There used to be a city here. A prosperous Bronze Age port
on the coast of present-day Syria, with palaces and temples, warehouses
and factories, markets and shops,
streets and houses, and people, too, in their tens of thousands.
But then, just over 3,000 years ago,
Ugarit was destroyed, never to be rebuilt.
Ugarit fell victim to a man-made catastrophe that came from the sea.
A human tide of the dispossessed and the desperate engulfed it
and dozens of other Bronze Age cities, from Greece to Syria,
from Turkey to Egypt.
The destruction of these once great centres
reduced 4,000 years of civilisation into a layer of ash.
Following the great Bronze Age collapse,
civilisation was down but not out.
The survivors of the catastrophe
would live to fight another day and usually with each other.
In this struggle for survival,
the hard power of military muscle and state-sponsored violence would
be pitted against the soft power of trade and exchange
in a new and pitiless age. The age of iron.
The collapse of the Bronze Age kingdoms, a sobering reminder
of the fragility of this thing we call civilisation,
but also of its tenacity.
For in the new age of iron, civilisation would re-emerge,
tempered in the flames of conflict,
tougher and more resilient than ever before.
This is Pylos, in the Western Peloponnese.
In the late Bronze Age,
this part of Greece was on the very fringes of the civilized world.
That way, to the west and north, lay mainland Europe
where the tribal ties of kin and clan still prevailed.
To the south and east lay Crete,
Cyprus, Syria and Anatolia, way-stations on the way back
towards the first cities of Mesopotamia and Egypt.
By the late Bronze Age, these cities already qualified as ancient.
The experiment known as civilisation
had been running there for more than 3,000 years,
and was still going strong.
Here in Pylos, civilisation was still relatively new.
The Mycenaeans, as these Bronze Age Greeks were called,
had learned the arts of civilisation from the Minoans.
Everything from writing and fresco painting to the workings
of a centralised economy
had found their way West from the stepping stone island of Crete.
But Mycenaean Greece was no mere pale imitation of Minoan Crete.
Priest kings and priestesses
had ruled from the temple palaces of Crete,
Pylos and the other cities of Bronze Age Greece,
were ruled by a king in a citadel,
supported by a caste of aristocratic retainers.
Fighters to the very marrow of their boar-tusk helmets.
But these born-warriors were about to face the fight of their lives.
By the 13th century BC
it's clear that all was not well with the Mycenaean kingdoms.
The great fortified citadels from which Mycenaean kings dominated their territories
had become even more defensive with higher walls and deeper wells.
A sure sign that they were expecting trouble from somewhere.
Written records found here at Pylos
talk ominously about watchers who guard the sea
and their followers who possessed chariots.
It sounds like an early warning system,
naked eye radar coupled with the fastest communication systems known to the Bronze Age.
But what were these watchers looking for?
What was this nameless threat coming from the sea?
The next set of clues in this historical whodunit
can be found here, in Ugarit, the port city on the coast of Syria.
Ugarit was numbered among the great cities of the Bronze Age world.
It had grown fat and fair by acting as a vital link in the web
of trade and diplomacy that joined the ancient cities of Mesopotamia
to the Mediterranean world,
as far the far-flung cities of Mycenaean Greece.
The artefacts found here tell their own story about the brilliance and
sophistication of a city which has been described
as the Venice of the ancient world.
But some time around 1200 BC, Ugarit was completely destroyed.
Like Pylos, the ruins of Ugarit have yielded precious written records,
miraculously preserved, and these give us our first real glimpse
of the agents responsible for a catastrophe that, slowly but surely,
was engulfing the whole region.
The letters were to and from Ammurapi, the last king of Ugarit.
They're fragmentary but that only adds to their drama.
These are despatches from the frontline of a war for survival
unleashed by a mysterious enemy
who appeared suddenly from the western seas.
The first to feel the consequences were the Hittite kings of Anatolia,
in modern day Turkey, a few hundred miles north of Ugarit.
Here's one fragment of a letter from the Hittite king, Suppiluliumas, to Ammurapi, the king of Ugarit.
"The enemy advances against us and there is no number."
Then there is a break in the text.
"Whatever is available, look for it and send it to me."
Now this is from the king of one of the most powerful states in the region
and you don't have to read between the lines to sense the panic and desperation in his plea.
This letter is from Ammurapi to his father in law, the king of Alasyia,
what is now Cyprus.
It suggests that Ugarit had sent troops to help the Hittites with disastrous consequences.
"My father, behold, the enemy's ships came,
"my cities were burned, and they did evil things in my country.
"Does not my father know that all my troops and chariots are in the Hittite country.
"All my ships are in the land of Luca.
"Thus, the country is abandoned.
"May my father know it, the seven ships of the enemy that came
"inflicted much damage upon us."
Seven ships, it's hardly D-Day is it, but it goes to show, I think,
just how vulnerable these Bronze Age cities were to disasters,
both natural and man-made.
King Ammurapi, rather touchingly, takes time out from his troubles
to reassure his mother.
"And thou my mother be not afraid
"and do not put worries in thy heart."
Which is rather optimistic given that things were now very bad.
There's a letter to someone called Zrdn which pulls no punches.
"Our food on the threshing floor is burned and also the vineyards are destroyed.
"Our city is destroyed and may you know it."
That was it for Ugarit. Game over.
Throughout these dramatic letters,
the enemy remains faceless and nameless.
In fact you get the feeling that Ugarit never really knew what hit it.
But as the threat advanced south and east,
the enemy emerged into plain sight.
At Medinet Habu near Luxor, on the eastern wall of the mortuary temple
of Ramesses III, you can see
what happened when the ships which had wiped Ugarit off the map
headed south to Egypt.
King Ramesses is there, gigantic, with his drawn bow,
and flooding around him
in a tidal wave are barbaric warriors with horned helmets
and outlandish Mohican hair-dos.
According to Egyptian accounts
these are the Sea Peoples. The Peleset, the Shekelesh,
the Habiru. Raiders from Italy, Sardinia,
Sicily and the Aegean, nomads from the desert fringes of the Levant,
savages from beyond the Pale of Civilisation.
The Egyptians had been troubled by sea-borne raiders from the West before
but in the eighth year of Ramesses' reign,
around 1180BC, they appeared again in greater numbers.
There was a new and troubling development. They brought women and children with them.
According to one theory, this wasn't just another hit and run raid, but a mass movement of people.
displaced perhaps from their own homes in the West,
and looking for new lands to settle.
No-one knows for sure what caused the mass migration of the Sea Peoples in this period.
Explanations range from a natural disaster, a flood, a famine,
an earthquake or a volcanic eruption.
To a cascade of tribal movements that began as far away as China
and spread in a cataclysmic domino effect.
Whatever the explanation,
this tide of humanity swept over the civilised world
and left it in ruins.
According to the version of events recorded here,
Ramesses' armies smashed the Sea Peoples but for much of the rest of the civilised world
this victory over these desperately fierce,
or fiercely desperate, invaders came too late.
In a period of 50 years, from 1200 to 1150 BC,
many of the centres of Bronze Age culture,
from mainland Greece to the Near East, were snuffed out.
One after the other.
One by one their names were added to the roll call of destruction.
In the West, Pylos, Sparta, Mycenae, Athens, Iolkos.
In the East, Hattusa, Tarsus, Carchemish, Alaka and Ugarit,
King Ammurapi's doomed city.
Then Qatna, Kadesh, Hazor, Lachish and Megiddo...
or Armageddon,
where archaeologists have only recently discovered the ash layer
that attests to the world that ended here.
These cities hadn't been brought down by the hammer blows of a rival
but by the attrition of a rag-bag of have-nots,
people on the other side of the plate glass window of civilisation
but with the desperation and numbers to smash their way through.
The vulnerability of these once powerful centres shows that,
for all its complexity and sophistication
Bronze Age civilisation
was never much deeper or durable than a layer of gold leaf.
The catastrophe of the Sea Peoples is one of the great break points in our story
when the radio goes off the air.
In many areas, writing disappeared and with it history.
Agricultural output collapsed,
cities were deserted, populations dwindled.
The connections between people withered, the world shrank.
Artefacts become crude and cumbersome. In some areas, oil lamps disappeared.
This truly was the first Dark Age.
In the centuries that followed,
that precious and vulnerable organism called civilisation would lie dormant.
No longer relevant in these new times.
When the story of civilisation unfolds for the second time
it would be into a new world. A harsher world, the age of iron.
Iron was once a precious metal praised in poetry and used in jewellery but the techniques
for hardening it and transforming it into steel turned a precious metal into an essential one.
These techniques, pioneered in Bronze Age Anatolia,
were once closely guarded secrets, but the destruction of the Hittite kingdom by the Sea Peoples
caused the iron masters to migrate to other regions,
bringing the secrets of their guild with them.
Unlike copper and tin, the raw materials for bronze,
the ingredients for steel, iron ore and charcoal, were widely available.
Once the secrets of iron making became known the Age of Iron truly began.
Initially used to make tools, it wasn't long before iron weapons were being made.
Ultimately iron would democratise warfare, taking weapons out of
the hands of the few and putting them into the hands of the many.
The political and social consequences of that revolution would play out in the centuries
to come, but first came the question of who would thrive in this new hard-edged Age of Iron.
Who were the winners, the losers and the new powers in the land?
The collapse of the Bronze Age kingdoms is a bit like the disappearance of the dinosaurs.
With the big beasts out of the running, a variety of smaller,
mammal-like kingdoms now had their moment in the sun.
Amongst these inheritors were the people responsible for these
rather beautiful votive offerings from Byblos in what is now Lebanon.
They've been known to history but not themselves as the Phoenicians
and it would be on their narrow shoulders that many of the achievements
of Bronze Age civilisation would be carried forward into the new Age of Iron.
For a people who don't exactly loom large in the histories of the ancient world
the list of Phoenician achievements is pretty impressive.
Pioneering ship building and navigation techniques, commercial and financial innovations,
the exploration and colonisation of the central and western Mediterranean.
All of these would have a positive effect on the preservation
and eventual revival of civilisation following the Bronze Age collapse.
But all of these achievements are eclipsed by this,
a technology, that like iron, would transform the ancient world.
This is the sarcophagus of Ahirom who ruled in Byblos some time around 1200 BC.
An inscription running along the top here is thought to be the world's oldest known example of an alphabet.
Ominously this was a curse to anybody who dared to desecrate the tomb of the king,
but in fact the development of an alphabet by the Phoenicians
was a blessing which we're still benefiting from today.
Earlier writing systems, Egyptian hieroglyphics or Akkadian cuneiform
were a kind of bureaucratic code based on a complex system of symbols
which stood for things or for syllables of words.
The skills required to use them were restricted to a class
of trained specialists known as scribes.
An alphabet is far simpler.
Each letter indicates the sound of a spoken word so learning how to pronounce the alphabet
allows you to sound out words even if you don't know what they mean.
Alphabet systems are more like speech recording and code breaking and are easier to use and teach.
So just as iron put weapons in the hands of the masses so the alphabet
took reading and writing out of the hands of a narrow clique of specialists and democratised them.
The Phoenician alphabet was made up of 22 letters,
all of which were consonants, so it means that this inscription has no vowels sounds in it
so it would have been a bit like a text message sent by an impatient teenager,
and this made for a very fast and efficient mode of recording and communication
which was exactly what the business minded Phoenicians wanted.
The Phoenicians were businessmen to their bones, a tradition that continues today in Lebanon,
where most of the major Phoenician cities were found.
This is Byblos.
In the Bronze Age, before the destruction wrought by the Sea Peoples, this Phoenician city
had been a vassal city of Egypt, as many of the artefacts and structures found here make clear.
This is the Temple of the Obelisks built around 1300 BC
just before the great Bronze Age collapse.
The obelisk, a symbol of the Egyptian sun god Ra,
is one of the most ubiquitous features of Egyptian religious architecture
and its presence here tells you all you need to know about the dominance of Egypt in this period.
But the catastrophe of the Sea Peoples changed things for everyone, including Egypt.
The walls of Medinet Habu might boast of the total annihilation of
this threat from the sea but hard times came to Egypt nonetheless.
When things finally settled down after two centuries of darkness and confusion, it's apparent
that Egypt's glory days are over, as the story of Wenamun makes clear.
I think that all leaders of great nations should read and contemplate the story of Wenamun,
a high temple official from Thebes in Egypt who came to Byblos around 1075 BC.
It's a sobering story of what happens when your international credit rating
drops through the floor.
The report of Wenamun is a first-person account
of a temple official who travelled to Byblos
to acquire one of the region's most sought after resources, timber from the legendary cedars of Lebanon.
These days, the mountains of Lebanon have been more or less cleared of these mighty trees
but back then they were a plentiful and vital supply of tall, sweet-smelling timber
for building ships and temples.
Once an Egyptian pharaoh had only to snap his divine fingers for a whole forest
of cedars to be dispatched south, but as Wenamun discovered,
since the Sea Peoples, everything had changed.
His journey to Byblos hadn't been an easy one.
Having been robbed along the way, he was then kept waiting 29 days before eventually being granted
a rather grudging interview by Zakar-Baal, prince of the city.
"What your father did, what your father's father did,
"you will do too", declared Wenamun rather grandly.
To which the Prince of Byblos replied,
"Well, I will do it as long as you pay, for I am not your servant nor the servant of he who sent you."
Clearly the relationship between Egypt and Byblos was now strictly business,
cash on delivery, and please do not ask for credit, as refusal often offends.
For the trading cities of the Mediterranean coast, the Bronze Age collapse
was like a bonfire of Bronze Age red tape and a green light for entrepreneurs
and the spirit of free enterprise.
Liberated from the control of kings in distant palaces,
the traders in coastal cities like Byblos
organised themselves into firms based around the networks of their extended families.
When the kings did return, their control was no longer absolute.
Instead they went into business with the merchant princes,
lending them ready cash to underwrite their trading ventures.
For their part, the merchants got a place at the high table, shaping the political destiny
of their cities and always with the bottom line in mind.
As we all know, every successful business is meant to have a USP,
a unique selling proposition, and for the Phoenicians, it was the sea and their mastery of it.
We already know from the wrecks of Bronze Age ships that the sea
was an important route for trade, but in the Iron Age, the Phoenicians would turn it into a superhighway.
The Phoenicians were blue water sailors.
Rather than hugging the coast navigating cautiously between headland and headland
they struck out into the great watery unknown by day and by night,
guided by the star that bore their name, the Phoenice, the Pole Star.
With their advanced navigation skills the Phoenicians began
to stitch together a web of trade from sea to shining sea.
But what were the Phoenicians carrying in their distinctive horse-headed boats?
We know from Wenamun's story how important the cedars of Lebanon were but the Phoenicians had other
desirable commodities to sell to a world that was picking itself up from the disaster
of the Bronze Age collapse, and one in particular with which they will always be associated.
Why were the Phoenicians called the Phoenicians?
Well, you could say they literally made a name for themselves with this.
This is a murex, a sea mollusc which was a source of one of the most precious commodities
of the ancient world, a powerful dye famed for the intensity of its colour.
It's known simply as purple.
The Phoenicians had cornered the market in it, so the Greeks called them by their name for purple,
Phoenix, hence the Phoenicians, the purple people.
If you were passing along this coastline 3,000 years ago,
I reckon you would know that you were heading towards a Phoenician port.
The first clue would be geographical,
a spit of land sticking out to sea or a sizeable inshore island.
These were the sites that the Phoenicians preferred for their cities,
amphibious places, half-land, half-water.
And as you came closer the telltale sign of the double harbour
which meant that ships could arrive safely into the port whichever way the wind was blowing.
And if there wasn't a double harbour, then the Phoenicians built one.
And just as you were docking the wind suddenly changes direction
and you catch the foul stench of the purple works on the outskirts of town,
the source of so much of the Phoenicians' exportable wealth.
Welcome to Tyre, which 3,000 years ago
was the most successful and the most powerful of the Phoenician city states.
Like Byblos and Sidon, Tyre grew fat on trade.
So fat that, around 1,000 BC it was becoming an important power
in the region and the object of some fear
and a lot of envy amongst its immediate neighbours.
In the Bible, the prophet Ezekiel paints a vivid picture of Tyre in its glory days.
In a long and detailed passage, he lists 20 or cities
and the imports which Tyre received from each.
The silver, iron, tin and lead from Tarshish, some think this is Spain.
Ivory, ebony and saddle cloths from Dedan, that's in Saudi Arabia.
Spices, precious stones and gold from Sheba, wine and wool from Damascu...
The list goes on and on.
"Tyre," says Ezekiel, "your frontiers are far out to sea,
"when you unloaded your goods to satisfy so many peoples,
"you enriched the kings of the earth with your excess of wealth and goods."
Isaiah was even less flattering, accusing Tyre of playing the whore to all the kingdoms.
But the only "prophets" which the merchant princes of Tyre were really interested in
were those you could tot up at the end of the financial year.
To trace the origins of those carping profits back to their source
you have to travel inland from the thriving port cities of the Mediterranean coast
and head south to the land of one of the most intriguing peoples of the ancient world, the Jews.
Like the Phoenicians, the Jews have benefited from the elbow room
created by the collapse of the great Bronze Age kingdoms.
According to the Bible, Jerusalem was the capital of the kingdom of Israel, founded by King David
and inherited by his son, Solomon.
Many archaeologists wonder now just how powerful and unified Solomon's kingdom really was.
For them the biblical account was a vision of a golden age,
how things should have been rather than the way things were.
But both sceptics and true believers are agreed that after Solomon
there were two distinct Jewish kingdoms in this region.
Israel, or Sumaria, in the north and Judah, whose capital was here in Jerusalem, to the south.
Mammal kingdoms both of them, beneficiaries of the great Bronze Age collapse.
But in the following centuries both north and south would suffer
the same fate as all the other small kingdoms in this part of the world
because the dinosaurs weren't extinct at all, they were back,
but this time clad in iron rather than in bronze, dreaming of a universal empire
based on aggressive expansion and the systematic use of violence and terror.
It's time to meet the Assyrians.
MARTIAL MUSIC PLAYS
This is Shalmaneser III, king of Assyria during the 9th century BC.
He ruled for 35 years, 31 of which he was at war.
That's what the Assyrians did, war.
War underpinned their society, their economy and their civilisation.
For an Assyrian king, the greatest attribute wasn't wisdom or justice,
it was melammu, a shimmering radiance that flashed out from his brow to intimidate his enemies,
shock and awe without the aid of bunker busters or cruise missiles.
If geography is fate, the Assyrians learned to overcome theirs.
In the aftermath of the catastrophe of the Sea Peoples,
Assyria found itself with a small triangle of territory wedged between
the plains of Mesopotamia and the mountains of Iran to the north.
Cramped and landlocked, it learned to fight for every square mile of territory.
Raised in the school of hard knocks, the Assyrians went on to major in the arts of empire building
and aggression directed against neighbouring kingdoms.
Every year the Assyrian king would summon his army to Nineveh and every year lead it
against those unfortunate enough to live within striking distance.
It was a kind of harvest, an annual gathering in of plunder and tribute.
The Assyrians respected no gods but their own.
In Babylon and Egyptian Thebes, hallowed temples spared for millennia by the scourge of war
were ransacked, their gods carried off to be laid at the feet of Ashur,
the Assyrian god of war.
Mere mortals fared far worse.
Impalings, amputations, burnings alive, flayings alive, disfigurements,
mass blindings, mass deportations,
these were par for the course when an Assyrian army took your city.
All the locals could do was cower in the reeds until the tsunami of violence abated.
But this wasn't mindless violence, this was carefully directed violence,
violence as an instrument of State policy, an economy of terror,
because after the shock and awe came the shekels and the plunder.
A raid by Shalmaneser's father on a kingdom in south-east Turkey netted the following plunder.
"40 chariots complete with trappings, 460 horses,
"2,000 cattle, 5,000 sheep, silver, gold, lead, copper and iron
"in varying but large amounts, fine linen and various pieces of fancy furniture including couches
"made of ivory and inlaid with gold, the ruler's sister, the daughters of his nobles
"and their rich dowries, 15,000 subjects who were snatched away and brought to Assyria as slaves.
"He also imposed an annual tribute of sheep, grain, gold and silver."
And that was just the proceeds of one of 15 victims from that year's campaign.
Who says that war crimes don't pay?
Shalmaneser III followed in his father's rapacious footsteps.
His appetite for plunder took him west to the Phoenician
cities of the Mediterranean coast and south to the Kingdom of Israel.
At the mouth of the Dog River near Beirut
he erected a monument to himself and boasted about the tribute he had received from his victims.
You can see what receiving tribute meant on the famous black obelisk of Shalmaneser in the British museum.
This is Jehu, a king of Israel, adopting the position recommended
in the presence of all that dazzling melammu.
If their kings had continued to do the sensible thing, then the Jews of the ancient world would probably
have been spared a great deal of suffering,
but the kings didn't, so the people weren't.
Jehu's successors decided it was better to die like lions
than live like sheep.
In 737 BC the northern kingdom of Israel threw off its subservient
vassal status and allied itself to Assyria's great rival Egypt.
Bad move.
The Assyrians, as a poet would later write,
came down like a wolf on the fold.
Within a decade the northern kingdom was no more, its cities destroyed,
its territories annexed, its people deported en mass to Assyria.
The ten tribes of Israel became the ten lost tribes,
chewed up by the Assyrian war machine.
But in the brutal ecology of the Age of Iron,
one kingdom's loss is another kingdom's gain.
With its more powerful northern neighbour wiped off the map,
the sudden Jewish kingdom of Judah now came into its own.
Jerusalem quickly grew from an insignificant hill town
into the capital city of an important Assyrian vassal state.
And so things might have continued if the kings of Judah had kept
their lips firmly planted on the ground.
The King Hezekiah had other plans.
Although the terrible fate of the northern kingdom
was still in living memory, he too made the fateful decision
to defy the Assyrians,
to stop paying tribute and to make an alliance with the Egyptians.
He certainly understood the consequences.
This massive wall, 20 foot wide in certain places, was hastily thrown
up and houses that stood in its path were demolished to make way for it.
And this was just the start of Hezekiah's defensive strategy.
'You can't fault Hezekiah for not being prepared.
'He also ordered the construction of this subterranean conduit,
'a third of a mile long cut through the bedrock of the city,
'designed to bring fresh water from a spring outside the city walls
'to a reservoir inside.'
So Hezekiah had done all he could.
He'd built his wall, he'd dug his tunnel, now all he could do was wait
for the wrath of the Assyrians to crash down around his ears.
And that's more or less what happened when the Assyrian king Sennacherib
marched into Judah looking for payback.
Except that it didn't happen in Jerusalem.
Sennacherib was more than happy to leave Hezekiah hiding behind his fancy new wall,
like a caged bird, as one Assyrian text contemptuously put it.
And meanwhile, the Assyrian army marched west to Hezekiah's second city, Lakish.
What happened next was recorded in gruesome detail
in a frieze that once decorated the palace of Sennacherib.
The city fell, of course, with all the inevitable consequences.
Up here on the western slopes, archaeologists have discovered
a mass grave containing the bodies
of over 1,500 men, women and children,
some of them possibly the victims
of the terrible atrocities depicted on the frieze.
As for the survivors, the frieze also reveals their fate,
mass deportation to Assyria where the men were put to work in the stone quarries
raising up monuments to the greater glory of the mighty Assyrian empire.
There's a sequel to the story of Hezekiah's defiance of Assyria.
When he died, he was succeeded by his son, Manasseh.
'Manasseh rejected his father's policies, got down on his knees
'and declared himself a loyal vassal of the Assyrian king.
'More importantly he found a way to make himself useful.'
The Assyrians were tough but they weren't psychopaths.
If you gave them something that they wanted, then they'd let you survive.
Manasseh gave them olive oil.
In fact, he turned the town of Ekron, to the north of here, into a virtual oil refinery.
Over 100 oil presses have been discovered there,
suggesting the scale of production needed for this little kingdom
to keep the Assyrian beast at bay.
The Jews weren't the only ones trying to satisfy the demanding Assyrians.
The ever-resourceful Phoenicians also had to raise their game
and as we'll see, by doing so they revived the arts of civilisation
that had been lost for centuries to the West.
When the Assyrians swept into the territory of the Phoenicians,
they immediately recognised that they'd captured a flock of golden geese.
The merchants of Byblos, Sidon and Tyre
were permitted to continue as before, but the lion's share
of their profits would be diverted to the Assyrian treasury.
It was a hostile takeover with no golden parachutes.
From the gates of his palace at Balawat, Shalmaneser III
bragged about the tribute extracted from the Phoenicians,
showing their horse headed boats
unloading the loot in satisfying amounts.
A century later, Sargon II elaborated on the same theme,
decorating the walls of his new city-sized palace in Khorsabad
with a frieze showing Phoenician hippoi delivering Lebanese cedar
in amounts that the Egyptian Wenamun could only have dreamed about.
But the Assyrians were impossible to please.
As a rule of thumb, the tribute demanded rose 20-fold
with every succeeding generation and so the Phoenecians had no choice,
they got on their boats, took to the seas
and started looking for new ways to get rich quick.
They headed west into the Mediterranean.
They went to Cyprus and Malta, to Italy, Sardinia and Sicily,
to North Africa, Ibiza and Spain
searching for new markets and new sources of raw materials,
founding ports and trading colonies along the way
and laying the foundations of what would one day become the Carthaginian empire.
I'm heading now towards the island of Motya,
but during the time when the Phoenicians built their colony here,
this was actually joined to the mainland by a causeway.
Now all around me here are salt works
and the Phoenicians tended to build their colonies
close to sources of salt, used not only for the preservation of food
but also in the dying process of the very famous Tyrian purple.
This small flat island off the west coast of Sicily
is now given over mostly to scrub and vines,
but Motya was once a bustling emporium
set up by the Phoenicians at the beginning of the 8th Century BC.
And the main reason for its existence was to act
as a staging post for the lucrative trade routes that went from Greece
all the way down to Italy, then across the western coast of Sicily, then down to North Africa.
But it also had its own industrial units too,
making not only the famous purple dye but also pottery,
and here we can see a very fine example of a pottery kiln.
These guys were really into everything.
But though they came in search of profits,
like industrious honey bees, the Phoenicians carried with them
a pollen of civilisation into regions that had been blighted by the Bronze Age collapse.
And the ones who benefited the most
were the people known to us as the Greeks.
But who were these Iron Age Greeks,
the ones who came after the Bronze Age Mycenaeans?
What was their story?
The Bronze Age collapse had hit the Mycenaeans kingdoms hard.
This part of the world had always been on the edge of civilisation.
When the catastrophe of the Sea Peoples happened, it fell off the edge.
Populations collapsed, farming reverted from agriculture to pastoralism.
A land of citadels ruled by warrior kings became a country of tribal villages,
separated from each other, closed in on themselves.
But the Dark Ages weren't completely dark.
The archaeological record contains vivid flashes of light
that suggest that not everything was lying dormant.
'If you come to Ischia, in the Bay of Naples, you can see one of these
'lightning flashes, a modest enough artefact
'but one that carries on it the mark of these changing times.'
It's known as the Cup of Nestor, found at a site called Pithecusae
and it dates from around the 8th Century BC,
and scratched on its side is a poem.
It says, "I am Nestor's cup, good to drink from.
"Whoever drinks this cup empty,
"straight away desire for beautiful crowned Aphrodite will seize him."
Now I'm sure many of us will recognise the headiness that comes from knocking back a glass of wine,
but the Cup of Nestor makes a more sober point,
this little poem was written in Greek using an alphabet.
Before the Bronze Age collapse, Greek was written down in Linear B,
an unwieldy system that used more than 200 signs and symbols,
and which was really only good for book keeping.
But here we are just a few centuries later, with Greek speakers using
a concise and efficient alphabet with less than 30 characters
to write poetry.
So clearly at some point during the Dark Ages
the Greeks have received enlightenment from someone.
The getting of wisdom is all about the company you keep.
On Ischia and elsewhere, we know that the Greeks were rubbing shoulders
with the inventors of the alphabet, the Phoenicians.
Both groups had come here to exploit the region's iron, silver and tin mines
and seem to have ended up as partners rather than rivals.
This allowed the Greeks to sit at the feet of the purple people
and to relearn the lost arts of civilisation.
Just a few centuries after that simple poem was scratched on the side of a cup,
a Greek named Herodotus wrote a monumental, multi-volumed work
called The Histories in which he acknowledged the debt that
the Greeks owed to the Phoenicians for giving them the alphabet.
Later historians have added further items to that debt of honour.
The cultivation of vines and olives, interest bearing loans and banking,
weights and measures, and even political institutions
such as kingship were all said to have been brought to the West by the industrious Phoenicians.
But the Greeks were inveterate tinkerers, instinctive improvers of other people's ideas.
They took the Phoenician alphabet one stage further,
devising five new letters, which reproduced vowel sounds as well.
No longer restricted to the abbreviated text speak
of the Phoenician alphabet, the Greek alphabet became a more
expressive tool, better at capturing the melodies and rhythms of speech,
poetry as well as cargo manifests.
But the charming frivolity of Nestor's Cup
gives no clue as to what came next -
a piece of writing so monumental and so profound
that it would shape the destiny of the Greek speaking world.
Rage - sing of the rage of Achilles goddess,
that ill-fated killer Peleus's son who cost the Achaeans so dear,
sending to hell so many brave souls,
mighty warriors turned into carrion, a feast for dogs and birds.
The unmistakable war music of The Iliad, 16,000 lines
of hexameter verse that plunge you straight into the strife and havoc,
which are said to have happened here
in front of the walls of Troy some 3,200 years ago.
The very first word of The Iliad is menin, rage,
and that is what it explores with unflinching clarity and insight.
The rage of men fighting for vengeance, honour and personal gain,
for victory and survival, but also for the intoxicating adrenalin rush
that comes with the licensed savagery of war.
Achilles hacked at his collarbone just below the neck,
driving in deep the double-edged blade hard to the hilt,
and down Lycaon fell, his face in the dust,
his black blood flooding out to soak the earth.
Achilles grabbed his foot and tossed him into the river,
and away he went downstream, sped by stinging words,
"Go then down to the fishes, lie there with them, let them suck
"the blood from your wounds and arrange your funeral rights."
Homer is the name attached to this poem without precedent.
He is variously described as its author, composer, performer or compiler.
But was he one man or many?
'An individual genius, a tradition or a guild of poets?
'Claimed by seven different cities as their native son, Homer has been
'called the Cheshire cat of world literature - always disappearing.'
What we do know is that some time between 750 and 700 BC,
The Iliad was written down using the new technology, the Greek alphabet.
The language, though Greek, was like nothing that had been heard before or since.
It was a jumble of different dialects.
Imagine an English language poem written in Texan, Jamaican, Scots and South African.
It was also a jumble of battle technologies, battle tactics
and political institutions taken from periods both ancient and modern.
However, to the Greeks it must have made sense.
Over 180 manuscripts of The Iliad have survived.
That's more than twice the number of its sister epic The Odyssey,
a crude but telling measure of a works popularity and relevance.
'One reason for the centrality of The Iliad to the Greeks
'is that it gave them a mirror in which they could see themselves
'and the kind of societies they were creating.
'Alongside all the blood and guts, The Iliad poses
'profound questions about the nature of society,
'the qualities of leadership, the rules by which people consent to be governed.'
Well-walled Troy and its lofty gates, wide streets and fine towers
is in many ways the ideal city state to which the Greeks aspired,
and Hector, the noble warrior who fights and dies
for the survival of his city,
is the champion of civilisation and the real hero of The Iliad.
It's the Greeks, the wolves at the gates,
who are troubled and troubling.
They wrangle over the reasons why they're there,
the justness of their cause and the motives of their leaders,
and it's this that puts the politics, as well as the poetry, into The Iliad.
According to legend, this is where the Greek camp was,
the black ships drawn up on the beach near the mouth of the Scamander river,
a rampart and ditch surmounted by wooden walls thrown up around them,
a makeshift vagabond place compared to well-walled Troy.
This is where Achilles, the hero, sulked in his tents, where Agamemnon
blustered and strutted trying to maintain his authority as high king.
This is where wily Odysseus, the unscrupulous aristocrat,
plotted and schemed, and it was here too
that a debate took place that asked, but did not answer,
a question that would preoccupy the Greeks in the centuries to come.
The Greek army was assembled to hear their master's decision about
whether or not the siege would be abandoned and they'd be going home.
They were there to listen, approve and obey,
but one of their number dared to speak out.
Thersites was just a common soldier, a spear carrier,
one of the poor bloody infantry,
and it's clear that Homer disapproves of him.
He describes him as a hunchback,
bandy legged and as the ugliest man who ever came to Troy.
Although spoken through broken teeth, his words were fluent and flowing
as he abused Agamemnon, the high king, and demanded an immediate evacuation.
With morale at a low ebb, this was a critical moment in the long war.
It's Odysseus who puts a stop to this subversive rant.
"Who are you to wrangle with kings?" he demands before beating Thersites with his rod of office.
The mutinous moment passes, the siege carries on,
but the question still hangs in the air,
"Who are you to wrangle with kings?"
The generations of Greeks that came after the heroes of Troy
would give many different answers to that question
and in doing so would change their world forever
and also lay the foundations for our own.
Subtitles by Red Bee Media Ltd
E-mail subtitling@bbc.co.uk