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Theories of Power and Legitimacy in Archaeological Contexts

Constructions of Historical Narratives

It is impossible not to project our own preexisting narratives onto the past to a certain degree. Our task should be to evaluate critically our own implicit assumptions. In this regard, a particularly important issue is the relation between action, motivation, and strategy. Many archaeologists ask what strategies rulers used in attempts to acquire and maintain political authority, as Kurnick notes. I have to wonder if this is the right question to ask. This question appears to assume that gaining and maintaining political authority is a goal of all rulers and that they actively and rationally strategize for this purpose. A resulting narrative would be, “rulers did this and that to acquire and maintain authority.” This is a typical course of action for modern politicians, but did all rulers in the past think and act in a similar manner?

I have to wonder to what degree this question is framed in the notions of personhood and agency deeply embedded in our own modern experience. To me, this is not simply a question of language. It concerns some of the central theoretical issues that we need to confront. Such a narrative would essentialize human action in a one-dimensional, highly functionalist explanation that is probably not unrelated to modern society’s strong emphasis on functionality, rationality, and goal-seeking behavior. Historically known rulers include diverse personalities, ranging from highly capable and motivated ones to reluctant rulers who did not have other choices but to take the throne, to incapable or disengaged ones whose royal status was maintained only by the efforts of councilors, and even to mentally challenged ones. If so, can we assume that it is the ruler who is making strategies?

For a few decades, many cultural anthropologists have highlighted negotiation among diverse personalities, views, ideas, and perceptions, leading to the critique of traditional anthropological concepts of culture and emic views as homogeneous or coherent entities, which may indeed be impositions of researchers’ own views, or at least researchers’ selective extraction and simplification of diversity in what natives say and do (Abu-Lughod 1991). Feminist and gender studies have further highlighted differences in views and perceptions that exist in a single “culture.” Many archaeologists have embraced these theoretical developments and the notion of multivocality, but the temptation of essentializing narratives of the past remains strong.

An aspect of this issue may be the assumption of one-directional causality from motivation to strategy to action. The aforementioned question starts from the archaeologically or textually observable external state (a ruler achieving or staying in the position of authority) and assumes that there were specific internal conditions in the individual—that is, motivation and planning leading to the resulting state. In addition, it is assumed that some of these internal states are recoverable. The diversity in motivations and perceptions that exists among different individuals puts the recovery of internal states in question. Moreover, various scholars have come to question the assumption of one-directional causality from motivation to action. We need to consider and examine how people’s actions also shape their ideas, perceptions, and motivations. This recursive relation between action and thought is the central premise of practice theory (Bourdieu 1977; Giddens 1984) and has also been elaborated by performance theory (Austin 1962; Bell 1997; Inomata and Coben 2006; Inomata 2006a; Inomata and Tsukamoto 2014). Practice theory has been particularly influential among archaeologists, but its central premise appears to be often left out.

A recent exciting development is the convergence of social sciences, cognitive sciences, and philosophy that further emphasizes the recursive relation of thought and action. Cognitive sciences, in particular, provide a scientific grounding to the philosophical perspective of practice theory (Shore 1996; Strauss and Quinn 1997). Antonio R. Damasio (1994, 1999, 2003), for example, stresses the duality and inseparability of mind and body, and thus of thought and action, by demonstrating that emotion, which according to him is tied to physical conditions of the body, plays a central role in this duality. Even more suggestive for archaeologists interested in practice theory is the growing understanding of the unconscious in human cognitive processes, which helps us explain how what Bourdieu calls practical knowledge works. Humans process a substantial part of our daily routine, including fairly complex operations, at an unconscious level and make a series of decisions without consciously evaluating them. In other words, a social agent does not have access to a substantial part of his or her mental process, and we are often unable to explain specific reasoning, motivations, and logics behind many of our actions and decisions (Hassin et al. 2005; Wegner 2002; Wilson 2002). More importantly, people are, in most cases, unaware of this inaccessibility to their own mental process, holding an illusion of conscious will (Galdi et al. 2008; Wegner 2002). Various experiments and studies demonstrate that people often give explanations for motives and reasons for their decisions and actions retrospectively, without noticing their retrospective nature (Johansson et al. 2005; Johansson et al. 2006; Nisbett and Wilson 1977). Instead of motivations and reasoning leading to actions and outcomes, people often perceive or reconstruct their motivations retrospectively based on the outcomes of the action, and often by referring to commonly accepted forms of discourse. Various philosophers, linguists, and anthropologists are incorporating such results to build a broader understanding of the relation between thought and action (Johnson 2006; Lakoff and Johnson 1999; Searle 2000), but archaeologists have been slow to incorporate this significant interdisciplinary trend (for an important exception, see Boivin 2008). A central problem appears to be that many archaeologists continue to hold the illusion of conscious will and extend it to their narratives of the past.

These understandings compel us to explore different perspectives. We need to be cautious and critical in assuming people’s motivations and reasons. Such practices often fall into the imposition of researchers’ own narratives. We need to focus more on the observable dimensions of action and speech and explore how they shaped, and were shaped by, prevailing forms of practice and discourse. This means that we have to shift our emphasis from assumptions on the attempts and objectives of rulers to their practice and performance and the social institution of rulership.

Authority and Legitimacy

If our purpose is theoretical refinement, I think that before asking how rulers achieved authority, we should probably ask whether concepts such as authority and legitimacy are appropriate for the study of premodern contexts, and what kinds of assumption are embedded in these terms. The applicability of some anthropological concepts to different historical contexts has always been an important focus of scholarly debate. Among archaeologists, a prominent issue involved those of political organization, such as chiefdom and state. The concept of chiefdom, in particular, has been heavily criticized (Yoffee 1993), and some even chose to abandon the term. Many archaeologists are not ready to throw away the term of state, but it is now commonly recognized that there is a substantial diversity in different historical contexts among what we call states (Smith 2003; Yoffee 2004). In comparison, there has been surprisingly little discussion among archaeologists about the applicability and appropriateness of the concepts of authority and legitimacy in different historical contexts. Are they so self-evident and universally applicable?

It is probably fair to say that many archaeologists, including Kurnick, use explicitly or implicitly the classic version of authority and legitimacy formulated by Max Weber (see, for example, Smith 2003:105–9). There have been substantial debates and critiques of Weber’s conceptualization in political science, sociology, and philosophy, but most of this scholarship has not been incorporated in archaeological discussion. In the most succinct manner, Weber (1978:212–15) defines authority as legitimate domination. Thus, in his view, authority and legitimacy are inseparably tied together. Following Weber, Kurnick (this volume:7) states that “authority cannot exist without explicit recognition and voluntary compliance. Rather than passively accepting authority . . . individuals, for whatever reasons, actively choose to comply.” However, this is just one version of authority among diverse scholarly conceptualizations, and in my opinion, it is not an adequate one for many archaeological cases. In political philosophy, the question of authority is often discussed in terms of the relation between de jure authority and de facto authority; the former refers to legally justified legitimate authority, the latter is authority by the fact that subjects follow orders even in the absence of such justification (Christiano 2013). An important question is whether authority always needs the voluntary compliance of subjects or their consensus on its legitimacy (Lassman 2000:89; Lukes 1978:641–44). Many contemporary theorists think that voluntary or active compliance, and thus the belief in its legitimacy, are not a necessary condition of authority (Christiano 2013). Rather, a fundamental question in political philosophy is “when is political authority legitimate?” We should note that this perspective derives strongly from modern concerns, but such theoretical discussion forces us to reconsider the applicability of Weber’s concepts.

The question of authority may become clearer as we discuss the closely related concept of legitimacy. Many archaeologists who follow Weber appear to equate the maintenance of legitimacy with that of authority (see, for example, Smith 2003:108–9). To me, a fundamental problem lies in the monolithic, one-dimensional conceptualization of legitimacy and thus, of authority. Various scholars have noted that the most problematic aspect of Weber’s formulation of authority and legitimacy is his view of people’s belief as their ultimate source (Weber 1978:213): a ruler’s regime is legitimate when the subjects express their belief in its legitimacy (Beetham 1991; Friedrich 1963; Malešević 2002; Pitkin 1972). In this conceptualization, legitimacy is equated with acquiescence; as long as the regime remains stable and people do not express dissent, it is considered legitimate, although in reality people may covertly disapprove of the regime (Blau 1963; Grafstein 1981; Schaar 1970). This creates a tautological argument in which stable authority and political order are conflated with legitimacy, and thus, the explanations of cause and effect depend on each other (Grafstein 1981:469). Jürgen Habermas (1975:97–102) has argued that Weber’s conceptualization presents ethical and moral problems and that the study of legitimacy needs to question people’s beliefs themselves. As alternatives to Weber’s formulation, various scholars have proposed that legitimacy needs to be examined on the basis of normative measures (Beetham 1991; Schaar 1970).

Problems in the application of Weber’s version of legitimacy to archaeological contexts should be evident. As discussed above, we should not simply equate the condition of a polity or people’s behavior, as estimated from the archaeological records, with common beliefs in legitimacy. This would inevitably lead to the problem of imposition of researchers’ own narratives, discussed above. A prominent proponent of discrepancy between externally or publicly visible behavior of conformity and internal or covert dissent is James C. Scott. He argues that while in the public domains nonelites typically follow the “public transcripts” that conform to elites’ views, they often express their “hidden transcripts” behind the scenes, thus demonstrating dissent with the authorities (Scott 1990). As I understand it, Scott’s view is largely incompatible with Weber’s conceptualization of authority.

We should again note that many of the alternative views of authority are deeply embedded in modern conditions in which codified laws and specific notions of justice play an important role, and we need to be cautious in using them. In modern society the concepts of authority and legitimacy are part of common public discourse, and they are largely internalized in the mind of modern political subjects. This observation most likely does not apply well to most premodern contexts. Did pre-Columbian Mesoamerican commoners discuss or evaluate the “legitimacy” of their rulers? More likely, their attitudes varied by specific directives and actions of rulers and other elites; different individuals may have reacted differently to the same action of the ruler, and the same individual may have reacted differently to different directives of the ruler. The most important point to keep in mind is that authority and legitimacy are not necessarily monolithic and coherent. This point concerns any historical contexts, but it is particularly important in the study of premodern contexts. We need to examine the multilayered, fragmentary, and inconsistent nature of legitimacy (Beetham 1991). The recognition of multiple layers of legitimacy implies that complex processes of negotiation exist. An important question may not be simply whether rulers maintained or failed to maintain authority. We probably should ask what kind of authority, with its layers and inconsistencies, was constituted in specific historical contexts.

Power, Rulers, and Society

An underlying issue is the eternal anthropological and sociological question of the relation between individual and society. This is not a simple question of one or the other, and my point is that if we want to refine our theory, we need to examine our position in this regard reflexively. Many archaeologists focus on how rulers rule. We probably need to ask to what degree the explicit focus on the ruler might be rooted in the modern, and possibly Western, thought that strongly emphasizes the role of individuals as political game-players. This issue may come into clearer focus as we discuss the concept of power. Like that of authority, many archaeologists appear to follow the classic conceptualization of power by Weber. For Weber, power has a broader reach than authority, as it does not require consent or belief in its legitimacy, and it is a capacity possessed and exercised by individuals and groups. This formulation probably has a better utility for archaeologists than his concept of authority because archaeologists can approach power in a more straightforward manner through the observation of its effects and avoid the problematic ground of guessing about belief in the legitimacy of authority. For our theoretical interest, we need to keep in mind that Weber focuses on individuals as the starting point of his theoretical formulation (Elster 2000; Keyes 2002).

One of the scholars who tried to advance Weber’s theory of power is Michael Mann (1986). As noted by Kurnick, Mann’s concept of power appears to be most popular among archaeologists. In my opinion, however, this is one of the most inadequate conceptualizations of power for many archaeologists. His narrative of power is highly categorical, as seen in the division among ideological, economic, military, and political power, and is highly mechanistic, as seen in the assumption of “sources” of power. It allows little room for the complexity and nuance in social process. Shouldn’t all power be political for most anthropologists? To be fair to Mann, his scholarship and analysis is about modern European history (despite the ambitious subtitle of The Sources of Social Power, “the history of power from the beginning”), and his conceptualization probably has utility in this historical context. His categorical division of power corresponds to a certain level of separation in economic, political, ideological, and military institutions in the modern world. His narrow definition of political power gains analytical validity only with the rise of specialized governmental institutions. I probably do not need to repeat many anthropological arguments about why such categorical divisions are problematic in the study of different historical contexts. Mann (1986:34) states that “in the true beginning there was neither power nor history.” The validity of this statement aside, he appears to acknowledge that his concepts are not applicable to contexts that interest many archaeologists. The most fundamental problem is his basic theoretical premise. He states that “the original source of power” is human nature that is “restless, purposive, rational, striving to increase their enjoyment of the good things of life and capable of choosing and pursuing appropriate means for doing so” (4). A strong modern and Western bias in his basic assumption is clear. The rationally maximizing actor is the starting point of his causal analysis, and consequently, he essentially rejects any consideration of human agency and cultural contexts (Bryant 2005; Kiser 2005:61). As a result, despite his claim of not being materialist (Mann 2005), his conceptualization of ideological power is mostly materialist (Kiser 2005:65; Reus-Smit 2002), and despite his criticism of evolutionism, his narrative of history of power looks much like a simplistic version of evolutionism (Schroeder 2005:5).

Weber’s writing is highly complex, but simplified or extreme forms of neo-Weberian theory may have led to the overemphasis on individuals as the sole starting point of theoretical constructs or analysis. Without going back to the other extreme of Durkheimian notion—seeing society as an organic whole—we probably should pay more explicit attention to the dynamics emerging from relations among people. In this sense, it is probably useful to revisit the theory of Michel Foucault. He seeks a theory of power and domination that does not presume the centrality of the ruler, and thus advocates cutting off the king’s head (Foucault 1980:121,1978:89). While Weber defines power as an entity possessed and exercised by individuals and groups, Foucault advances the concept of power that is not localized in individuals or groups but circulates through social relations. In his analysis, biopower and disciplinary power are not conceived as strategies of rulers but as techniques of power that operated in a broader web of society in specific historical eras (Foucault 1978,1977). Governmental institutions are not so much the possessors of such power as products of the scheme of power. Like most theorists, Foucault’s main interest lies in the modern period, in which, according to him, disciplinary power has come to prevail, and he contrasts it to the pre-eighteenth-century Europe characterized by sovereign power tied to kings and spectacles of public execution. This overly categorical division—in addition to his reluctance to give much credit to human agency—probably contributed to the limited influence of Foucault among archaeologists compared to the wide popularity of Bourdieu. In this regard, the work of Giorgio Agamben (2005, 1998) encourages us to explore the intersection of sovereign power and biopower in premodern eras as well as the intertwined nature of disciplinary power and sovereign power in modern times (Hansen and Stepputat 2006; Smith 2011). Thus, Foucault provides a useful framework through which to explore the operation of power not directly tied to specific individuals, but the direct, uncritical application of his ideas to archaeological contexts would be problematic.

If we question the assumption of individualism, we probably need to pay closer attention to collective dynamics, including the roles of nonelites, in making social institutions. At the same time, we should also pay attention not only to practices and strategies of rulers but to the social institution of rulership and the historical contexts in which the agency of individual rulers were embedded. Elsewhere I have suggested that the notion of divine kingship is a useful concept in examining the rulership in Classic Maya society (Inomata 2001, 2006a, 2008). An important implication we might draw from broad cross-cultural studies is that the central property of the divine king is not so much his ability, will, or strategy to rule but his symbolic nature as the embodiment of the political community (Fortes and Evans-Pritchard 1940; Feeley-Harnik 1985). It is commonly observed that the divine king is at once at the center of the community as a patriarchal and exemplary symbol and outside of it as a liminal figure, which relates to Kurnick’s statement that the political authority at the same time emphasizes both its uniqueness and commonalities with others. The paradox of the divine king is that this supreme figure may be ridiculed in public ceremonies and may be even killed when his health or sexual potency deteriorates (Hicks 1996; Hocart 1970). The classic concept of regicide reported from Africa and Asia may not directly apply to Classic Maya society, but Maya kings were sacrificed in a somewhat figurative manner through a bloodletting ritual and in a more direct, decisive manner through torture and decapitation when their polities were defeated in war. This nature of divine kings suggests that their characterization as ones holding authority or power over others is not enough. I have to wonder whether the common use of agentive nouns (ruler, leader, etc.) to denote these figures inadvertently makes us focus excessively on their nature as the ones who rule, lead, attempt, and strategize. We need to explore the other side of recursive process that is not addressed by extreme versions of the Weberian account of power; we probably should examine how the collective dynamics caught rulers and other elites in the history and structure of their own actions. Important elements in this process include nonelites who may not voluntarily comply or commit to the monolithic belief of legitimacy.

Obviously, this approach does not make Maya kings neutral to power. On the contrary, they were inseparably tied to violence and death. They presided over public ceremonies in which captive enemies were sacrificed, and kings themselves were the primary figures that needed to be sacrificed. This pattern resonates with Agamben’s (1998:94–103) observation that the king’s body may be indistinguishable from that of homo sacer, those who were placed outside of the Roman laws and could be killed by anybody. In both Maya and Roman cases, sovereignty was inseparably tied to violence situated outside the ordinary domain of society. This power, the one that kills captive enemies and the king himself, cannot be understood as a property possessed by the king alone. We need to examine a broader regime of power. Elsewhere I have argued that in Classic Maya society mass spectacles of public rituals and ceremonies were important settings for the operation of power (Inomata 2006a, 2006b). My point was that these public events were not simply strategies of rulers or elites but arenas of negotiation and contestation among diverse parties. They were settings where the king could show his ability to communicate with supernaturals and take credit for military success but could also be ignored, ridiculed, or killed. Studies of earlier periods show that this pattern of negotiation took shape long before the emergence of rulership.

Figure 2.1. Map showing the location of Ceibal.

Figure 2.2. Map of Ceibal (modified from Willey et al. 1975:figure 2), 1 meter contours. The eastern long mounds of the E-Group assemblage show sequential expansions; with the construction of a new long mound, the older one was covered by a plaza floor.

Figure 2.3. Map of La Libertad, Chiapas, as an example of the Middle Formative Chiapas pattern (redrawn from Bryant et al. 2005:figure 1.5).

Ceibal during the Middle Preclassic Period

Our investigations at the lowland Maya site of Ceibal (figure 2.1) have revealed the earliest known E-Group assemblage, dating to 950 bce (Inomata et al. 2013) (figure 2.2). The E-Group was a standardized ceremonial group, consisting of a western square building, a central plaza, and an eastern long platform, which later spread to many Maya sites. The residents of Ceibal also built large platforms, first to the southwest of the E-Group, around 950 bce, then to the northeast of it, around 800 bce, and eventually forming a spatial plan extending along the north-south axis of the site after 700 bce. This highly formalized plan was also found in Middle Formative (1000–400 bce) sites in central Chiapas; John Clark (Clark and Hansen 2001) has called it the Middle Formative Chiapas (MFC) pattern (figure 2.3). Before 1000 bce, the Maya lowlands appear to have been occupied sparsely by small mobile groups that combined small-scale horticulture with hunting and gathering without the use of substantial buildings or ceramics. Chiapas and other areas surrounding the Maya lowlands had earlier sedentary settlements with ceramics, but these settlements did not have comparable formal ceremonial complexes prior to 1000 bce. Michael W. Love (1999) has pointed out that the establishment of these complexes marked both a major architectural innovation and a significant change in social practice. These well-marked spaces probably defined proper actions for people who entered them and helped create disciplinary power comparable to the one described by Foucault for modern society. Excavations along the center lines of the E-Group assemblage at Ceibal, as well as at the Chiapan centers of San Isidro and Chiapa de Corzo, revealed greenstone axe caches similar to each other (Bachand and Lowe 2012; Inomata and Triadan forthcoming; Lowe 1981), indicating that these complexes were indeed associated with highly standardized ritual practice. Ceibal Cache 108, dating to around 800 bce, contained a carved shell pendant representing a decapitated head (figure 2.4). It appears that human sacrifice was already part of public ritual held in the plaza. Around 400 bce, human sacrifice appears to have become a primary theme of public ceremonies, and a series of decapitated or dismembered bodies were deposited in the plaza (Inomata 2014; Palomo 2013).

Figure 2.4. A carved shell pendant representing a decapitated head, from Ceibal Cache 108 (ca. 800 bce).

Despite the highly standardized spatial pattern and associated social practices across various regions, the degree of social inequality appears to have varied. The excavation of the western building of the E-Group assemblage at Chiapa de Corzo by Bruce R. Bachand and Lynneth S. Lowe (2012) revealed rich tombs with numerous jade ornaments, but our tunnel excavation through the basal level of the corresponding building at Ceibal did not encounter any burials. The southwestern and northeastern platforms at Ceibal supported multiple buildings on top and appear to have served as residential complexes for the emergent elite. The excavation of the southwestern platform unearthed two greenstone axe caches comparable to those found in the plaza. These finds suggest that, if the southwestern platform was indeed a residential complex, its inhabitants probably had privileged access to precious objects from afar, along with associated knowledge, and acted as main ritual performers in communal ceremonies held in the plaza. However, there is no clear indication that these emergent elites had strong power to impose their will on others by coercion. It appears that mobile horticulturalists persisted in the areas around Ceibal until 800 or 700 bce, and returning to the traditional mobile lifeway was probably an easy, viable option for most Ceibal residents if they wanted to escape from the imposition of elite power (Inomata et al. 2015a, 2015b).

It is unlikely that the formation of the standardized architectural plan and the associated operation of disciplinary power resulted from imposition by the elite. In examining this issue, we need to distinguish analytically the choice of a specific physical form (in this case, the spatial plan consisted of an E-Group and large platforms) from the broader domain of spatial and social practice. The emerging elites most likely played a leading role in the former through their interactions with other privileged groups in other regions. This does not mean that elites initiated the whole social change. Before the creation of a new physical form of ceremonial complex was realized, a new structure of spatial and social practice tied to aggregated sedentary settlements and a stronger commitment to agriculture must have already been emerging. New perceptions of the world and society associated with novel practices possibly made the conceptualization of a new ceremonial complex feasible. When a proposition of a new construction project was made, a consensus and agreement among diverse community members, rather than coercion or imposition by the elite, must have been critical. In addition, even the elite who conceptualized the specific new physical form of architecture possibly did not foresee much of its social effect (Joyce 2004). Moreover, the very existence of the elite would not have been possible without such new perceptions of the world. It is well recognized that egalitarian societies maintain a strong egalitarian ethos to prevent the excessive accumulation of wealth and power by certain individuals (Ingold 1999; Lee 1979; Woodburn 1982). Prior to the emergence of elites, a different perception of society must have been developing. Once a proposition of a new physical form was made and accepted, the resulting ceremonial complex probably enhanced and perpetuated the already developing form of new social and spatial practices and lay the groundwork for its later transformation.

In this sense, nonelite members of the community possibly contributed substantially to the creation of a new form of society and its later transformations. We may even need to consider the possibility that a broad body of community members desired or demanded the increasing specialization of public performers who also acted as political figures. This process was probably not a smooth, coherent one. The constant possibility of some Ceibal residents fleeing back to the mobile lifeway implies that division, contestation, and negotiation were inevitable parts of this trajectory. This emergent regime of power seen at Ceibal appears to have left a strong legacy for later Maya society. Rulers of the Classic Period closely followed the template of public interaction that we see at Middle Preclassic Ceibal. Although later rulers lived in elaborate palaces and were buried in rich tombs, their primary duty to the community was to perform in public ceremonies and to be sacrificed either in a figurative way or in a direct manner. In this sense, Classic Maya kings were tightly caught in this historical tradition and the social institution.

Conclusion

The establishment of a formal ceremonial complex around 950 bce at Ceibal indicates that the basic form of collective interaction that would continue through the pre-Columbian history of the lowland Maya people emerged as soon as they began to adopt the sedentary way of life. The role of the emergent elite in public ceremonies and the centrality of spectacle of violence at the Middle Preclassic community of Ceibal foretold the institutionalized performance of rulership in later periods. I do not mean to argue that Maya rulership had a timeless nature or that public performance was its most important aspect. Many other social dimensions are left out of this short essay, including governmental institutions, gender relations, domestic organization, daily life of various groups, subsistence and other technologies, etc. In addition, the symbolic contents of public events most likely changed substantially from the strong emphasis on communal values during the Middle Formative Period to the focus on rulership and dynastic history during the Classic Period. Through changes in these diverse social dimensions and symbolic contents, the lowland Maya continued to recreate the basic external form of collective interaction. This commonality shared through many centuries and across many communities cannot be explained in terms of strategies of individual rulers alone. Intersections between the perspectives focusing on individuals and those stressing collectives need to be explored, and we also have to examine how broader social processes may have made rulers. In doing so, engagement with social theories is critical, but we need to evaluate the historical situatedness of the modern theories. Such exercise makes us consider potential contributions of archaeological research to today’s world.