18-19). Looper intimates that some dances may have reembodied past events, such as war victories (20-21). For example, the ruler Itzamnah K’awil of Dos Pilas recorded a number of martial dances (involving God K scepters) on Stelae 11, 14, and 15, which may have reembodied and celebrated several of his war victories (22, 26). Interestingly, Stelae 2, 5, and 6 at Motul de San Jose are quite similar in style and scene to these three Dos Pilas monuments (Foias 1998, 1999), but the only one that is dated (MSJ Stela 2) commemorates a dance that took place a half-century later, in approximately 771 AD, between two rulers, the Motul ruler K’inich Lamaw Ek’ and the Itsimte king Juun Tsak Took’ (Tokovinine and Zender 2012). The other two Motul stelae may also portray dances involving the God K scepter because the positions of the individuals and the objects they are holding are similar in all three: a single ruler (in Stela 6) or paired rulers (in Stelae 2 and 5) hold(s) God K scepters, and each paired ruler is lifting a foot off the ground.

Yaxchilan, west of Motul and northwest of Dos Pilas, also has a long record of dance events dating to the second half of the eighth century (Looper 2009, 28). For example, Stela 11 records a flapstaff dance of the ruler Itzamnah B’ahlam II and his son Bird Jaguar IV, the ruler at that time.16 The dance is recorded in a small secondary text next to the foot of Bird Jaguar IV; the main hieroglyphic texts recount his dedication of stelae, his accession to the throne, his parentage statements, and a pre-accession sacrificial ritual (30). As the dance was the first rite in this series of events, Looper concludes that it marked “the initiation of a transfer of power between father and son” (ibid.), which Bird Jaguar IV immortalized to gain legitimacy during his rise to the throne of Yaxchilan (Martin and Grube

2008,  128-29). Eight lintels in Temples 1, 33, and 42 also record dances performed by Bird Jaguar IV, most within a year of his accession (Looper

2009,  32-34). On Lintel 5 of Temple 33, Bird Jaguar IV performs the xukpi dance (named for the motmot bird staff that he carries in his hand), accompanied by his wife, Lady Wak Tun of Motul de San Jose (possibly the sister or daughter of one of the most successful of the Motul rulers, Yajawte’ K’inich, who ruled in the mid-eighth century) (34; Tokovinine and Zender

2012). The Motul princess, interestingly enough, carries a tied bundle in her arms marked with the glyph ikats, “bundle or cargo” (Looper 2009, 34). Although most scholars see this bundle as containing important Yaxchilan ritual paraphernalia, Looper suggests that it may refer to the tribute burden that the Motul princess owed to the Yaxchilan ruler (her husband) because the glyph ikats is associated with tribute in other Classic texts (Stuart 1995; McAnany 2010). If Looper is correct, then marriage alliances involved a “dowry” of some kind or possible tribute rights that her home polity owed the princess.

The dances depicted on monuments are named for the objects manipulated by participants and have strong cosmological valences, as in the association of different dances with specific gods who are identified in the dancers’ masks or headdress symbols (Looper 2009, 42-43).17 For example, the flapstaff dance is named as the “clearer” dance and takes place around the summer solstice, when a dry spell (called canicula) begins in the Maya lowlands (37).

The pairing of dancers in the scenes found at Yaxchilan and its subsidiary sites (such as Site R) is paralleled at Motul de San Jose in its better-preserved Stelae 2 and 5. These double-actor dance performances at Yaxchilan and Motul de San Jose functioned as “a metonym of power sharing as well as political hierarchy. By dancing on formal occasions with subordinates, allies, wives and heirs, Maya rulers could demonstrate their sociopolitical unity, as well as status differences, through variations in costume, staging, or choreography” (43). This is what I call the double-edged sword of public performances: they can unify participants by creating a feeling of common identity, but they can also highlight hierarchical differences in power among the participants.

Although these dances were public performances, the positioning of the monuments that portray them at Yaxchilan in semi-private and private architectural contexts suggests an audience of elites only (43-44). This is not the case at Motul de San Jose, where all three stelae that depict dances are found in central, open plazas. In addition, the paired kings on Motul Stelae 2 and 5 are almost identical, so equality and alliance is the central message rather than hierarchy.

Dance has a particular relevance for the site of Motul de San Jose not only because it appears on its stone monuments but also because the great majority of Ik’ Style vases depict dancing. Looper, Reents-Budet, and Bishop (2009) have examined in detail 66 whole vases in the Ik’ Style (in museums and private collections), of which 47 have scenes related to dance

(132). According to Looper and his colleagues, the Motul dance performances “occurred during such important events as accession to the throne, successful war celebrations, and the observance of critical calendrical period-ending rites” (133).

Looper, Reents-Budet, and Bishop (2009) define a number of types of dance performances: dancing in X-ray-style costumes, with or without masks; dancing combined with drinking or with the ritual use of enemas; dancing combined with blood autosacrifice; dancing combined with divination; and dancing accompanied by presentation and sacrifice of captives (a practice that was related to the victory celebration dance).18 It is noteworthy that the dances portrayed on these vessels are generally different from the dances found in the stone monuments. The only dances recorded on both stone monuments and in pottery scenes are war celebration dances.

Many of the dances that involved X-ray-style costumes and fantastic animal costumes materialized wayob, which have been interpreted as spiritual co-essences of particular individuals or as spiritual forces that are found in specific geographic points and are often tied to death and illness (Houston and Stuart 1989; Calvin 1997; Grube and Nahm 1994; Grube 2004; Looper, Reents-Budet, and Bishop 2009, 135). Two consecutive Motul de San Jose rulers (Yajawte’ K’inich and K’inich Lamaw Ek’) are named on a great majority of the Ik’ vases painted with scenes of dances that invoke wayob (Looper, Reents-Budet, and Bishop 2009; Reents-Budet et al. 2012). Each ruler had a different royal artist, and these artists (together with their patron kings) chose to depict these performances in particular styles. While Yajawte’ K’inich’s scribe preferred to portray the king dancing together with secondary members of his court (ajk’uhuunob and female attendants, usually identified by secondary glyphic texts), the master artist of K’inich Lamaw Ek’ chose to paint the supernaturals only through the wild contorted dancing of the participants who impersonated these deities. Secondary texts identify these deities as wayob of specific divine rulers (Looper, Reents-Budet, and Bishop 2009, 138). Genital bloodletting was integrated into the way-impersonation dances as intimated by “bloodletters dangling from dancers’ groins” and blood-stained paper in bowls (ibid.). The dancing, the bloodletting, and scenes of wayob vomiting on some Classic Maya vessels all hint that impersonation of the way required participants to achieve altered states of consciousness (Freidel, Schele and Parker 1993, 265-67; Looper, Reents-Budet, and Bishop 2009, 140).

How did these dance performances relate to political power? First, dances are depicted so often because they pervaded political rituals. In

Fact, Looper and colleagues (2009) assert that these vases underscore “the necessity of public performance and dance rituals by the assembled nobility for the legitimation of political authority” (149). If this is true, a good performance was very important, while a poor performance may have detracted from the ruler’s authority. In addition, the necessity of turning in a good performance conferred a degree of political power on the audience because they were the ones who assessed how successful the performance was. This is an inherent weakness of using performances to bolster the leaders’ power.

However, an overview of these scenes suggests that the power of the audience was limited because audiences are rarely shown as more than a few individuals, and these were probably elites. Were this audience more powerful, I suspect that larger groups would have been depicted together with the k’uhul ajaw. The scenes are also generally hierarchical in that the main protagonist (usually the highest-ranking lord or the k’uhul ajaw) is almost always easily identified by either a higher position on a throne or bench, by a frontal presentation of the torso and/or by the largest body mass in the scene, or by his more elaborate wardrobe.

Nevertheless, working against this strongly hierarchical structure, some Ik’ Style vessels with few protagonists show little to no differentiation between the k’uhul ajaw and his companions (e. g., K534, K1399, K3464, K3054, K8889) (see Figures 6.1-6.3). Two vases, K8889 and K3054, which pertain to Yajawte’ K’inich, depict all participants in ways that indicate their equality. For example, K8889 (Figure 6.1) records a gift-giving or tribute-presentation scene in which Yajawte’ K’inich and three other lords are all seated on the same level with equally simple costumes. Two other vessels, K534 and K1399 (Figures 6.2 and 6.3), are late and pertain to ruler Yeh Te’

Figure 6.2. K534, a second example of an Ik’ Style vessel displaying a heterarchical positioning of rulers and other elites. Photograph © Justin Kerr.

K’ihnich II (who reigned ca. 781-96) (Tokovinine and Zender 2012). Vase K534 (Figure 6.2) depicts three dancers, but the central one is not Yeh Te’ K’ihnich II; instead, it is a high-ranking noble, Yopaat Bahlam, who also carries the Ik’ emblem glyph. Yeh Te’ K’ihnich II is to the viewer’s left (Tokovinine and Zender 2012; Reents-Budet et al. 2012). This late vase shows lower levels of craftsmanship than other Ik’ Style vases and may have been painted by scribes that Yopaat Bahlam patronized rather than for Yeh Te’ K’inich II. If indeed this vessel was made for Yopaat, it presents a political discourse that gives him a claim to equal status with Yeh Te’ K’inich II. (See below for additional discussion of competing claims to power.) Another vase, K1399 (Figure 6.3), which also depicts Yeh Te’ K’inich II, places all the dancers on the same level, and they all wear equally elaborate costumes. The main protagonist seems to be a high noble who is carrying the Ik’ emblem glyph, and the secondary main protagonist is Yeh Te’ K’inich II (Tokovinine and Zender 2012). Here there is little to no distinction between the king and his high-ranking companions. The discourse of this vase presents a more equal relationship between the ruler and the secondary elite. However, since these are unprovenienced vases, it is also possible that they are presenting the claims to power of secondary elites or claimants to the throne of Motul de San Jose rather than the political perspective of the paramount ruler (Tokovinine and Zender 2012). Reents-Budet et al. (2007, 2012) interpret these vases as hinting that the Motul de San Jose polity may have been a confederacy of several allied k’uhul ajaws.

Figure 6.3. K1399, a third example of an Ik’ Style vessel displaying a heterarchical positioning of rulers and other elites. Photograph © Justin Kerr.

A few Ik’ vases with dance-related scenes include a larger number of individuals. For example, vase K6341 (Figure 6.4) shows the interior of a palace with a strong-red throne, pink pillars, and three steps fronting the palace (Looper, Reents-Budet, and Bishop 2009, 142-43).19 The ruler stands in front of the throne in the typical dance pose of lifted heel and with his

Head turned toward his right.20 He is facing three assistants. One holds his hand, possibly to help him off the throne or to stabilize him because of his ingestion of drugs; a second one is kneeling directly in front of him and appears to be applying paint to his already red body; and the third assistant is also kneeling and is holding a divining mirror into which the ruler is presumably looking (143). All three of these males are dressed in white; two of them have long white skirts and a tight white wrap around the head that extends stiffly forward and upward. These may be priestly accoutrements, possibly identifying these three assistants as ajk’uhuuns, according to Zender (2004). The kneeling attendants have red paint (or blood?) splattered on their faces and chests and down their fronts. To the left of the ruler and adjacent to the throne are two other males also dressed in long white skirts and the stiff white head wrap. One may be kneeling behind the throne, while the second is holding a huge fan attached to a long thin handle. A dwarf, also dressed in white, crouches on the lowest of the three steps in front of the throne.

The scene then moves laterally toward the ruler’s far right (but the viewer’s far left). Here two more elaborately dressed nobles are quite likely dancing (Looper, Reents-Budet, and Bishop 2009, 143), as both are making formalized graceful hand gestures with flexed wrists. They are possibly carrying weapons in their extended arms. Both objects have long thin handles, and one has an attached projectile point, and the other has a hook. The second dancer also stands in the lifted-heel pose. These two individuals are positioned on the lowest level of the scene, outside in the plaza fronting the palace. Although their head wraps are white, the rest of their attire is not and contrasts starkly to the white attire of the ruler and his attendants. However, they do not wear the heavy costumes that we see on warriors in the battle scenes in the Bonampak murals. Their bodies are partly or completely painted red (as is the body of the ruler, leading one to think that he is getting ready to join them in dance) (ibid.). They wear kilts wrapped around their midsections that have elaborate designs in black and red, one with jaguar skin elements and the other with Lamat signs. Long pieces of fabric drop from these kilts in front of and behind them (similar to the ruler’s outfit). Directly above them, partly hidden behind a platform or a white curtain, two robust ladies sit or stand. Both are painted red and are wearing white gowns with a bull’s-eye design.

The six attendants on this vase occupy an important position because they are the closest to the k’uhul ajaw. However, they are placed below the

Ruler (either through their position or their actions), so we can infer that they were seen as subsidiary to the king. If Zender (2004) is correct in his interpretation of the white headdresses and long kilts as ecclesiastical “uniforms,” they are all members of the priesthood. Interestingly enough, the two ladies are placed higher than the ruler and are very visible in this sense, even though their bodies are partly hidden. Women appear on several other Ik’ vases with their royal spouses or as ladies-in-waiting for the royal spouse.21 This high visibility of royal and elite females in the Ik’ style polychrome pottery corpus implies that females had political roles (or power) and that marriage alliances may have been an important strategy of political cohesion (and power) for the Motul de San Jose royalty.

The two dancers on this vase can be seen as the other important protagonists (or “power bloc”). On other vases, their structural position is taken by warriors who stand to the ruler’s right (e. g., K8790, K3984, K680, Dumbarton Oaks vase LC-cb2-443). For example, vase K3984 (Figure 6.5) shows another royal court scene at Motul. In this case, a throne is placed high above three steps that lead down into the plaza. In the highest position, the ruler (possibly Yajawte’ K’inich) sits crossed-legged on a bench covered by a jaguar pelt. His head and headdress intrude into the hieroglyphic text at the rim of the vase. Below him in the plaza sit two captives. To the ruler’s left, a courtier or attendant stands on the second step of the palace, wearing a long white skirt painted with red designs. The ruler is looking toward his

Right at two warriors who carry spears and rectangular shields. Both warriors wear similar attire: gruesome necklaces (or belts?) made of human heads, headdresses with huge fantastical animal heads, and long strips of cloth hanging between their legs. These elements of the warriors’ costumes suggest preparations for dancing. The headdresses remind one of the way-impersonation dances described by Looper and colleagues (2009); the long textile strips that swing and almost touch the ground are reminiscent of the attire of the two dancers on vase K6341. In this scene, the warriors occupy more visual space than the ruler: Yajawte’ K’inich is quite small and his costume is not as flamboyant as that of the warriors. Similarly, the ruler’s attendant is much larger than the ruler.22 However, the hierarchical organization is maintained in the vertical direction: Yajawte’ sits at the apex of the scene.

From these two representative examples of the few extant Ik’ vessels that portray many individuals, we can surmise that the overlapping groups (or factions) of warriors, secondary elites, courtesans, and priests formed central power blocs that operated hierarchically on some occasions and in more equal ways in other instances (see further discussion below). The courtiers, wives, ladies-in-waiting, and warriors not only attended to the needs of the ruler (exhibiting a hierarchical arrangement) but also saw or witnessed (or, more important, watched) his political affairs (exhibiting a more heterarchical political arrangement).

Feasting as Political Performance

Ethnohistories and ethnographies of Conquest period, Colonial, and early twentieth-century Mayas of Yucatan speak of feasts that were celebrated at important rites of passage, political events, and points in the calendri-cal-ritual cycle (Tozzer 1941; Roys 1943; McAnany 1995; Redfield and Villa Rojas 1934; Foias 2002). Landa describes the enormous quantities of food involved in elite feasting in sixteenth-century Yucatan: “And to each guest they give a roasted fowl, bread and drink of cacao in abundance” (Tozzer 1941, 92; see also LeCount 2001). Maya commoners also engaged in feasting that took place at significant points in each individual’s life and at important rituals that related to sacred cycles or ancestral celebrations that created and reproduced the identity of the kin group or of the community (Redfield and Villa Rojas 1934; McAnany 1995, 2010, 131-32).

Just like their descendants in Yucatan in the sixteenth century, the Classic Maya also engaged in feasting. As mentioned above, food and drink are depicted in palace or court scenes on many Classic polychrome pots, and the verb “to drink” appears in some of their texts (Reents-Budet 2000; Houston and Stuart 2001; Foias 2007). During these feasts, elite guests would have presumably been fed large amounts of food and drink, all served in polychrome vessels: vases for beverages, bowls for soups and stews, and tripod plates for solid foods such as tamales (Reents-Budet, Ball, and Kerr 1994; Houston, Stuart and Taube 1989). Massive middens that suggest rapid deposition after periodical feasting have been uncovered next to palaces, ball courts, and houses at a number of Maya sites (Reents-Budet 2000; LeCount 2001; Brown 2001; Hendon 2003; Wells 2007; Halperin and Foias 2010, 2012; Moriarty 2012).This evidence supports the theory that feasting was important in Classic Maya society.