Introduction

1It is a commonly acknowledged fact that pre-modern peasants rarely spoke for themselves, or of themselves. Most of the existing primary sources were written from the perspective of the land-holders or others in positions of power, often with the aim of defining or protecting their own interests. Questions on the daily lives of peasants concerned the lords only if such information was likely to bring extra gain or cause losses to them. Nonetheless, even sources written from a lordly perspective can offer an insight into the dynamics of peasant social life, depending on the questions we ask of them.

2In July 1549, a survey (practico) of a large mountain estate, Marathasa, was ordered by the Venetian governor of the island.1 The execution of the survey was a joint venture between the state and the current owners of the estate and their main aim was to register the names, ages and whereabouts of all the dependent peasants who owed services on the estate. It presents 510 entries, covers at least four generations for most family groups, and individually mentions the names and ages of over 1,700 dependent peasants.

3In this contribution, I would like to offer an analysis of the survey and the information it presents on peasant social life on the estate. As well as listing the names of peasants one after another, the document provides some interesting detail on the ways in which this particular peasant community functioned. At first glance, the survey mentions the usual aspects of rural life: peasants were born, they got married, produced children, worked, and died. When looked at closely, we detect that the survey-makers paid specific attention to acts, events and occurrences that were unusual, especially when these events were likely to cause disruptions to the dues and services owed by the dependent peasants. These acts included peasants becoming fugitives, killing someone, having a disability, marrying a free person, never marrying anyone, becoming a priest or producing illegitimate children. Since controlling peasant mobility was important, peasants who came from a different place or moved out of the estate with or without lordly permission were also recorded. All these ‘unusual occurrences’ give us clues as to what a serf was not supposed to be doing in sixteenth-century Cyprus. They also shed some light on how unfree peasants dealt with everyday welfare issues within their community, such as the care of orphans and illegitimate children.

4Can we safely argue that the sixteenth-century Cypriot peasants were still bound by medieval ties of dependency? Cyprus experienced two major political transitions in the medieval period: the years 1191–2 saw the island pass from Byzantine to Frankish rule, and the period 1473–89 signified its transfer from Frankish rule to Venetian government.2 Both transitions brought complex changes to the island's economy, its political structures and social composition. When it comes to agrarian structures, there were strong continuities between the Lusignan and Venetian periods, and in fact the roots of the sixteenth-century agrarian system can be traced all the way back into the island's Byzantine past. Therefore, while our sources come from a later period, they reflect a reality, which, in its essence, would have been in place for a long time. Throughout the Lusignan and Venetian periods there were two main categories of peasants on the island: the paroikoi/parici and the francomati.3 The paroikoi were the dependent peasants, who had to render labour services and other dues to estate-holders. They had to pay a head-tax, perform labour services for two or three days a week, give one-third of their produce to their lords as rent, pay a tithe payment on their cattle, as well as paying a salt-tax of one besant to the state.4 Their mobility was restricted, and so was marriage between dependent peasants belonging to different lords: in return for the bride who would live with her husband, the male peasant’s lord had to send another female peasant. The francomati were the 'free' or franchised peasants, who were able to move around and did not owe labour services, but had to pay salt-tax, were asked to perform public services such as working on fortifications, doing coast-guard duties or working at the salt lakes.

5From the start, the Venetian administration of the island saw dependent peasants as valuable sources of income for the state.5 Throughout the Venetian period, lords continued to extract rents and services from a dependent peasantry, whose mobility was controlled. Peasants could buy their own freedom or some were freed by the lords, while others ran away from lordly control and became fugitives. There were attempts by the authorities to control peasant marriage and to cast a tight net over illegitimate children. The 1549 survey highlights all these relationships of dependency. In effect, the survey can be seen as part of the ongoing Venetian effort to keep the Cypriot peasants firmly in the Middle Ages.

The survey

6During the Venetian period, general surveys of the island as well as local estate surveys were commonly made at regular intervals, and it is possible that there was some information flow between the local and general surveys.6 The Marathasa survey covers only the dependent peasants, the parici. As it does not include the free peasant population, we cannot be certain about the total number of peasants who lived on the estate. The entries start with the name of the head of the family, which was usually the husband, followed by the names of his wife and children. The survey-makers recorded the ages of everyone, as this information was crucial for them: taxes, dues and labour services were due from peasants between the ages 15 and 60.

7Placed in the western Troodos region, covering a large area and consisting of a number of settlements, the estate was an important settlement. Surrounded and cut apart by valleys (Kambos, Marathasas and Karyotis), it had a mountain economy: the notes at the end of the survey mention services to be performed at vineyards, as well as the existence of fruit trees, a mill, and what seems to be a tannery.7 It is possible that alluvial land around the river basins enabled some cultivation. Casal was the term used for the main fiscal unit, the presterie (or prasteia) were the surrounding villages of lesser importance.8 Situated at the centre of this region, the estate had two parts: Marathasa of the King and Marathasa of the Count of Edessa.9 The survey focuses on the main casal, Saint John de Ramo and eight other dependent parts (prasteia), Catoplati, Panoplati, Milo de Chicho, Milicouri, San Zorzi de Iosifi, Agro, Gatani and Tris Eglies.10 The surveyors also visited the neighbouring settlements of Galata, Calliana, Casal Coraco, Pendaia, San Zuan de Malondes, Panaia and Asproia, where a high number of peasants from Marathasa were found to be living. Some of these settlements are now deserted, such as Milos de Kykko, Pano and Kato Platis.11

8The first page of the survey states that the estate was held jointly by the three heirs of Chadit Chadit: Reverend Sir Fra Angelo Chadit, Sir Galeazo Cercasso, Sir Marc Frassenge son of Sir Zaco. It seems that the debt-stricken Lusignan King James II had sold or granted much of the estate: for example, the part held by Galeazo Cercasso had been granted to this family by James.12 The other two parties, the Chadits and the Frassenge were all related to the Audeth family, who were Jacobite Christians originating from Syria. The family held special privileges as White Venetians (Veneti Albi): that is, they were Syrians under Venetian protection.13

9The survey also reveals the name of the man who collected the data and prepared the inquest, Florio Bustron, and we are fortunate to have a good deal of information on him and his family. Gilles Grivaud describes the Bustronios family as being part of the noblesse d'office in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries: various members of the family held high and important administrative positions, from being responsible for the king’s stables, to being in charge of the administration of the crown lands (bailli de la reale) under Lusignan rule.14 Florio Bustron was fluent in Greek, Latin, French and Italian, and translated many registers, ordinances and laws from French to Italian for the use of the Venetian governors. Besides producing a history of Cyprus, he also wrote a treatise on composing estate surveys in 1554.15

10Why was the Marathasa survey produced? The survey's editor, Brunehilde Imhaus, has argued that the famine that had hit the region in 1512 may have been the reason, arguing that the survey would have been conducted to address issues of non-payment of dues on the part of the peasants.16 However, the time gap between the famine and the survey (thirty-seven years) is too long for this to have been the main factor. Secondly, the survey does not at all refer to payment or non-payment of dues on the part of specific peasants.17 It does not offer any information on the quality of the land, the type of agricultural products, or the number of cattle and other animals owned by the estate: the dependent peasants of the estate are its primary focus. It seems likely that the main aim behind the making of the survey was to monitor peasant movement in this particular period. There is other evidence from the Venetian archives regarding the Marathasa estate, which shows that the issue of peasant marriage had been a cause for concern for the lords of the estate and the Venetian administration in the decades preceding the survey.18 The style of the Marathasa survey resembles that of a similar one conducted in 1525 by the state to monitor peasant movement out of the lands held by another landholder, Zegno Synglitico.19 In other words, controlling peasant mobility was an issue that occupied the state and the lords, and both parties tried to record instances of mobility in ways similar to the Marathasa survey.

11It is highly likely that the survey-makers had access to other documentation when preparing the survey, such as a register of births and deaths, or other former surveys. In his treatise, Florio Bustron explains the importance of utilising existing surveys, as well as collecting information from village elders: the starting page of the Marathasa survey also refers to information gathered from castellans and jurors.20 Although Florio Bustron does not mention them specifically, village priests may have also contributed to the making of the survey, as they were the ones who baptised, married and gave the last rites to the peasants. While the survey-makers would have taken care to utilise reliable sources of information, we need to accept that there must be a hidden margin of error, as is the case with every official record or survey. For instance, some peasants' ages are missing from the records. Even when working with fairly reliable informers, it is possible that on occasion some untruths were told and some falsehoods went undetected, possibly regarding individuals’ true ages, their whereabouts, or even the parentage of some children.

12To give an example to the style of recording, the survey's first entry registers the family group who were descended from Papa Ianni tu Condu tu Dipotatu. The entry's first column starts with the patriarch of the family, Michalis, who had died and his age is recorded as 93. The second column tells us that his wife was called Maria Papa Limbiti tu Papa Lasaru; she too was dead, and her age is given as 85. In the third column, the names of their seven children are listed: Paulos (age 67), Iannis (63), Iorgis (60), Argiri (57), Margarita (50), Safira (48) and Anasta (44). The fourth column indicates the location of the children: for all the sons the entry says 'avanti', indicating that they will be mentioned further on in the survey, and the names of the daughters' spouses are given. Argiri, Margarita and Anasta had married men from the estate (del loco), and their names are mentioned again further along the survey as part of their husbands' households.21 Safira had married a man called Antonio Vassili papa Argiro, who was from the royal demesne (della real) and had possibly moved into his village, as she does not appear again on the list. The second entry of the survey registers Michalis and Maria's eldest son Paulos and his family, and we find that Paulos had left the estate for the settlement of Panaia de Bafo. Each child takes his father's name as surname plus a portion of the father's existing surname: for example, Paulos's surname appears as Michali papa Ianni Condu. The third entry of the survey then moves on to Michalis's second son Iannis and his family, and continues in this fashion until all the sons of tax-paying age within the family group are registered in a separate entry. As the chart shows (Fig. 1), in this family group of 36 people, seven people had left the estate to marry, or to settle elsewhere.

13 The Marathasa survey reveals a clear stock-taking approach to the peasantry: payments and services were due from peasants aged between 15 and 60, and the surveyors saw the dependent peasants and their labour as ‘possessions’ that the estate owned.22 This mentality is revealed in various ways. Firstly, the survey notes the peasants who had died, but records their ages as if they had continued ageing beyond death. In other words, the ages given for dead people are not the ages they were when they died, but the age they would have been, had they been alive in 1549. There are a few clues in the survey which point in this direction. In entry 306, the daughter Maria aged 43 is said to have died when she was little (morta picola). This description is repeated in entry 486, when a woman called Christina is said to have died young (morta picola), but her age is 43. There are two dead peasants whose ages are recorded as 116 and 105, as well as nineteen other dead people who are above the age of 90. None of the entries show living offspring reaching an age that is older than that of their dead parents. Siblings keep their places in the order that they were born to the family, even when they had been dead for a while. It seems that from an administrator’s point of view, listing peasants’ ages at death was not of any interest to the parties involved. On the other hand, when ages were continued after death in this fashion, family trees were clearly outlined and generations were easily traceable. Marriages and betrothals were recorded meticulously, as each new union presented a possibility for the expansion of the labour force. As we will see, children born outside of marriage were also recorded carefully. Similarly, female and male peasants who had not ever married or produced any children were identified, as they signified 'dead ends' for population growth.23 Finally, the surveyors were keen to mention the cases where a peasant had disabilities which affected their efficiency as a worker.24 Injuries that affected a peasant’s right hand were specifically noted: Argiros Spathari’s right hand had been cut off by two peasants, and 35-year old Mandalena Calognomu’s right hand was disabled because of a snake bite.25 It was mentioned that Zias Vovo was deaf (sordo).26 The sisters Argiri and Annussa were described as having died mute.27 The eleven year-old Fluris had something wrong with his feet.28 As killing a peasant also caused damage to the estate's labour force, the survey-makers paid attention to cases of murder. While five instances of murder were recorded, no information is given about the circumstances surrounding the incidents: nothing is said about the judgements that were made, or the punishments that were meted out, if any. It appears that, once again, the emphases and limits of the survey makers’ enquiries were framed by their interests. The terms used could imply that some of these were accidental death cases: Vassilis Iorgi Limbiti Argiro Spathari was described simply as having been killed (amazzato).29 In Milicouri, it was noted that Limbiti Ianni papa Vassili Nomicu had been killed by his own son Michalis.30 Michalis appears in the next entry with his wife and children, evidently continuing his life on the estate. Two other murders took place at Tris Eglies: Michalis Protopsalti's death is described as homicide, but again his killer Petro Ianni Nomicu appears on the list.31 It is noted that Loys Calognomu had been killed six years ago, but there is no reference to the perpetrators of the crime.32 The only peasant who committed murder and ran away was Michalis Iorgi Michali Papa Ianni Condu (see below).

Physical and social mobility

14As mentioned above, a high number of peasants who had left the Marathasa estate were surveyed at their places of residence. About 150 family units were mentioned as living in different settlements, defined as casali estranei. In most cases, it was emphasised that these peasants still owed services at the Marathasa estate, despite living elsewhere. Often, such services were performed at yet another settlement, Peristerona.33 In the 1440s when the estate was handed over to the Audeth family, the king had asked for 85 dependent peasants from the estate to be sent to the king's sugar cane plantations in this particular region to perform their labour services.34 Service at Peristerona was not solely demanded from peasants who lived at casali estranei: 65 dependent peasants who were resident on Marathasa were similarly asked to perform their labour services at Peristerona.

15The survey points to a considerable level of physical movement, both in terms of emigration from and immigration to the estate. Roughly one in every ten heads of household appears to have originated from another place. Female peasants originating from other places moved to the estate due to marriage, but on occasion some Marathasa-born male peasants are also seen to move to their wives’ estates.35 For instance, the brothers Fluris (age 36) and Parascheugas (34) Iorgi Vassili Andronicu to Milona had both married women from an estate called Cochino Prastio del Flatro and moved to their wives' village.36 It is important to note that such mobile peasants were not listed as fugitives, as their location was clearly known to the surveyors and the survey gives no indication that they had moved without permission. It appears that movement within the region to other nearby villages was allowed, as long as the peasants sought permission and performed their services where they were due.

16Seventeen people are recorded as fugitives, who were seen in a category of their own, as their disappearance signified a direct loss to the estate holders' revenues. Giles Grivaud sees a direct connection between rural poverty and fraudulent means of escaping serfdom: in order to break the law and become fugitives these peasants must have been oppressed and starving.37 While this might be true for some of the peasants in question, the survey shows that the fugitives' reasons for leaving were varied, and probable links to poverty are not always obvious. The abovementioned Michalis Iorgi Michali papa Ianni Condu had killed another peasant called Vassili Ianni Athipatu, and ran away.38 Vassilis Milomenu had joined a Greek Orthodox religious order.39 Michalis Limbiti Comodromu had been in the service of Nicolo Chadit, but he had escaped and was thought to have died.40 It is possible that some had identified better conditions elsewhere: two peasants were traced to other estates, including one who had gone towards Limassol.41 Similarly, the survey-makers had found out that Zacos Philippu papa Zacu Piru had gone towards the salt lakes and he was to be retrieved.42 Michalis Ianni Antonni, aged 65, had run off to the city: he was in Famagusta and had changed his name to Nicolin Poyti.43 A married couple had run away, leaving their four-year old son behind with his twenty-year old uncle.44 Another forty four-year old widower left his only daughter behind.45 Four of the fugitives were much younger: Chinou Trullino’s illegitimate son Valliantin had run away when he was twelve.46 Loys Camilafca, also aged twelve, was also a fugitive: his mother had died and his father had married for the second time, producing two more children. Loys’ fourteen-year-old sister was serving Hieronimo Chadit: it is impossible to tell whether it was their stepmother, abject dearth, or yet another reason that had pushed these siblings out of their father's household.47 Overall, the variety in the ages and possible motivations of the fugitives make it hard to connect their exit securely and definitively to poverty.

17A serf could end up in the city quite legally, and it was common for serfs to live in towns in the Lusignan period.48 Some twenty-nine peasants were recorded in the survey as being in the service of the lords Chadit and Frasenge, possibly working as household servants.49 Several of these peasant/servants were young: the survey mentions four girls in their early teens, one of them was in the service of Sir Hanibal Chadit’s children. This type of service could turn out to be a long-term occupation for some of them: the oldest serf/servant was a man of 76 in the service of Marco Frassenge, and seven others were in their forties. Four peasants were freed by the Chadit family, presumably after a number of years in service. Four others managed to buy their own freedom: it is possible that living in a town had made it easier for them to accumulate money.

18For those who could not buy their freedom, there were other ways of getting out of labour services. Eleven peasants were recorded as being in the service of a monastery, which excused them from performing labour services at Marathasa. The Troodos region was famous for its important monasteries, which housed a high number of monks and attracted even higher numbers of Orthodox and Catholic pilgrims. The monastery of St John Lampadistis must have been very close if not central to the estate.50 Nine peasants were in the service of the nearby Kykkos Monastery and two were serving the Tricuchies Monastery. It is difficult to determine what was meant by ‘service’ in this context, although it is likely that this was menial. Such service only brought exemption to the individual and did not affect their family members. Francesco Petru Vassili Protopapa Valili had taken holy orders, as he was described as frate sacerdote at Kykkos; though he received no exemption and was made to pay the services he owed at his home estate.51

19Priesthood also saved one from labour services and in some instances allowed them to move to a different settlement, therefore the survey-makers had a strong interest in recording the names of dependent peasants who had become priests. The survey mentions thirteen people who had purchased licences for priesthood, and there were two juror appointments.52 In 1537, about twelve years before the date of our survey, Nicolo Chadit and his son Hannibal had complained to the authorities that on their estate too many serfs were becoming priests, to the damage of the estate-holders.53 In order to become a priest, one had to get special permission from the authorities as well as the lord of the estate, and purchase a licence, the price of which ranged between 100 and 500 besants. Becoming a priest practically meant buying one's freedom out of labour services, as priests were exempt from them. Priesthood could run in the family, and a good example of this is the priest Michalis papa Petru Protopsalti, whose patronymic 'Papa Petru' suggests that his father had also been a priest. Michalis had purchased his own licence in 1514, following this with the purchase of three more licences for his three sons, paying a total of 1380 besants for the whole family.54 Two of his sons had been aged fourteen and fifteen when their licences were bought, which suggests that this professional trajectory, which had implications for both physical and social mobility, had been mapped out for them from a young age.

Orphans and illegitimate children

20The survey ends with a separate section on orphans and bastard children born to the dependent peasants of the estate. Why were the authorities concerned about the issue of illegitimacy? In his study on illegitimacy in the urban context of Renaissance Florence, Thomas Kuehn states that within the broader framework of the Italian city states, illegitimacy involved the honour of the mother and the father, as well as having implications on inheritance, poverty and 'social maladjustment'.55 In a rural context like Marathasa, the lords would have been concerned that illegitimate children could slip through the net of dependency, as they had not been born into a stable family unit. Information on such children is once again filtered through the survey-makers' priorities. For instance, only the orphans and bastard children who were alive in 1549 were recorded, as the lords were primarily interested in peasants who had the potential to take an active part in the labour force, and thus needed a close eye kept on them.

21In Cyprus, children born out of wedlock to parents who were unfree were considered to be both illegitimate and unfree by the authorities. The document reveals that the authorities had stretched the definition of illegitimacy to also cover children who were born into a married union, but one where one of the parents was not free. In 1539, the Venetian governor of Cyprus decreed that if a dependent peasant held a free woman as wife for longer than a year without marrying her and produced children with her, the children would be unfree. The decree added that the governors were aware that some peasants were using concubinage as a pretext to free their children.56 The survey follows the decree rigorously and whenever a male or female peasant was found to be ‘in the company of’ a free partner, a further inquiry was ordered to see whether they had children. If it was known that they had offspring, then the children were deemed to be bastards, regardless of whether the parents had been married or not.57 This points to a clear discrepancy between the perceptions of the peasants for whom these unions stood as valid, and the lords who wanted to impose their control over such cases so that they would not lose their dependent labour force. As far as the authorities were concerned, if permission had not been sought for the marriage and the unfree parent had not bought their freedom, the children were to remain illegitimate. In effect, calling these children 'bastards' served to remind them that they were not free.

22According to ancient custom, children abandoned at the doors of the Cathedral of Saint Sophia in Nicosia were to be considered free.58 In 1468, the last Lusignan king, James, ordered a group of his advisors to undertake an inquisition regarding this privilege.59 In 1494, this privilege attracted the Venetians' attention. While at first glance this appears to be an urban phenomenon, there were suspected links to rural dependency. The authorities ordered investigations to be made into the backgrounds of such cathedral-gate children, who had already attained free status, suspecting that they might have had dependent origins.60 If it was proven that they had servile parents, they would be treated as serfs. A letter dated 1503 shows that the authorities recognised that there were different types of foundlings. In order to identify possible fraud cases, they had searched estate surveys (practichi) and found many who were indeed the offspring of dependent peasants; on the other hand, the authorities also recognised that there were some cases where no such origins could be traced.61 In 1506, the Council of Ten ruled that foundlings with dependent origins, who had grown up and settled in Nicosia, would be allowed to buy their freedom.62 In 1507, the inquiries had produced the information that at that point the total number of children with such ‘cathedral-gate origins’ was as high as 98, 70 of whom had produced a total of 120 children. The Venetians approached the matter in a business-like manner: as most of these people were found to be traders (bazarioti) or craftsmen (mestieri), it would be difficult to turn them into dependent peasants. Instead, they were asked to purchase their freedom for at least 40 ducats each.63 Other orders followed, asking castellans and jurors to keep better records, registering all births and deaths.64 It is clear that the Venetian administration wanted to establish a level of control over this situation, and after inspecting the suspected cases of abuse, they chose to resolve them in a practical and mutually beneficial way. Looking at the issue from the foundlings' perspective, it is remarkable that 98 of them survived being abandoned, made a living for themselves, and some of them also managed to form families.65

23The Marathasa survey mentions around twenty cases of illegitimacy, with the frequency of about two to three cases per settlement. To describe the way an illegitimate child was brought into the world, the document employs the term ‘fatti all’aventura’. Where possible, the lords were keen to solve the mystery of these ‘all'aventura’ cases and extract the name of the father, but most often than not, they failed. In most ‘all’aventura’ cases the father was not named, whether this means that his identity was truly unknown is a different issue. It is possible that in some of these cases, the mothers of illegitimate children had been victims of rape or incest, and members of the community might have been complicit in hiding the names of the men involved. Looking at the information that was revealed, we find references to men from all walks of life, including a lord, a priest and a ‘gypsy’. The peasant girl Annussa and her child had moved in with Sir Hieronimo Arseni in Nicosia, whereas another woman called Margarita had a five-year old daughter called Flura from an unnamed ‘gypsy’.66 The survey-makers wanted to keep track of the children, therefore their whereabouts were noted down. In most cases, the children stayed with the mother.67 In cases of unions with free men, however, the children are seen to have stayed with the father. This may be the result of the mother’s hope that if the children were brought up by their free father, they would have higher chances of being accepted as free. There is only one case of dispute between lords over illegitimate children: Sir Tristan Giblet claimed Thomasis son of Maria Thomassi Cozolu as his dependent peasant, as Maria had later married the father, who was Giblet's parico. An inquiry was ordered to solve the problem.68

24Repetitive illegitimate child-bearing was common. A woman called Louisa had borne seven illegitimate children, and at the time of the survey was pregnant yet again, having produced all of her children all’aventura with no information on the name of the father (or fathers). At the time of the survey, Louisa was aged thirty-six and her eldest was eighteen. The ages of her children suggest that within the space of two decades, Louisa had borne an illegitimate child every two and a half years. Louisa herself was the youngest of seven children, and all her siblings were married. Another peasant woman, Argiri, had produced four children with a priest.69 Greek Orthodox priests could be married, but this unnamed priest had either preferred otherwise, or perhaps had had a long-term extra-marital affair with Argiri. Fostira from Gatani had two illegitimate daughters, both produced ‘all’aventura’: one was aged eighteen and engaged at the time of the survey, the second one was only six.70

25Did the peasant community attach a stigma to being born out of wedlock? Again, the survey is completely silent about this. The Venetian administrators and other lords did brand these children as 'bastards', but once more, their main interest seems to be centred around material gain. If they were ever inclined to punish or tax these peasants for fornication or adultery, this is not declared on the survey. Overall, their logic appears to be simple: marriage made peasant stock-taking easy, and illegitimacy had to be kept under control because it could offer a way out for some dependent peasants. Marriage as an institution could control not only the creation of the family unit and reproduction, but also ‘succession to property and status, the mechanisms and effectiveness of social control, the relationships of the ruling elites with the masses of society, the dominant classes with the dominated classes’.71 In time, the illegitimate children grew up, settled down and formed their own families. It is possible that some heads of families mentioned in the survey had been products of illegitimate relationships as a woman’s name precedes their name, instead of the usual patronymic, but nothing else is said explicitly about their origins.72 As long as an illegitimate child grew to adulthood and remained on the estate, took over a holding and started paying taxes, his origins mattered to the lords only with regard to the mapping out of his family tree. Could illegitimate children take over their parents’ land? As taxes were demanded from them as soon as they came of age, the expectation was that they would find land to work on. Some did slip through the net and left the estate. It was recorded that Chionu Ianni Trullino’s son Valliantin, who was aged twelve, had been with Vassili Calopodaru at Gatany but his whereabouts were unknown at the time of the survey.73 However, this was just the exception, and most children of similar backgrounds appear to have remained on the estate. Some of them formed legitimate unions, others went on to produce illegitimate children of their own.74 Doors were clearly not closed to them: Michalis from Gatani, son of Mariu, who was born after his mother was widowed first joined a monastery and then became a priest.75 This is an especially interesting case, as there was a strong tendency for priesthood to be passed from father to son in Marathasa.

26On the whole, this particular peasant society seems to have dealt with illegitimacy in a pretty straightforward fashion. The children were cared for and survived into maturity. After her death, Fluru Loys Vassili tu Valili’s illegitimate children were looked after by her own father.76 It would have been hardly possible for the aforementioned Louisa to bring up her eight children in a community that had a harsh moral stance towards illegitimacy. Marriage appears to have been the norm, but illegitimacy was tolerated. Similar approaches are evident towards orphans. The authorities recorded their places of residence and the larger family group took care of them. After the death of their parents, Marietta (aged 12) and Fostira (aged 8) had moved in with their married sister and her husband.77 Christina Vassili Limbiti Spathari had died and her husband was a fugitive: the survey reveals that their daughter Marta was living with her aunt Argiri and her husband at a different village.78 Two other young orphans, Argiros (aged 9) and Andronicos (aged 7) were living with their mother's brother in his village in Asproia.79

Some conclusions

27The strong continuities highlighted in the study support the assertion that peasants of Marathasa were still bound by ties of dependency that stretched back into the medieval period.

28For all the intricate detail it includes, there is a lot that the Marathasa survey does not tell us. Apart from recording their various disabilities, the survey does not comment on the economic situation of the peasants on the estate. We are not told whether each household was able to support their members, perform their duties and pay their dues. Similarly, we are told nothing about the size of peasants' holdings or their other assets. It is difficult to make judgements on peasant poverty or affluence, depending solely on the information that we are given. What we can tell is that like any other peasant community, this was not a society of equals. Some peasants were able to gather considerable sums of money and buy their way into priesthood. While some had children out of marriage, others never married and produced children, and these choices could be due to myriad reasons, poverty being just one of them.

29While some peasants did leave Marathasa, this was not done in a systematic fashion. Peasants do not seem to have migrated en masse to urban areas or to other regions. It is possible that in the 1540s the economy of the Marathasa region was at least stable, if not flourishing. The fact that the main currents of peasant movement were confined to the region supports the assertion that the settlements could cater for the existing population. Under these circumstances the majority of the peasants complied with the roles and actions expected from them during their life-cycle, as stated in the introduction: they were born, they got married, had children, worked, paid their taxes and dues, and they died. Perhaps inevitably, there were also some peasants who broke the rules, sought ways out of the system, or explored other options. Under this seemingly tightly controlled feudal regime there appears to have been some flexibility, where mobility of labour within the area was permitted as long as it could be monitored on a case-to-case basis by the lords. Moving around was not completely banned, but instances of mobility were recorded. Lords naturally tried to reduce any losses to their income, and blocked what they saw as illegitimate routes to freedom, such as unions between free and unfree peasants. We must keep in mind that these unions were the exception, not the rule. It is these exceptions, however, that offer us glimpses into the ties that bound the peasants to the land and the lords, as well as to one another.