At the age of forty-six, he was assassinated. Last month, however, he rose again to dominate the news, this time with the help of an archaeologist, Manolis Andronikos, who was working at the site of Vergina, west of Thessaloniki. Excavating a promising tumulus—a large mound of earth which frequently covered ancient graves, the one at Marathon being a prime example—Andronikos came upon a large, marble, two-room, burial chamber with a columnar facade topped by a painted fresco, a type of tomb not uncommon in Macedonia.
What was uncommon was the staggering wealth of the burial. Bronze and silver vessels, ivory heads, a gilded set of armour, and a gold casket were recovered together with a marble sarcophagus with a second casket of solid gold, weighing over ten kilos and decorated with fine relief work. Such wealth immediately suggested the possibility of a royal burial. The daily press, never loath to speculate, reported that the tomb of Philip II, the father of Alexander the Great, had been found. During his reign, Philip unified Greece and assembled a superbly trained army, thereby laying the foundations of his son’s remarkable conquest of Persia, a military feat that has never been matched.
Andronikos was more cautious than members of the Fifth Estate. Several weeks after the discovery, however, he outlined, at a crowded lecture, the evidence which led him to positively identify the tomb as that of Philip. The wealth of the tomb, he noted, suggests a royal burial. The facade, furthermore, is decorated with a brightly-coloured fresco7 depicting a lion-hunt, generally thought to be a royal sport, and one of the depicted hunters wears a crown. The material from the tomb dates to the period 350 to 330 B.C., Andronikos continued, and Philip was the only Macedonian king buried during that period. (The only other candidate, Alexander the Great, is known to have been buried in Alexandria, Egypt.) We know from ancient literary sources that Philip was crippled, Andronikos reminded us, pointing out that the greaves—pieces of armour that protect the shin—found in the tomb have one leg-piece shorter than the other. Finally, five miniature ivory portraits were discovered on the floor of the tomb. One seems to be of Philip himself and another of Alexander. Andronikos believes the other three portraits represent Philip’s parents and his wife, Olympias, mother of Alexander.
As a result of this reasoned presentation, the tomb seems well on its way to being generally accepted as that of Philip, even though some question remains. Archaeologists are prone to make identifications which sometimes prove to be a trifle enthusiastic. Schliemann, for example, was several centuries off in attributing the gold mask at Mycenae to Agamemnon, and the Agora of Athens was once thought to be located among some private houses east of the Pnyx. Even today, the tomb of Plataeans at Marathon, and the Prison of Socrates, await universal acceptance.
Each bit of evidence from the tomb of Vergina, when examined separately, can, in fact, be explained away. To begin with, wealth is not the private preserve of k ings, and gold crowns were awarded to ordinary citizens for outstanding public service. Recently we heard a group of archaeologists wrangle over the significance of the bursting-star, questioning its credentials as an emblem of Macedonian royalty.
The truth is that nothing positively associates the tomb with King Philip. The only certain means of identification would be an inscription painted on the burial chamber itself, but this is a very rare feature among Macedonian tombs and no such good fortune has yet been reported from Vergina. Absolute certainty seems beyond our grasp, even though the cumulative weight of circumstantial evidence is impressive.
Seeking guidance, we consulted our Ultimate Authority in archaeological matters for the final word. ‘What about it,’ we asked, ‘is it Philip’s?’ ‘I’m a romantic,’ was the reply. Ί always believe these things.’
Philip will now presumably come to rest in the Thessaloniki museum, a handsome building which, up to now, has lacked a collection of outstanding importance. The remarkable Macedonian and his regalia will certainly redress the balance.
Days of Wine and Roses
NAMED AY celebrations are a year-round affair. The appearance of an inordinate number of potted plants and sheaves of cut flowers on the sidewalks in front of flower shops, and the sight of countless delivery boys rushing through the streets with berib-boned boxes of pastries and brightly cellophane-wrapped gift packages of wines and spirits, usually signal the approach of a major nameday. When the day arrives, the telephone lines are more snarled than usual as the whirl of telephone greetings begins, while the lines to the telegraph offices are impenetrable.
From the end of November through the first week of January, one popular saint’s day follows so quickly on another that florists and patisseries have difficulty keeping up with the demand for flowers and bon-bons. During this six-week period, just about every Catherine, Andrew, Barbara, Nicholas, Anna, Spyros, Dionysios, Christos, Manolis, Vassili, Vassiliki, Stefanos, Stephanie, Fotini, Yanni and Ioanna —a list which includes nearly half the most common names in the country— celebrate their namedays. The exceptions are those who are named after minor saints with the same names whose feast days fall on other dates. Dionysioses, for example, may pay allegiance to St. Dionysios the Areopagite on October 3, but a substantial number celebrate on December 17, the feast day of another St. Dionysios. In fact, this second St. Dionysios, the patron of Zakynthos, enjoys a far greater number of followers — at least among the /jaufmoncfe. We were able to arrive at this conclusion by consulting our copy of The Social Calendar, a volume published in the past for the convenience of those who wanted to make certain that they did not miss the namedays of any luminaries. The book was known popularly as the ‘Who’s Who’ and listed namedays and the names, addresses, and phone numbers of five thousand prominent personalities in Greece celebrating on those days. A measure of the extent to which nameday traditions are fading in upper class circles came to light when we called the Orizon Press, which was responsible for this handy guide, to ask for their latest edition. A spokesman informed us that it had not been published since 1973 but this year the firm will publish instead an ordinary Who’s Who — which will, however, omit namedays. We fervently hope that the people at Orizon Press will reconsider their decision before going to press and include — in addition to the usual bare facts as to ‘who’ is ‘who’ — when each ‘who’ celebrates. Not to do so would be a gross oversight in any Who’s Who in Greece. What is more, they will undoubtedly list dates of birth, and birthdays — which have grown increasingly popular among the younger set in recent years — will make further inroads into our folkways.
Not so long ago, in the good old days, the home was thrown open to all callers, particularly on the nameday of the Man of the House, and not to visit was a serious breach of etiquette. Even in the absence of the celebrant, the proprieties were usually observed (and in many circles still are). Thus, a son might go abroad to study or to seek his fortune, but back home mother prepared sweets and other goodies and received guests in his honour on his nameday. Today these customs are less common in Athens and cabling, phoning or sending gifts usually suffices. Some unconvivial types even go so far as to advertise in the local papers that they will not be home to callers.
In the provinces, however, it is still de rigeurto visit and toast the celebrant. (One used to be served fig brandy and other homemade liqueurs but these are steadily giving way, in towns at least, to scotch and soda and gin and tonic.) Visitors arrive bearing bountiful gifts. Homemade sweets are common, and flowers less so. Relatives, politicians and other esteemed persons in the city may also’ be sent gifts from the provinces, and since according to rural standards food products in the cities are of an inferior quality, these may take the form of various produce. A particularly popular or influential individual may be the recipient of an array of olives, cheeses, fresh eggs, chickens, game, suckling pigs, and young lambs — the latter occasionally alive and cackling, bleating or baahing. One Nicholas of our acquaintance, an industrialist who has provided jobs for many people in an area north of Athens, counted among this year’s bounty three lambs, one kid, an immense bag of crayfish and a freshly caught swordfish — with instructions on how to prepare it.
This inventory, however, was paltry compared to the copious array showered on the Opposition leader, Andreas Papandreou, when he adhered to tradition and held open house at his home in Kastri for his nameday on November 30. From ten o’clock in the morning until late in the evening thousands of cars converged on the northern suburb creating a noisy but cheerful traffic jam. The heaps of chocolates and flowers were mountainous, and so were the wheels of cheese, sacks of pistachios and almonds, pecks of potatoes, tins of olive oil, and crates of oranges presented by supporters from all over the country. A farmer from the Peloponissos brought a rabbit, a boy from Boetia came with a Iamb, and a man from Thessaly arrived in a cart loaded with foodstuffs. For a while the Papandreou house and grounds looked less like a villa than a well stocked market place. We can only hope that Mr. Papandreou will now use his influence as Opposition leader and prevail upon the Orizon Press to include namedays in Greece’s Who’s Who.
Work in Progress
IT SEEMS to have escaped the attention of scholars that ancient Greek sculptors never conceived of a male caryatid. Yet the artists who so often portrayed men (usually nude) doing very little, gave birth to the idea of women (usually clothed) holding up a roof with their heads. It is an appropriate sign of the times that archaeologists and scientists have begun to take serious note of the plight of the caryatids on the south portico of the Erechtheum which have been seriously threatened by pollution. It would be even more appropriate if more serious note were taken of the plight of the city’s population which is threatened by the same pollution.
On December 8, an international conference for the conservation of the Erechtheum opened at the Eugenides Planetarium. It was attended by seventy-five Greek and fifty foreign specialists, including archaeologists, architects, civil engineers, geologists and even bacteriologists. The conference declared that the removal of the caryatids was essential. It went further and issued a ‘solemn appeal’ that action be taken to free Athens of the pollution which threatens not only our ancient heritage but the health of the population.
Many plans have been suggested in the past for saving the Acropolis, including an immense plexiglass belljar to protect the entire site. It seems likely now, however, that the caryatids will be removed and replaced with reproductions while they are exhaustively studied and treated so that they may one day be returned to their original location.
The problems involved are complicated and costly. Last year it was estimated that approximately fifteen million dollars would be needed for a start, of which the government would contribute five million, and an appeal was issued to raise the funds. Among those who responded was Leonard Bernstein who offered to compose an ‘Acropolis Symphony’ in aid of the cause. Indeed, the fate of the Acropolis monuments has been attracting world-wide interest for some years now, but the fate of the city’s population has drawn little sympathy. With all due respect for the intricacies involved —aesthetic, technical and bureaucratic— we cannot help but suggest that if action is not quickly taken, the ‘Acropolis Symphony’ may well become a ‘Requiem to the Athenians’.
