Sortition Becomes Central to Officeholding

Athenian democracy spread power by spreading offices. By the mid-5th century and through the 4th, the city allotted roughly 1,100 positions each year by lot—Council seats, archonships, boards of auditors, market inspectors, and more [6], [18]. Elections remained for roles where skill and continuity mattered, most famously the strategoi, the ten elected generals, who had to steer fleets, armies, and policy [18]. Everywhere else, randomness reigned.

The device was the kleroterion, a gray-stone slab with columns of slots and an attached tube for black and white dice. Citizens inserted their bronze identity tickets (pinakia) by deme and tribe. A magistrate let the dice drop. The colors decided which rows were accepted. The sound—a clatter, a hush, then cheers or groans—echoed under the colonnades of the Agora. This was not mysticism. It was mechanics engineered for fairness.

Pseudo‑Xenophon, the so-called Old Oligarch, loathed what sortition produced—rule by the poor—but grasped its logic: the people who man the ships “impart strength to the city,” so they rightly hold more sway [6]. In a polity with 40 regular Assembly meetings a year, the pool of experienced officeholders grew quickly. The Council’s 500 seats cycled annually, with age and rotation limits to curb repeat capture; no man could serve more than twice on the Boule [18].

Sortition dovetailed with Cleisthenes’ tribal map. Because posts were distributed by tribe and deme, allotment pulled from across Attica—the limestone of Thorikos to the olive groves of Alopeke. The Council’s 50-man prytanies, rotating monthly, brought different accents and interests under the white dome of the Tholos. The elected generals had to persuade this rotating executive and the Assembly beyond it.

The system had brakes. Before taking office, allottees underwent dokimasia (scrutiny) to confirm citizenship and basic competence. After serving, they faced euthyna (audit). Randomness selected; law verified. At every step, stone and oath backed the process: lists posted, oaths sworn at the Stoa Basileios, penalties on record [14], [18].

Over decades, the habit hardened. Citizens came to expect chances to serve. The city learned to rely on rotation for legitimacy. And while critics derided amateurs, the courts—staffed by large juries also selected by lot—stood beside the Assembly to correct or amplify its will. The city ran on procedure, not on purple robes.

The immediate consequence of this turn to lot was an administrative class without pedigree. Men who had never commanded a trireme nonetheless managed grain, festivals, and roads for a year. The elected strategoi—Pericles among them—had to frame proposals that 500 ordinary councillors could understand and defend to thousands on the Pnyx. Expertise met procedure in public.