In ancient Greece, tattoos weren’t the symbols of art, self-expression, or identity they are often seen as today. Quite the opposite: during wartime, being tattooed was a sign of disgrace, cowardice, and defeat. One of the earliest known examples of this belief comes from a small funerary inscription dedicated to an otherwise unknown man named Pollis of Megara, dated around 480 BCE.
Accompanied by a dynamic relief showing a Greek hoplite armed with his iconic round shield and holding the shaft of his spear, the inscription honors Pollis, the beloved son of Asopichus. It states that he did not die a coward’s death, but fell at the hands of his enemies — without ever being tattooed.
This inscription reflects a distinct masculine ideal, one that linked military service, death in battle, and innate bravery with resistance to tattooing. Only a coward, it implies, would succumb to the humiliating act of being branded with a tattoo — a “true” Greek would rather die. For the Greeks, tattoos symbolized shame and slavery.
There is historical evidence that the Persians used tattoos to mark certain prisoners of war. After the failed Greek stand at Thermopylae in 480 BCE and the death of Spartan commander Leonidas I, the few mostly Theban survivors surrendered and were brought before the Persian King Xerxes I. According to Herodotus, many were executed as punishment for resisting, and those spared were tattooed with royal markings (Herodotus 7.233.2).
Ironically, while the Greeks loathed such tattoos, they weren't above using them in similar ways. During the Athenian suppression of Samos in 440–439 BCE, both sides reportedly tattooed their prisoners with distinctive emblems on their foreheads: the Samians used the image of their signature ship, the samaina, while the Athenians used their symbol of the owl (Plutarch, Pericles 24.8; Aelian, Varia Historia 2.9).
The style and repetition of these tattoos suggest they were designed like stamps or brands. According to Plutarch, a similar practice was used on Athenian prisoners captured in Syracuse after the disastrous Sicilian campaign (415–412 BCE). Those prisoners were tattooed with horses — the emblem of Syracuse (Plutarch, Nicias 29.1).
The placement of these tattoos — especially on the forehead — was intentional. It’s a part of the body difficult to conceal, making the mark permanent and publicly visible. The imagery often mirrored city-state coin designs, reinforcing their symbolic weight. As scholar Geoffrey Bakewell argues, the practice simultaneously marked these men as state property and reduced them to something akin to currency — not for economic exchange, but for the slave market.
Indeed, in Greek culture, tattooing was inextricably linked with slavery. Not all slaves were tattooed, but when someone was, it was to highlight their “otherness,” often in a deeply negative way. Prisoners of war were marked to signal their supposed cowardice or failure to avoid capture. Others were tattooed to deter escape or assert ownership.
To the Greeks, tattooing someone else was a direct assertion of control over their body. It was a clear and permanent denial of their personal autonomy — a visual symbol of lost freedom.
Nowhere is this symbolism more apparent than in Herodotus’ account of the Ionian Revolt’s origins in 499 BCE. In an effort to incite rebellion against Persian rule, the Greek ruler Histiaeus wanted to send a secret message to his nephew Aristagoras. To avoid interception by Persian forces, he tattooed the message on a slave’s shaved head, waited for the hair to grow back, and then sent the man on his way. Upon arrival, Aristagoras shaved the man’s head and read the message. This tale, often cited as a clever ruse, also highlights the Greek perception of tattooing as something to be inflicted on the enslaved.
In a culture where tattoos were not a choice, it’s no surprise that methods for tattoo removal existed. An inscription from the healing sanctuary of Asclepius at Epidaurus describes the visit of a Thessalian man named Pandaros (IG IV2 I 121, 48–54), who came seeking the removal of a tattoo on his head. While there, he received a vision from the god Asclepius. In the dream, the deity wrapped his head in a bandage and instructed him to remove it once he left the sanctuary. When Pandaros did so, the letters had transferred from his skin onto the cloth.
The inscription goes on to mention a con artist named Echedorus, whom Pandaros had paid to make an offering at the shrine on his behalf — but who kept the money. Asclepius, appearing to him in a vision, wrapped a bandage around his head as well. When Echedorus removed it, he discovered that Pandaros’ tattoo had now appeared on his forehead.
Setting aside the miracle aspect of this story, the use of a bandage is intriguing. It parallels a much later Greek medical treatment for tattoo removal. The physician Aetius, writing in the 5th/6th century CE, describes two tattoo removal recipes: one using lime or gypsum with sodium carbonate, and another using pepper mixed with honey and powdered herbs.
These remedies were applied to a cleaned tattoo that had been covered with a bandage for five days. Before application, the tattoo would be pricked with a needle, cleansed again, and rubbed with salt. The mixture would then be applied and bandaged again for another five days. On the sixth day, the area would be rubbed once more with the compound. According to Aetius, the entire procedure could take up to 20 days and could be completed without significant ulcers or scarring.
Of course, not everyone could endure or afford such a treatment. In practice, many simply let their hair grow to hide tattoos or wore headbands, hoping no one would ask questions.
In the end, it’s clear how ancient Greeks viewed tattoos. To mark another person’s body was to degrade and dominate them. The widespread desire to avoid being tattooed, and the lengths taken to erase such marks, reveal a deep-rooted cultural aversion. A tattoo was a stigma — in both the ancient and modern sense of the word.
