A Globalised Visual Culture?: Towards a Geography of Late Antique Art 9781789254464, 9781789254471, 1789254469

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A Globalised Visual Culture? Towards a Geography of Late Antique Art

edited by

Fabio Guidetti and Katharina Meinecke

Oxford & Philadelphia

Published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by OXBOW BOOKS The Old Music Hall, 106–108 Cowley Road, Oxford OX4 1JE and in the United States by OXBOW BOOKS 1950 Lawrence Road, Havertown, PA 19083 © Oxbow Books and the individual contributors 2020 Hardback Edition: ISBN 978-1-78925-446-4 Digital Edition: ISBN 978-1-78925-447-1 (ePub) A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Control Number: 2020937148 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the publisher in writing. Printed in the United Kingdom by Short Run Press Typeset at Versatile PreMedia Service (P) Ltd. For a complete list of Oxbow titles, please contact: UNITED STATES OF AMERICA UNITED KINGDOM Oxbow Books Oxbow Books Telephone (610) 853-9131, Fax (610) 853-9146 Telephone (01865) 241249 Email: [email protected] Email: [email protected] www.oxbowbooks.com www.casemateacademic.com/oxbow Oxbow Books is part of the Casemate Group Front cover: © Zafar Project, Universität Heidelberg, Paul Yule Back cover: Photo: Fabio Guidetti

Contents Introduction��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 1 Fabio Guidetti and Katharina Meinecke   I. Dynamics of provincial visual cultures in the late Roman empire 1. Becoming glocal! Glocalisation, the victorious charioteer from the villa of El Pomar (Hispania Baetica) and the emergence of a regional visual koiné in 4th-century Augusta Emerita (Lusitania)������������������������������������������� 29 Rubén Montoya González 2. Clothing differentiation in a shared visual culture: Dress imagery in mosaic iconography����������������������������������������������������������������������� 47 Amy Place 3. Act locally, think globally: Late antique funerary painting from the territory of present-day Serbia���������������������������������������������������������������������������� 63 Jelena Anđelković Grašar, Dragana Rogić and Emilija Nikolić 4. The emperors in the province: A study of the Tetrarchic images from the imperial cult chamber in Luxor����������������������������������������������������������������� 91 Nicola Barbagli   II. Iconography- or genre-related case studies 5. Images of the rider on horseback in the eastern Mediterranean in the 1st millennium AD������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 135 Renate Rosenthal-Heginbottom 6. The ‘child with grapes’ from Britain to Bahrain: Shared iconography, meaning and mobility on funerary monuments, AD 100–500����������������������������� 155 Lindsay R. Morehouse 7. Baptism and Roman gold-glasses: Salvation and social dynamics��������������������� 179 Monica Hellström 8. ‘First-generation diptychs’ and the reception of Theodosian court art������������ 211 Fabio Guidetti

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III. Connections with Roman visual culture in extra-Roman and post-Roman contexts 9. Buckles and bones: Central Asiatic influences and the making of post-Roman Gaul����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 243 Carlo Ferrari 10. South Arabia in Late Antiquity: A melting pot of artistic ideas�������������������������263 Sarah Japp 11. The mosaic pavement beneath the floor of al-Aqṣā mosque: A case study of late antique artistic koiné��������������������������������������������������������������� 289 Michelina Di Cesare IV. Modes of transfer: iconographies, motifs, objects 12. Circulating images: Late Antiquity’s cross-cultural visual koiné������������������������� 321 Katharina Meinecke 13. Bracteates with Byzantine coin patterns along the Silk Road���������������������������� 341 Guo Yunyan 14. Small worlds of long Late Antiquity: Global entanglements, trade diasporas and network theory����������������������������������������������������������������������� 357 Johannes Preiser-Kapeller

Introduction

Fabio Guidetti and Katharina Meinecke Late antique artefacts, and the images they carry, attest to a highly interconnected visual culture dominating the Afro-Eurasian world from ca. 300 to 800. On the one hand, the same iconographies and decorative patterns are found across various genres of visual and material culture, irrespective of social and economic differences among their users: in mosaics, architectural decoration and luxury arts (silver plate, textiles, ivories), as well as in everyday objects such as tableware, lamps and pilgrim vessels. On the other hand, these very motifs are also found in geographically distant regions: decorative patterns of Graeco-Roman origin appear, closely intermingled with local elements, far beyond the traditional borders of the classical world – in Germanic Europe, Himyarite South Arabia, Sasanian Iran and later in the Umayyad Empire. At the same time, foreign motifs, especially of Germanic and Sasanian origin, are attested in Roman territories. This combination of iconographies pertaining to different traditions and practiced in various cultural contexts created a veritable koiné of images which was characteristic of the late Roman and post-Roman world. But why were certain images attractive to patrons of such diverse geographical and cultural origins, and how were they transferred from one area to another? In a period characterised by increasing political fragmentation, acculturation to a dominating Roman culture and enhanced connectivity cannot be the only explanations for the spreading of this shared visual language. This volume aims at investigating the reasons behind this (seemingly) globalised visual culture spread across the late antique world, both within the borders of the (former) Roman Empire and beyond. It includes papers from a session held at the 27th Theoretical Roman Archaeology Conference (University of Durham, 28–31 March 2017) along with articles expressly requested from specialists in various fields of late antique studies, bringing together diverse approaches characteristic of different

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national and disciplinary traditions. It is important to stress from the very beginning that our aim has not been to develop an overall interpretation of this phenomenon: too many aspects of it are still insufficiently investigated, and the results of various methodological approaches have not yet been combined into a convincing picture. Nor did we seek to produce a comprehensive overview of all the many facets of late antique visual culture: the essays collected here cover only certain aspects of this enormously diverse field, and several important areas of study (for example Sasanian art or Gothic visual culture in Italy and Spain) are entirely left out or touched upon only briefly. Without claiming to be exhaustive, this volume aims to provide a sufficiently wide range of case studies, chosen from various geographical, chronological and cultural contexts, in order to exemplify the vast scale of the phenomenon, and to demonstrate the benefit of addressing this period through a combination of different theoretical and methodological approaches. We envisage this volume as a first step towards a more integrated study of late antique visual culture, capable of representing its complexity by systematically analysing the interactions between different geographical areas and between the social, cultural, religious and ethnic groups active within and across them.

Late Antiquity, its limits and interpretation Our use of the term ‘Late Antiquity’ as a chronological and cultural category calls for a clear definition of its meaning and boundaries. As is well known, the debate on the periodisation of Late Antiquity is still quite intense among ancient historians and archaeologists – much less so among early medievalists who are generally not so keen to dismiss the distinctive ‘medieval’ character of the Merovingian and Lombard kingdoms, just as Byzantinists do not refrain from interpreting the period from Constantine to Heraclius as part of their own share of world history. The exceptional flourishing of scholarly work on Late Antiquity in the past decades (focusing especially on cultural, religious and spiritual history) was the consequence of a more general reconsideration of the main interpretive paradigm of the period, begun in the early 1970s with Peter Brown’s The World of Late Antiquity (1971), which replaced the traditional Gibbonian narrative of ‘decline and fall’ with a new emphasis on continuity and transformation. In fact, the turn of the millennium saw the beginning of a reaction to that scholarly tendency. The debate was re-opened in English-speaking scholarship by some historians and archaeologists who, in the very titles of their books, paid a provocative homage to Gibbon’s inheritance (see e.g. Liebeschuetz 2003; Heather 2005; Ward-Perkins 2005), advocating for a reconsideration which was soon described by their opponents as a reactionary attempt at counter-reformation. The main points of the debate are usefully summarised by James O’Donnell (2005) in his review of Peter Heather’s and Bryan Ward-Perkins’ books: ‘The main lines of difference between the New and the New-Old are straightforward. The Reformers speak more often of the eastern empire than of the western, show more interest in religious and cultural history than other streams,

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speak of rises rather than falls, and are at home in dialogue with similar strains of interpretation in other humanistic disciplines. The Counters focus their attention on the western empire, prefer military and political history to religious, have an Eeyorelike preoccupation with declines and falls, and are in the main untouched by “theory” and other broader academic projects.’ Leaving aside the (to be honest, quite unfair) accusations of theoretical and interdisciplinary unawareness, the contestants’ main polarisations are clearly stated, and they largely remain the same fifteen years later: the focus on cultural and religious studies vs. political and economic history, and the decision to devote more attention to either the east or the west of the Roman Empire. Another consequence of Peter Brown’s revolutionary approach was the expansion of the chronological frame of the period, creating the idea of a ‘long Late Antiquity’ whose limits he defined as approximately AD 200–800 (Brown 1971, 7, 197–200). The 1999 handbook Late Antiquity: A Guide to the Postclassical World, which he edited together with Glen W. Bowersock and Oleg Grabar, takes a similar stance, covering a time period from AD 250–800 (Bowersock et al. 1999, ix). While this periodisation has been widely accepted especially in English-speaking studies,1 its chronological boundaries have long been subject of debate among scholars coming from other traditions.2 Already in 1999 the Italian historian Andrea Giardina, in a thought-provoking paper, called for a pause for reflection from what he termed the ‘explosion of Late Antiquity’, a phrase referring at the same time to both the huge amount of studies published on this historical period and the enormous stretching of its chronological limits. Such an uncontrolled expansion, Giardina warned, ultimately risked losing sight of the specificities of Late Antiquity with respect to the periods which preceded and followed it: this could have a detrimental effect on the very definition of Late Antiquity as an object of research in its own right and to the correct understanding of historical processes in the longue durée. In fact, as opposed to their Anglo-Saxon colleagues, scholars from continental Europe generally continued to fix the beginning of Late Antiquity at the end of the 3rd century AD, the moment when the regional division of power began to decentralise the Roman Empire. The end of the period has always been a more controversial issue. Traditionally, the rise of Islam has been seen as the epilogue of Classical antiquity. Probably the most famous spokesperson of this view was the Belgian historian Henri Pirenne, who in 1922 described the Islamic expansion as a ‘cataclysme cosmique’ that abruptly ended Classical tradition and Roman civilisation.3 The scholars who accept the ‘long Late Antiquity’ periodisation, on the other hand, are more inclined to integrate early Islam, or at least the Umayyad period, in their historical narratives. Nevertheless, more recently a reaction in this field can be detected too: for example Mischa Meier (2012), without referring to Pirenne, discussed the Islamic conquests in the second half of the 7th and the first years of the 8th century as the final phase of a gradual transition from antiquity to the Byzantine Middle Ages in the eastern Mediterranean. In 2008, the first issue of the new Journal of Late Antiquity framed the current state of the discussion by beginning with three introductory papers (Marcone 2008; James

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2008; Ando 2008) dealing respectively with the problems of periodisation, the history of the concept of ‘Late Antiquity’ and the dialectical relation between transformation and decline inherent to every approach to this period. Arnaldo Marcone, in particular, from his point of view as a social and economic historian, drew attention to the dangers of ‘a very broad periodization of Late Antiquity, which did not leave any room for political or economic events as such’ (Marcone 2008, 5): by contrast, he stated very explicitly that the old-fashioned ‘decline and fall’ paradigm could still be useful to interpret not only late antique political history, but also many of the economic changes which took place in that period. This confirmed, once more, that the two debates on the limits of Late Antiquity and its general interpretation are closely intertwined: the different periodisation choices ultimately depend on the diversity of approaches to the late antique period chosen by individual authors and their scholarly traditions. Referring back to the two camps effectively outlined in the previous quotation from O’Donnell’s (2005) review, we may observe that those scholars who focus on the eastern Mediterranean and show more interest in religious and cultural history are more likely to adhere to the ‘long Late Antiquity’ model to prove the reliability of their narratives of continuity; by contrast, those focusing on the western provinces of the Roman Empire and on political history prefer to stick to the traditional narrative of ‘decline and fall’ and tend to identify this final collapse with one of the (more or less) traumatic events taking place in the Mediterranean world between the 5th and the 7th century. In order not to remain stuck in this dichotomy, we believe that some useful suggestions may come from a comparative geography-based approach, such as has been recently advocated in the field of social and economic history. In fact, in recent years it has become more and more evident that every attempt to interpret the history of Late Antiquity needs to adopt a geographically differentiated perspective, which goes beyond the major contrast between east and west towards a more detailed analysis of the individual regions. The substantial benefits of this approach have been brilliantly shown by Chris Wickham in his The Inheritance of Rome (2009), which accompanies the reader on a fascinating journey through all the provinces of the (former) Roman Empire from the 5th to the 10th century, examining the political, economic and cultural history of each of them from within their own individual perspective. We believe that this kind of approach, which aims at a better understanding of the larger historical framework through the analysis and comparison of the different regional developments, can be successfully applied to the study of visual culture and has indeed enormous potential for our appreciation of a period as complex and fragmented as Late Antiquity. It is precisely the focus on geographical peculiarities, and on visual culture, which determined also the chronological boundaries of our period of interest. On the one hand, the proliferation of competing cultural and artistic centres in the decentralised late Roman Empire of the late 3rd century provides an effective starting point for our volume (although, of course, the earlier diffusion of motifs and styles is also taken into account when necessary

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for a better understanding of cultural phenomena). On the other hand, regarding its endpoint, the manifest and long recognised continuities, especially in visual and material evidence, between the late Roman4 and the early Islamic period in the Near East encouraged us to include at least the Umayyad century in our discussion of the visual koiné of Late Antiquity.

A geographical approach to visual culture This geography-based approach looks not wholly innovative if we move away from the broader historical narratives towards the more specific field of visual culture, or rather what used to be traditionally called ‘history of art’. As is well known, the autonomy of Late Antiquity as a period of human culture with its own unique characteristics was first recognised around 1900 in the realm of art history, by the Viennese school of Franz Wickhoff and especially Alois Riegl. The cultural vibe of the Austro-Hungarian capital, and the appreciation of the anticlassical tendencies in the art of the avantgarde, inspired Riegl to give a fresh consideration to the positive ‘artistic intention’ (Kunstwollen) of late Roman artists, defining the aesthetic qualities of what he first described as a distinctive period in the history of western art, worthy of study in its own right (Riegl 1901; Noever et al. 2010; Rampley 2013; Reynolds Cordileone 2014).5 Art historians tended to be more cutting-edge also with regard to the geographical approach to these phenomena. The Italian archaeologist Ranuccio Bianchi Bandinelli divided his comprehensive survey of Roman art (published, at the same time in Italy and France, in 1969–1970) into two volumes, characterised by a very different internal organisation. The first one, L’arte romana nel centro del potere (‘Roman art in the centre of power’), provided a rather traditional chronological overview of the art produced in and for the city of Rome, from the archaic period until the end of the 2nd century AD (Bianchi Bandinelli 1969). By contrast, the second volume, entitled La fine dell’arte antica (‘The end of ancient art’), covered in remarkable depth the art of the 3rd and 4th century AD and was organised according to a geographical principle, with each chapter dealing with the visual culture of one or more provinces of the late Roman Empire (Bianchi Bandinelli 1970). This was, in many respects, a revolutionary choice: in that period, academic discourses among archaeologists and ancient historians were still dominated by a rather narrow concept of Romanisation, which judged the various provincial cultures simply by their degree of assimilation to the centre. Bianchi Bandinelli himself had taken for granted this paradigm in his first volume, where virtually no example of provincial art was discussed: everything which mattered happened in the centre and was then more or less carefully imitated in the provinces. But the geographical organisation of the second volume was something completely new. With it, Bianchi Bandinelli opened a whole new field for classical archaeologists: namely, the geography of ancient art. The late 1960s were the right time for such an innovation. Only three years earlier, the literary critic Carlo Dionisotti had published a study entitled Geografia

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e storia della letteratura italiana (‘Geography and the history of Italian literature’). In this book, which revolutionised the field of Italian studies, Dionisotti challenged the traditional way of describing the historical development of Italian literature: this had been interpreted within the framework of a coherent and teleologically nationalistic narrative which saw the cultural harmonisation of the country as the necessary first step towards its political unification in the 19th century. On the contrary, Dionisotti argued that Italian literary culture was characterised by many different lines of development in a huge number of different intellectual centres and that a unified narrative could not suffice to a proper understanding of regional and local peculiarities (Dionisotti 1967). Dionisotti’s book established a new theoretical model which Bianchi Bandinelli usefully employed for his analysis of Roman provincial art based on a geographical perspective. However, Bianchi Bandinelli’s main interest was not primarily geographical or even aesthetic, but rather social. Seeing the historical development of the Roman Empire from a Marxist perspective, he interpreted the so-called ‘crisis of the 3rd century’ as a revolutionary phenomenon which contributed to the subversion of traditional power relations, providing the opportunity for the rise of new social elements. He pointed out how, in those turbulent years of political instability, individuals coming from subordinate groups, particularly of provincial and military background, rapidly ascended the social ladder replacing the old senatorial elite in many of the decision-making processes: the military emperors of the 3rd century were seen by him as the most important examples of this social rise. Therefore, in Bianchi Bandinelli’s view, provincial art could be seen as the privileged form of expression of the new leading forces of Roman civilisation. In his reconstruction, the rise of this new class brought about the end of the Hellenising taste of the elite (seen, in Marxist terms, as a ‘superstructure’), replacing it with more ‘authentic’ art forms deeply rooted in popular culture: from the perspective of style, the sophistications of Hellenistic naturalism gave way to the more direct and efficient language of late antique expressionism. In this way, and despite the prominent role played by regional contexts in his work, Bianchi Bandinelli focused his discussion primarily on social phenomena, while the actual dynamics of cultural interaction between Rome and its provinces remained largely in the background. The same can be said about the debate which started in the 1990s on the effectiveness of the concept of Romanisation. The justified criticism of the traditional top-down approach, and the adoption of alternative theoretical models taken from the field of post-colonial studies, were mainly concerned with the reappraisal of the expressions of identity produced by certain social groups, rather than with drawing a clearer picture of cultural relations between centre and peripheries in an empire-wide perspective. For this reason, this approach too has in turn become subject to review in more recent years. Several authors (e.g. Terrenato 2005; Sommer 2012; Versluys 2014) have argued that much of the discourse against the traditional Romanisation paradigm, especially in English-speaking scholarship, was not authentically post-colonial, but rather anti-colonial, with an emphasis on anti-imperialistic narratives celebrating

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the resistance to the spreading of a common Roman identity in the early imperial period, as well as the (re-)emergence of local identities in Late Antiquity. This scholarly effort, we may add, based on contemporary anti-colonial reflex, produced an effect quite similar to that which Bianchi Bandinelli had derived from his own philosophical and political views: the (largely artificial) anti-colonial polarisation between Romans and ‘Natives’ prevented a full appreciation of such complex, culturally fluid societies, probably to an even larger extent than the old Marxist divide between oppressive elite and oppressed masses had done. While the anti-colonial reaction was undoubtedly necessary thirty years ago, more recent research has started moving forward from it towards a closer study of the primary sources, especially concerning visual and material culture, in order to better understand the dynamics of economic, cultural and social exchange between different centres and peripheries in the integrated system of the Roman and late antique Mediterranean. Of course, even if not often explicitly told, this new approach too derives, no less than the previous ones, from our contemporary preoccupations with our own societies. The Roman Empire was at the same time a very well-organised machinery of government, an expansionist and oppressive military power and an economically thriving multi-cultural world: the relative weight we attribute to these aspects ultimately depends on our own priorities. The most recent years have tended to study the imperial and late antique Mediterranean as an integrated system, shaped by centre-periphery relations as well as by local dynamics and interprovincial cultural exchanges: a world ‘beyond boundaries’ (to borrow the title of the recent book on Roman provincial cultures by Susan E. Alcock, Mariana Egri and James F.D. Frakes (2016)) in the sense of ‘beyond the very concept of boundary’, whose unity-in-diversity (or through-diversity) can be, more or less explicitly, compared to our own multicultural societies and offer a mirror for our opportunities and difficulties. This approach has fostered a new appreciation of the vitality and autonomy of provincial contexts: these are no longer seen as mere recipients of the stimuli coming from one ‘centre of power’, reacting to them with either acceptance or resistance; on the contrary, they have started to be studied in their own agency. The complex ties linking centres and peripheries can now be interpreted as degrees on a scale going from assimilation, cooperation, reception of cultural innovations, to identitarian reactions, cultural protectionism or intentional disregard of external inputs. On the other hand, it is now clear that all these centre-periphery exchanges worked both ways: the regional elements could contribute in various degrees to the development of a shared culture, not necessarily in a subordinate position to the centres. Current perspectives on Roman provincial cultures are now far more sophisticated than in the recent past: beyond the two traditional categories of ‘acceptance’ and ‘resistance’ to centralised influences, a more complex theoretical model can be offered, which acknowledges the importance of local (regional, provincial, civic) dynamics for the shaping of peripheral cultures. The visual and material cultures of the Roman provinces can be interpreted as the result of at least three complementary

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factors: (1) on the one hand, they were more or less strongly influenced by the centres – both by Rome itself and by other prestigious cultural centres, especially in the eastern Mediterranean; (2) on the other hand, their modes of expression were primarily intended for local audiences and therefore responded primarily to local exigencies and dynamics; (3) in addition, independent interactions between two or more provinces must be taken into account, proceeding from one ‘periphery’ to another without necessarily involving any centre. Thanks to its increased flexibility, this model certainly represents a more efficient tool to describe the varieties of cultural interactions taking place on an empire-wide scale. Still, the more the system grows in complexity, the more difficult it is to distinguish clearly between centres and peripheries: if the main prerogative of a centre is that of exerting some cultural influence on other areas, then every peripheral context can potentially be regarded as a centre in relation to the areas it may influence. Therefore when addressing highly interconnected systems such as the Roman Empire or (even more so) the larger late antique Afro-Eurasian world which is the object of the present volume, it may be useful to speak simply of different geographical contexts, each of them reacting in different ways to external influences (thus behaving as a periphery) and at the same time exercising some influences on other areas (thus behaving as a centre). In other words, it may be useful to replace the centre-periphery perspective with an alternative model, based on a network of interacting contexts which may act as centres and peripheries at the same time, according to continuously varying dynamics. It is important to note that this network of cultural relations, especially in the realm of visual culture, does not require that the different regions involved are all under the same political control. Instead, similar dynamics have been observed for several other periods and contexts characterised by high political fragmentation. The first phenomenon of this kind to be identified in the field of art history was the so-called ‘International Gothic’. The term, coined at the end of the 19th century by the French art historian Louis Courajod (1901), specifically highlights the wide-ranging geographical extent of this artistic language which dominated the aesthetics of western and central Europe between the late 14th and the early 16th century. Its spread was possible mainly thanks to the frequent travels of both artists and (portable) artworks, leading to the development of a shared visual culture not only in the various European courts, but also among the smaller nobility, the Church and the emerging merchant class. The spreading of this common style did not entail the complete assimilation of local differences, but contributed to creating a visual koiné which was meaningful to viewers of different geographical origins. The International Gothic, of course, postdates the Roman Empire and the late antique world by several centuries. More recent research, however, has revealed that the phenomenon of a visual koiné can already be observed in periods preceding the one studied in this volume. Marian Feldman (1996), for instance, identified what she called an ‘international style’, the ‘cross-cultural mingling of artistic forms’, in the Late Bronze Age Near East (1400–1200 BC). Luxury artefacts decorated with a selection of iconographic motifs associated

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with different cultures, but mingled in such a way that it became impossible to identify their individual origins, seem to have been used in supraregional exchanges between the rulers of different states. Their intercultural imagery can thus be read as a ‘general and generalized statement of kingship’ deliberately defying references to any specific regional tradition (Feldman 1996, 13). Objects and images were used as a common language, a ‘shared vocabulary’, by an ‘extended international family of rulers that sustained itself through charged symbolic bonds’: this way, they became ‘active agents in the construction of intercultural relations’ (Feldman 1996, 15, 17, 61). The Hellenistic world, too, was already a polycentric system – or better, a network of several cities and geographical areas politically, economically and culturally interacting with one another – well before the Roman conquest brought most of these territories under one rule; after their political unification, they retained a very influential economic and cultural position within the expanded network of the Roman Mediterranean. This is particularly true for the creation and commercialisation of artistic products: one may just think of mythological sculptures produced by artists trained in the illustrious traditions of Greece and Asia Minor and commercialised all over the eastern and central Mediterranean. To name just one example: the famous Laocoon group was produced in the 1st century BC, out of Greek marble from the island of Paros, by some sculptors originally coming from Rhodes, but working in Italy for Roman customers, using a visual language characteristic of the Asian, specifically Pergamene tradition (Settis 1999). In terms of traditional centre-periphery interaction, this might be explained as an influence of the periphery (Rhodes, Pergamon) on the centre, achieved through the immigration of artists from the provinces to the capital. But, in our opinion, the phenomenon can be better interpreted in a network perspective, as the result of a polycentric interaction between different geographical and cultural areas, each one providing some of the necessary elements in the process of artistic production: the artists came from Rhodes, the visual language and models from Pergamon, the material from Paros, the patrons from Italy. In this case, it was the artists who moved towards their customers, transferring their workshop from Rhodes to Italy, without doubt in search for better economic opportunities. In other instances, it was the customers who moved towards the artists: the well-known case of Cicero asking his friend Atticus to buy statues for him in Athens and ship them to Rome (Letters to Atticus 1.7–11, dated to 67 BC) was probably not an isolated instance among the late Republican Roman elite. In fact, the provinces of Achaea and Asia remained the most important centres for the production of mythological sculptures during the Roman imperial period, due to the availability of good-quality materials, the local transmission of technical skills from one generation to another and most of all the prestige of their ancient cultural and artistic traditions, which acted as a sort of trademark and quality assurance for the customers. It is exactly in this time, the late Hellenistic 1st century BC, that Miguel John Versluys (2017) observes a peculiar phenomenon of hybridisation, which he labels ‘innovative eclecticism’. Using the example of king Antiochos I of Commagene, located

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in between the Graeco-Roman and the Iranian world, he shows how competing rulers deliberately drew upon a standard iconographic repertoire containing motifs of both Greek and Persian origin in their royal representation. What made their images unique, therefore, was not the iconographic repertoire they used, but the way the different elements were put together in their relevant regional contexts (Versluys 2017, 136, 233). Through their deliberate selection of appropriated standard iconographic motifs, the rulers could represent both their partaking in a global network and the uniqueness of their rule. Finally it is important to note that in this period such dynamics of geographical interaction were not restricted to rulers, members of the elite and the most expensive works of art, but extended also to a lower economic level. This is shown, for example, by the category of pottery known as terra sigillata, whose main production from the 1st century BC was originally centred in Arezzo in central Italy, then moved to southern Gaul and finally North Africa. From each of these areas huge quantities of objects were exported all over the empire, including Italy and Rome itself, in what can be interpreted as a veritable globalisation of material culture whose centre-periphery dynamics did not necessarily coincide with the major political or artistic ones. The geographical scope of the visual koiné of Late Antiquity is much vaster than that of the periods studied by Courajod, Feldman or Versluys. As the present volume will show, late antique visual culture spread both within and far beyond the boundaries of the Roman Empire, thus making it unique in regard to earlier periods and unmatched for many centuries to come. Accordingly, the already mentioned Guide to the Postclassical World treats the whole area covered by the Roman and Sasanian empires as a ‘single whole’, while seeing the wider perspective of entanglements: ‘And even this extensive space must be seen as no more than a vivid cluster of settlements set in yet a wider world. For, in this period, societies as far apart as Scandinavia and the Hadramawt, Saharan Africa and western China were touched by events along the great arc of imperially governed societies and interacted decisively, at crucial moments, with those societies’ (Bowersock et al. 1999, x). The 2012 Oxford Handbook of Late Antiquity also covers the vast geographical space from the Atlantic Ocean to Central Asia (Inglebert 2012, 4), and in his recent studies on cross-cultural interaction in antiquity and the early Middle Ages, Matthew P. Canepa (2010) expanded the picture of Rome and Persia by including China, which is also touched upon in this volume. Therefore, in accordance with these recent studies, we too have consciously decided, although the Roman Empire remains a large focus, to look beyond its borders in this book in order to get a glimpse of different empires and peoples involved in this global network.

Theoretical approaches to cross-cultural connectivity In the previous pages, we have introduced several concepts such as networks and globalisation, which have been applied in recent years to the study of cross-cultural connectivity in the ancient world. Their applicability also to late antique visual cultures shall be reviewed here.

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We begin with ‘cultural transfer’ (Kulturtransfer/transferts culturels), a term coined in the mid-1980s by the historians Michel Espagne and Michael Werner, analysing historical relations between France and Germany, to define the unilateral, deliberate movement of cultural properties, both material (for instance objects, produce, commodities) and immaterial (such as ideas, information, media, discourse or practices), from a culture of origin to a target culture (Espagne and Werner 1985; Schmale 2012, §8; Rossini and Toggweiler 2014, 6–7; on the definition of cultural transfer see, for example, Eisenberg 2003, 399; Siegrist 2003, 316; Gerogiorgakis et al. 2011, 391, 394; Rossini and Toggweiler 2014, 7, 9). Cultural transfer studies which follow this theoretical model focus on two central questions: on the one hand, the actual transfer process, i.e. how the transmission from the culture of origin is carried out; on the other hand, the effect and legacy of this transfer process in the target culture, i.e. ‘the conditions and dynamics of selection, translation, adaption or mutation’ (Rossini and Toggweiler 2014, 5; compare also Eisenberg 2003, 399–400; Siegrist 2003, 316–317; Gerogiorgakis et al. 2011, 393–394). Although this model addresses important issues of cross-cultural interaction, several factors make it difficult to apply in the analysis of visual culture. Primarily, cultural transfer is based on the premise of highly asymmetrical power relations between an active origin and a passive target (Rossini and Toggweiler 2014, 5). As transfer is understood only as a deliberate, meaningful process, it is assumed that only such cultural elements were transferred for which there was an intentional demand in the target culture or whose significance was transculturally symbolic, ideological or systemic. The passive, receiving target is thus viewed as culturally inferior to the active, sending origin, and exchange processes such as commerce, flow of goods or looting during military campaigns, which are often very significant for the transmission of iconographies, are automatically excluded (Gerogiorgakis et al. 2011, 395–396, 412). Another highly problematic factor is that this narrow definition of transfer heavily relies on the idea that cultures are identifiable as distinct groups of people that ‘have certain traits (beliefs, customs, achievements, and so on) which distinguish them from other groups’ (Young 2010, 10). Yet, as will become apparent from the spreading of artefacts and iconographies studied in this volume, cultures can be fluent and are seldom isolated from each other: instead, they constantly interact, communicate and evolve (Siegrist 2003, 306; Young 2010, 12–13; Gerogiorgakis et al. 2011, 390).6 Such continuous communication, as this volume shows, has an especially significant impact on material and visual evidence. Therefore cross-cultural interaction cannot be limited to the unilateral, hierarchical movement assumed by cultural transfer studies. For the question of the visual koiné of Late Antiquity in particular it is not always easy (and perhaps also not so crucial) to decide whether the appropriation of an iconographic motif was the original intention of an interaction or only its by-product. Therefore instead of the cultural transfer model, the less hierarchical and less one-sided concept of appropriation – ‘the taking – from a culture that is not one’s own – of intellectual property, cultural expressions or artifacts, history and ways of knowledge’ (Ziff and Rao 1997, 1; compare Young 2010, 5 and Canepa 2010, 134) – seems

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more fitting to describe the movement of iconographies. According to the idea of appropriation, the individual doing something with the transferred material or visual evidence – be it simply keeping an object of foreign origin without further using or ideologically charging it, or adopting into a new context the iconographic motifs with which this object was adorned – is automatically assigned an active part in the process. The appropriation model does not omit altogether certain ways of transmission from the analysis nor qualifies the interacting cultures hierarchically as an active sending origin and a passive target. Instead, as Matthew P. Canepa (2010, 134) has demonstrated, it is precisely the creative and innovative potential of the appropriation process which becomes the focus of analysis: this change of perspective, we believe, is particularly useful for the study of ancient visual cultures. Through this multilateral perspective, the exchange and transfer processes in late antique visual culture can best be described as parts of a network consisting of different contexts. In recent years network-based approaches have become popular in archaeology to study many-sided, complex relationships. A network can basically be defined as ‘a set of relationships’ (Lemercier 2012) consisting of nodes – they may be places, individuals, objects, iconographic motifs or other – and the relational ties that connect them (Collar et al. 2015, 2). Network-based approaches assume that ‘relationships are everywhere, they influence people’s decisions, and through them information and objects spread and evolve’ (Brughmans 2013, 625). Network analysis serves to visualise connections and study the patterns that emerge from them (Lemercier 2012; Brughmans 2013). Therefore it is often used, for instance, to study transportation routes between locations (e.g. Isaksen 2007 and 2008 on transport system in Roman southern Spain or Seland 2016 on trade and navigation in the Indian Ocean in the Roman period; see also Preiser-Kapeller in this volume; for further examples compare Brughmans 2013, 636–637) for which there is sufficient evidence in historical sources and which may have important implications for the dissemination of artefacts and iconographic motifs studied in this volume. In the case of visual culture, the nodes may be (relatively) easily defined as the attestations of certain iconographic motifs in different locations, but the links between them are mostly unknown. The visualised networks, therefore, can be only hypothetical and have to be interpreted with caution, comparing them with what is known about other networks of interaction, e.g. transportation systems or connections among individuals traced through letters, legal documents and other historical sources (Lemercier 2012; Brughmans 2013). Network analysis has revealed a mix of local small worlds and long-distance connections which may explain why certain kinds of artefacts or images are attested in localities which did not know of each other and had no direct contact (Brughmans 2013, 643–644, 646). Taking a different approach to networks, the so-called actor-network theory developed by Bruno Latour, Michel Callon and John Law in the 1980s (compare Latour 2005, 10–11) focuses on human-object interactions, considering everything in the social and natural worlds to exist within constantly shifting networks of relationships. According

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to Bruno Latour (2005, 71), ‘any thing that does modify a state of affairs by making a difference is an actor – or, if it has no figuration yet, an actant’. According to this definition, objects are actants too with an agency of their own that ‘shake’ and ‘wake up’ human actors (Latour 2005, 63–86). Objects and human actors are connected in collective actions (Latour 2005, 74–75) whose complexities establish relations between things which extend well beyond the latter’s existence as (supposedly) stable entities located in a given space (Hodder 2012, 92–93). An example may be the TV remote control or the speed bump, which makes the individual using or encountering it act differently than if it was not there (Latour 2005, 77; for further examples see Hodder 2012, 91–94). Following Latour’s definition, images too could be seen as actants. Like objects, they trigger certain behaviours, reactions or interpretations (especially when they travel) by the individuals they encounter. However, objects – and images – are not independent entities: rather, they are intermediaries (Latour 2005, 74–75, 79–83). On the one hand, artefacts and images normally cannot travel without the aid of a human agent. On the other hand, the way people react to or interact with objects and iconographies always depends on the complex system of social, cultural, religious, personal and other contexts they move in and are familiar with. This proves, once again, the benefits of the concept of appropriation for the understanding of human-image interactions.

Globalisation and late antique visual culture Taking the network perspective one step further, Miguel John Versluys (2015, 150–152) and others have introduced the concept of globalisation as a feasible alternative to transfer studies in analysing material and visual cultures in antiquity. The term ‘globalisation’ is often used to refer to the developments of our own modern times, recalling worldwide, especially economic connections, increasing long-distance interactions and widespread social changes that are related to the establishment of dense, world-wide networks resulting from this complex connectivity (compare the definitions collected by Jennings 2011, 1–2). As Justin Jennings (2011; 2017) and others have demonstrated in recent years, globalisation as a phenomenon is not limited to our modern world (where it is mostly understood as economically driven), but can already be observed in ancient cultures. Jennings (2011, 3) treats networks as an element of ancient globalisations, whose development, in his opinion, was strongly connected to the sudden growth of early cities like Sumerian Uruk or pre-Columbian Teotihuacán: ‘exchange networks created by these cities led to the long-distance flows of ideas, people, and goods. People outside of these cities reacted to these flows by creating their own networks, and a chain reaction of interactions ensued that transformed broad regions. Although these networks did not span the globe, they radically changed the known “world” of these people’. According to Jennings (2011, 21, 34), ancient periods of globalisation are basically characterised by two features: (1) an increase in long-distance connections and (2) social changes associated with the creation of a ‘global’ culture.

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As Tamar Hodos (2017, 4) points out in the 2017 Routledge Handbook of Archaeology and Globalization, globalisation is not just complex connectivity. An integral part in the step from networks to globalisation is a certain perception of the larger world extending beyond an individual’s local small world. Thus Hodos (2017, 4) defines globalisation as ‘processes of increasing connectivities that unfold and manifest as social awareness of those connectivities’. This ‘feeling of one-placeness’ was achieved mostly by shared practices (Hodos 2017, 4). If we apply this concept to the field of visual culture, these shared practices may be identified as the appropriation and use of the same iconographic motifs in different geographical regions with different cultural backgrounds and visual traditions – a phenomenon which can be observed in Afro-Eurasia throughout the ‘long Late Antiquity’ from AD 300 to 800. To determine whether a culture can be understood as genuinely global, Justin Jennings (2011, 29–30, 121–142; 2017, 14–16) proposed eight trends or hallmarks, broadly recognised by scholars as indicative of contemporary globalisation, which may be used to identify ancient globalised cultures as well (see also Versluys 2015, 161). The first trend he points out is closely related to Hodos’ ‘feeling of one-placeness’: (1) ‘time-space compression’ refers to how the acceleration of long-distance economic and social processes shrinks one’s experience of time and space, creating the impression of living in a smaller world (Jennings 2011, 123–125; 2017, 14). As long-distance routes become more reliable and are travelled upon more regularly, this also facilitated the travel of artefacts and iconographies. One got used to seeing not only foreign faces, but also products and images unknown or less common before. For instance, the 6th-century author Cosmas Indicopleustes tells an interesting story taking place on the island of Taprobane, modern Sri Lanka. As he describes in his Christian Topography (11.17–19), not only did Roman and Persian coins circulate there, but their images could also be perceived as carriers of meaning: according to Cosmas (who claims to have heard the story directly from its protagonist), a Roman merchant showed these coins to the local king in order to allow him to judge which of the two rulers was the more radiant and powerful. ‘Just as in today’s world, perceived distance from one place to another would have shrunk in the ancient world when one regularly shared ideas, exchanged goods, and sometimes even married outsiders’ (Jennings 2011, 125). What is probably most characteristic of globalisation, today and in the past, are Jennings’ third and fifth hallmarks, (3) ‘standardization’ and (5) ‘homogenization’. ‘Standardization’ is necessary to facilitate interaction across large distances by making each group’s actions comprehensible to other groups (Jennings 2011, 127–129; 2017, 14–15). Jennings mentions languages which serve as a lingua franca, such as Latin and Greek in the Roman Empire or Arabic in the Umayyad caliphate, but also the ‘adoption of ideologically charged motifs into local assemblages’ (Jennings 2011, 129; 2017, 15). In Late Antiquity, the spread of monotheistic religions – Judaism, Christianity and Islam – may also be seen as a means of standardisation which eventually led to the dissemination of certain objects such as relics or church furnishings as well as common, ideologically charged iconographic motifs. Examples are the mosaic floors

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adorning Christian churches which incorporate similar iconographic motifs throughout the Roman Empire (for example the motif of two deer drinking from a fountain which is found in Italy, North Africa, the Near East, in the Black Sea region and in the Balkans in the late 4th–6th century; see Meinecke 2016, 127–128). Outside the Roman world, Christian iconographies of Roman (and later Byzantine) origin are represented, for instance, by a South Arabian relief showing a female figure seated with a small child on her lap which may be interpreted as Mary with baby Jesus (see Japp in this volume) or the 6th-century late Sasanian stucco relief figure of a man dressed in tunic and himation which was excavated in the Christian church at Ctesiphon and may represent a saint or donor (Kröger 1982, 47–48, pl. 12,3). ‘Cultural homogenization’ occurs when individuals come to rely on a similar suite of practices and products, as the flow of ideas, objects and people increases (Jennings 2011, 132–134; 2017, 15). In visual culture shared practices, not only those referring to the religious contexts discussed above, may be linked to specific iconographies. This may be why Graeco-Roman Dionysian imagery becomes popular in Sui and Tang China (late 6th–early 10th century) at the same time that grape wine consumption, uncommon in China before, became more widespread (Valenstein et al. 2019, 320). An example for such Dionysian iconography is provided by the mortuary terracotta figurines of camels from 6th–7th century elite tombs in Chang’an whose saddlebags are decorated with an image of inebriated Silenus supported by two women (Valenstein et al. 2019; Plate 0.1).7 Although the motif is well known from Roman iconography, for example on sarcophagi, the figures are adapted to local needs by wearing local garments. In this case, ‘homogenization’ is less about ‘the spread of a single way of life’ (Jennings 2011, 132), but rather about how people come into contact with widely shared ideas and products and interpret, adapt and translate them to make them their own. In consequence, a culture is both modified by the appropriated objects, practices, ideas and images and modifies the products and images it receives. This understanding of ‘cultural homogenization’ introduces another aspect of globalisation which Jennings addresses in three of his hallmarks: the relationship between the global and the local. In his second trend, (2) ‘deterritorialization’, he discusses how culture becomes increasingly abstracted from a geographically determined context (Jennings 2011, 125–127; 2017, 14). Influences from outside are incorporated into a specific setting where they become local, as they become integrated into one’s life through daily, often unconscious practices. An example from material culture is imported ceramics or other more perishable commodities such as textiles (Jennings 2011, 126; 2017, 14). In the realm of visual culture a good example of this phenomenon is provided by the iconography of the banqueter reclining on a kline: this motif was originally developed in the Phoenician area in the 8th–7th century BC, then spread to Asia Minor, Greece and Italy from the 6th century BC onwards, until it became a genuinely global iconography attested far beyond the Mediterranean world, as far as Gandhara and Parthia (see, for example, Dentzer 1982; Yaldiz et al. 2000, 21 no. 24; Matthäus 2001). In Palmyra this motif was especially popular between the 1st

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and the 3rd century. Inspired by Roman funerary sculpture, it evolved into the most prestigious iconography for Palmyrene funerary reliefs and sarcophagus lids, on which the portrayed banqueters were dressed in local, Palmyrene garments (Colledge 1976, 73–79). In 3rd-century Palmyra this global image had become a Palmyrene motif whose Phoenicio-Graeco-Roman origin was most likely forgotten. This phenomenon, the mingling of global and local cultures, has been described in globalisation studies as ‘glocalisation’, best defined as ‘the refraction of globalization through the local’ (Roudometof 2016, 403). This concept recognises that the process of globalisation was not the same everywhere: people living in different places reacted in different ways to interculturally shared ideas, practices, artefacts and iconographic motifs and adapted them to their local needs, habits and beliefs. The result of such adaptions was cultural heterogeneity. According to Roudometof (2016), both the local and the global shape the state of an idea, practice, object or image in a certain context: this again deviates from the unilateral movement described by cultural transfer studies, resulting in various ‘glocal’ formations which are constructed through this refraction (see also Montoya González and Morehouse in this volume). A different kind of (6) ‘cultural heterogeneity’ is described by Jennings (2011, 134–136; 2017, 15) as his sixth hallmark. Global cultures are shaped not only by the combination of the local and the global, but by ‘a blend of foreign elements from throughout the network that are then indigenized into local settings’ (Jennings 2017, 15). A global culture is thus a ‘mélange of elements’ (Jennings 2011, 134) whose cultural boundaries are blurred through long-distance exchanges. This phenomenon, too, can be observed in late antique visual culture, for example in South Arabia, where traditional local elements are mingled with Graeco-Roman, Sasanian and Axumite motifs, creating a visual language unique to the area, although incorporating many globally common iconographies (see Japp in this volume). The same phenomenon can be found in other regions of the late antique world, such as China (Canepa 2010; see also Guo Yunyan in this volume) or the Germanic West (see Ferrari in this volume), always resulting in a distinct, individual mélange of motifs and styles, designated by local political, economic, social, religious and individual conditions and practices and thus differing from that of other cultures, though based on a common iconographic repertoire. A third trend Jennings (2011, 136–139; 2017, 15) identifies in regard to global-local interactions is (7) the ‘re-embedding of local culture’. The heightened awareness of the social changes caused by enhanced long-distance connectivity results in a ‘drive to protect local uniqueness’ (Jennings 2011, 136). While this heightened awareness fuels nostalgia and attempts to strengthen local practices, in some cases it might even lead to inventing a past local culture which can then be used as ‘a counterweight to the centripetal tendencies of globalization’ (Jennings 2011, 137). As Jennings (2011, 137–139; 2017, 15) points out, this hallmark is the most difficult to demonstrate in the archaeological record, since it is difficult to detect the reasons behind the lack of certain outside influences in a given location: perhaps a group consciously rejected

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these foreign elements, perhaps they were not available at this location, or perhaps there is simply a lacuna in the archaeological record. Jennings sees the combination of the appropriation of foreign elements in one context and the lack thereof in another at the same location as an indication for the ‘re-embedding of local culture’. When applying this concept to visual and material evidence, this re-embedding is quite easily detectable in the case of appropriated iconographies, such as the Chinese camel figurines decorated with an inebriated Silenus mentioned above (Plate 0.1); but the same phenomenon can also be observed, on a subtler level, when a local visual culture appropriates some elements of an external stylistic language, integrating them within its own tradition (see Guidetti in this volume). These different, and partly contradictory, developments of homogenisation and heterogenisation in global cultures result not only in variations in how local and global styles and iconographies are mingled, but also in an (4) ‘unevenness’ in regional power relations: this is Jennings’ (2011, 129–132; 2017, 15) fourth hallmark of globalisation. This ‘power geometry’ (Jennings 2011, 130) inevitably occurs, since not all regions benefit from the increased connectivity to the same extent. In global cultures, certain places emerge as important centres, while others are almost isolated from the global flows. An example for this political and economic unevenness is the foundation of colonies, which automatically reveals the founding cities as more powerful than other places which did not establish colonies (Jennings 2011, 131). In Late Antiquity, some cities, for instance Constantinople, are clearly discernible as centres with a political and cultural impact on regions farther away, even outside the Roman world, which has implications for the dissemination of visual and material culture as well. All in all, in our opinion the presence of Jennings’ eight hallmarks clearly identifies Late Antiquity and its visual culture as a period of globalisation. In fact, as the different examples and case studies in this volume show, the very existence of a common repertoire of iconographic motifs in the ‘long Late Antiquity’ within and beyond the borders of the Roman world can be seen as evidence of several of the trends identified by Jennings as signifiers of globalisation.

An interconnected visual culture: the factors at play Already in the Hellenistic and early imperial period, Mediterranean visual culture was characterised by the coexistence of different centres of production, whose artists were specialised in specific genres or trained in a specific tradition. The situation became even more complex in Late Antiquity, when a new important variable was added to this picture: from the late 3rd century onward, the decentralisation of political and economic power led to the proliferation of new centres whose local elites needed the commission of artworks for their own prestige and legitimisation. The building and embellishment of the imperial residences in Gaul and the Balkans, the foundation of a new capital in Constantinople, the creation of a monumental centre for the Christian cult in Jerusalem were among the major phenomena which heavily reshaped the

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existing network of artistic relations. Later the arrival of new people in western Europe as well as the economic and cultural exchanges with Persia, Arabia and the Red Sea further contributed to the complexity of these commercial and artistic networks. All the old and new centres, within and outside the Roman territories, had continuous contacts with one another, thanks to the frequent travelling of emperors, functionaries, armies, merchants, pilgrims, as well as artists in search of better economic opportunities. This enhanced mobility of people, who carried with them objects, ideas and (in the case of the artists) also models and technical skills, contributed to the development of an intricate network of reciprocal influences. As a consequence, it is impossible to identify, for this period, one leading centre consistently occupying a dominant position, such as Rome, Athens or Asia Minor used to be in the earlier period. In the same way, the geographical areas where a centre was more influential than the others were continuously shifting depending on political factors (determining the possibility and direction of travel), as well as on changes in the economic situation and cultural prestige. In such a context it is essential to take into account all the factors involved in the production of artworks and the development of visual culture, in order to understand the various possibilities of interaction between geographical areas and thus better evaluate the balance between local peculiarities and globalised influences. Here is a tentative list of such factors, to which more could surely be added: 1) the artists and artisans, who have a geographical provenance (which in some cases may be known, mainly through their signatures) and have undergone a highlyspecialised training in a place which may or may not coincide with their place of origin. 2) the iconographic models, which were originally developed in a particular place (which sometimes can be identified) as part of a locally-based visual language and then, if successful, circulated widely, carried by both finished objects and pattern books used by artists and artisans. 3) the materials, whose provenance is in some cases more or less known (for example, for marble or precious goods). 4) the place of production, which may or may not coincide with the place of origin or training of the artist or artisan, with the place of origin of the material or with the place of residence of the patrons or customers. 5) the patrons or customers, who (depending on their political and economic status) may hire artists and artisans to work directly for them or simply buy their products on the free market. 6) the addressees or recipients, who do not necessarily coincide with the patrons, especially in the case of luxury objects or artworks commissioned out of public expenses, and who may or may not have been those originally intended by the patrons and the artists or artisans. 7) the viewers, namely a more or less large group of people who had the opportunity to come into contact with a given artwork. If they were acquainted with its visual

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language, they were able to fully understand the message that the artist and the patron wanted to convey; in the case of artefacts and images produced in a different culture, they may have needed an intermediary explaining its meaning to them, or they may have interpreted it with a new message embedded in their own local experience. The interactions between all these factors can be quite difficult to define precisely, especially in a highly interconnected system like the late antique world, where artists, models, materials, patrons and finished objects could travel long distances with relative ease. Reflecting on such interactions, however, is essential for a better understanding of the dynamics of late antique visual culture: our hope is that the chapters of this volume contribute to raise awareness of the complexities of this historical period, and to open up a reflection on the importance of studying regional developments as a way to better understand late antique culture.

Themes and organisation of the present volume The book is organised thematically into four parts: each of them deals with different cultural and historical aspects of the visual koiné of Late Antiquity, although, of course, shared themes and methods link all the four parts with one another. Part I (Dynamics of provincial visual cultures in the late Roman empire) explores the possibility of identifying some distinctive features of the visual cultures of specific provinces or areas within the territories controlled by the late Roman state (4th–6th century). In the first chapter Rubén Montoya González addresses the visual language of late antique mosaics in the Iberian Peninsula using the analytical tools of glocalisation theory: focusing on the image of the victorious charioteer from the villa at El Pomar (Hispania Baetica), he interprets it both as a ‘glocality’, resulting from a specific interaction between global and local elements, and as evidence of a larger regional visual koiné reflecting the importance of circus racing for the shaping of elite identity in the area surrounding the city of Augusta Emerita. Amy Place focuses on late antique mosaics from North Africa and Sicily, highlighting similarities and differences in the way the same figures are dressed in the two contexts: since these pavements can be understood as part of the same visual culture (as African mosaicists were active in both provinces using the same techniques and pattern books), the variations in fashion between the two geographical areas may be interpreted as the result of the adaption of a common repertoire to the patrons’ different choices and expectations. Jelena Anđelković Grašar, Dragana Rogić and Emilija Nikolić introduce us to the genre of painted tombs on the territory of modern Serbia, revealing, in their analysis, entanglements with earlier iconographic traditions and connections with visual evidence from other regions of the late antique world. Nicola Barbagli offers a thorough re-examination of the late antique paintings in the temple of Luxor, highlighting how the visual landscape of early 4th-century Upper Egypt partook in

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the wider cultural dynamics of the Roman world: his analysis unveils an extensive network of artistic relations linking Luxor to other centres within and outside Egypt, showing that this seemingly ‘peripheral’ provincial context was actually quite receptive of iconographic and stylistic novelties. Part II (Iconography- or genre-related case studies) examines in more detail the spreading of significant iconographies and specific artistic genres in a longue durée perspective and/or in a wide geographical area. Taking a different approach than the contributions in part I, these chosen case studies again reveal how much the appropriation, adaption and interpretation of iconographic motifs and the development of certain artistic genres depended on their relevant contexts, as well as the taste and needs of different audiences across time and space. Renate RosenthalHeginbottom focuses on the popular motif of a rider on horseback in the Near East demonstrating how a generic iconographic motif could be used by different localities with diverse ethnic and religious affiliations, interpreted individually and adapted to a wide range of local beliefs and practices. Lindsay R. Morehouse studies another widespread iconographic motif, the child with grapes, but chooses the opposite approach: instead of concentrating on one geographical region, she analyses a variety of case studies spread as far as Britain in the west and Bahrain in the east, again demonstrating how a common motif could be applied and interpreted differently in its specific local contexts. After such broad perspectives, the following two papers focus on more limited contexts, both geographically and chronologically. Monica Hellström turns to Christian gold-glasses, a category of materials typical of the city of Rome during the second half of the 4th century: examining them from a local perspective against the background of contemporary ritual practices, she proposes a new interpretation of these artefacts, linking them to the performance and memory of the collective baptismal liturgies officiated by the late antique bishops, as well as to the need by sub-elite Christians to demonstrate their affiliation to the Church and thus their entitlement to eternal life. Fabio Guidetti draws a stylistic analysis of the earliest preserved ivory diptychs, contextualising them in the broader development of Roman art during the late 4th and early 5th century: by comparing materials of different geographical origin, he shows how the stylistic innovations coming from the Eastern imperial court were received and appropriated by patrons and artists based in the city of Rome, who consciously adapted the new empire-wide visual language to their local taste and artistic traditions. Part III (Connections with Roman visual culture in extra-Roman and post-Roman contexts) expands the analysis beyond the boundaries of the Roman Empire, investigating some cultural environments located on the edge of the Roman world, either geographically or chronologically, and participating in various ways and degrees in the late antique visual koiné. Carlo Ferrari focuses on late- and post-Roman Gaul, exploring from an anthropological perspective the encounters between local traditions and the cultures of the central Asiatic people who settled there during the 5th century: through the examination of archaeological and literary sources, he argues that both the locals and

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the newcomers were involved in a process of re-negotiation of their own identities, which in some cases even contributed to re-activating a pre-Roman (Celtic) cultural substrate. As a case study from outside the Roman world, Sarah Japp presents the visual culture of late antique South Arabia, highlighting how the interaction between local tradition and external inputs, with the appropriation of several Graeco-Roman, Persian and Axumite iconographic elements, contributed to creating a new and very distinctive language. Michelina Di Cesare, by carefully re-examining the archaeological data from the 1938–1942 excavations of the Al-Aqṣā mosque in Jerusalem, demonstrates that a mosaic floor originally dated to the late Roman period and attributed to a Christian religious building is in fact to identify as the pavement of the mosque built by the caliph al-Walīd at the beginning of the 8th century: her results shed light on the visual culture of the Levant in the Umayyad period, testifying to the vitality of the late Roman heritage on a much longer time span than previously thought, as well as its survival as an element of cultural continuity across major political and religious changes. Part IV (Modes of transfer: iconographies, motifs, objects) addresses some case studies related to the possible ways in which people, images, objects and ideas travelled across the late antique Afro-Eurasian world, profiting from extensive networks of trade and cultural relations. Katharina Meinecke proposes a new model reconstructing how different steps of cross-cultural appropriation and translation of artefacts and iconographies facilitated the development of a globalised visual koiné in Late Antiquity and its local characteristics, which was crucial in elite identity formation. Guo Yunyan examines bracteates imitating Byzantine coins found in China and Central Asia as evidence for the dissemination of foreign currency in the region and demonstrates their use in local contexts especially as grave inventory which may have been linked to the Sogdians. To explore how objects such as the coins and bracteates moved in between geographical regions in Late Antiquity, Johannes Preiser-Kapeller focuses on network theory in the final chapter. He discusses different scales of interaction in and between ‘small worlds’ and large-scale networks, especially of Sogdian trading posts, in order to examine their impact on the transfer of ideas and objects.

Acknowledgements We wish to express our warmest thanks to the Organising Committee of the 27th Theoretical Roman Archaeology Conference (University of Durham, 28–31 March 2017) for giving us the opportunity to gather in such a stimulating environment and begin the fruitful discussions which have led to the publication of this volume. This book would not have been possible without the courtesy and expertise of several peer-reviewers, who improved each paper with their suggestions, and without the invaluable assistance and support of the Oxbow Books team, especially Julie Gardiner and Jessica Scott. The volume is published with the financial support of the European Union Framework Programme for Research and Innovation "Horizon 2020" (H2020MSCA-IF-2017/Grant Agreement no. 792387).

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Notes

1. Compare the discussion of Peter Brown’s contribution to the study of Late Antiquity by Cameron 2002 and Johnson 2012, xv–xvi. 2. For a summary of different approaches see Hübinger 1969; Bäbler 1999; Attoui 2011; Eder 2001. 3. Pirenne 1922, 84–85, and more extensively Pirenne 1937. For an assessment of Pirenne’s concept see Effros 2017. 4. A well-established tradition, especially among scholars working on the archaeology and visual culture of Syria and Palestine, refers to the late Roman period in those regions (roughly from Constantine’s conquest of the eastern provinces in AD 324 until the battle of Yarmuk in AD 636) using the term ‘Byzantine’. This usage developed well before the rise of ‘Mediterranean archaeology’ as a unifying discipline, at a time when Classical archaeology and Christian archaeology were considered two different fields; it was meant essentially as a way to differentiate the Christian Roman Empire from its earlier pagan version, in the belief that these two cultures were distinct enough to deserve two separate names. Nowadays, the scholarly focus on continuity rather than differentiation calls for a reconsideration of this approach; moreover, as recently recognised by Averil Cameron (2017, 2), this inherited terminology risks making interdisciplinary dialogue more difficult, since it is not shared among specialists working on other regions or cultures of the late antique world. Therefore we have decided to avoid it as far as possible. 5. On the historical development of studies on late antique art see now Elsner 2020, which unfortunately we were not able to take into consideration for this Introduction. 6. Sebastian Brather (2000, 157) rightly argues that past groups defined as ‘cultures’ may not have understood themselves as such, but that these ‘cultures’ may simply be constructions by the scholars studying them. 7. New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, acc. no. 2000.8: http://www.metmuseum.org/art/ collection/search/53630 (last accessed: 16/03/2020).

Bibliography

Alcock, S.E., Egri, M. and Frakes, J.F.D. (eds) (2016) Beyond boundaries. Connecting visual cultures in the provinces of ancient Rome. Los Angeles, Getty Publications. Ando, C. (2008) Decline, fall, and transformation. Journal of Late Antiquity 1, 31–60. Attoui, R. (ed.) (2011) When did antiquity end? Archaeological case studies in three continents. The proceedings of an international seminar held at the University of Trento on April 29–30, 2005 on late antique societies, religion, pottery and trade in Germania, Northern Africa, Greece, and Asia Minor. Oxford, Archaeopress (British Archaeological Reports. International Series, 2268). Bäbler, B. (1999) Epochenbegriffe 2. Archäologie. Der Neue Pauly 13, 1006–1007. Bianchi Bandinelli, R. (1969) Roma. L’arte romana nel centro del potere. Milano, Feltrinelli (= Rome. Le centre du pouvoir. Paris, Gallimard). Bianchi Bandinelli, R. (1970) Roma. La fine dell’arte antica. Milano, Feltrinelli (= Rome. La fin de l’art antique. Paris, Gallimard). Bowersock, G.W., Brown, P. and Grabar, O. (eds) (1999) Late Antiquity. A guide to the postclassical world. Cambridge, MA/London, Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Brather, S. (2000) Ethnische Identitäten als Konstrukte der frühgeschichtlichen Archäologie. Germania 78, 139–177. Brown, P. (1971) The world of Late Antiquity. From Marcus Aurelius to Muhammad. London, Thames and Hudson. Brughmans, T. (2013) Thinking through networks. A review of formal network methods in archaeology. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 20, 623–662.

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Cameron, A. (2002) The ‘long’ Late Antiquity. A late twentieth-century model. In T.P. Wiseman (ed.) Classics in progress. Essays on ancient Greece and Rome, 165–191. Oxford/New York, Oxford University Press. Cameron, A. (2017) New themes, new styles revisited again. Literature, theology and social and political change. In H. Amirav and F. Celia (eds) New themes, new styles in the Eastern Mediterranean. Christian, Jewish, and Islamic encounters, 5th–8th centuries, 1–18. Leuven/Paris/Bristol, CT, Peeters (Late Antique History and Religion, 16). Canepa, M.P. (2010) Distant displays of power. Understanding cross-cultural interaction among the elites of Rome, Sasanian Iran, and Sui-Tang China. In M.P. Canepa (ed.) Theorizing cross-cultural interaction among the ancient and early medieval Mediterranean, Near East and Asia, 121–154. (Ars Orientalis, 38). Collar, A., Coward, F., Brughmans, T. and Mills, B.J. (2015) Networks in archaeology. Phenomena, abstraction, representation. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 22, 1–32. Colledge, M.A.R. (1976) The Art of Palmyra. London, Thames and Hudson. Courajod, L. (1901) Leçons professées à l’École du Louvre (1887–1896), vol. 2. Origines de la Renaissance. Paris, Alphonse Picard et fils. Dentzer, J.-M. (1982) Le motif du banquet couché dans le Proche-Orient et le monde grec du VIIe au IVe siècle avant J.-C. Rome, École française de Rome (Bibliothèque des Écoles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome, 246). Dionisotti, C. (1967) Geografia e storia della letteratura italiana. Torino, Einaudi. Eder, W. (2001) Spätantike 1. Historische Epoche. Der Neue Pauly 11, 774–775. Effros, B. (2017) The enduring attraction of the Pirenne thesis. Speculum 9, 184–208. Eisenberg, C. (2003) Kulturtransfer als historischer Prozess. Ein Beitrag zur Komparatistik. In H. Kaelble and J. Schriewer (eds) Vergleich und Transfer. Komparatistik in den Sozial-, Geschichts- und Kulturwissenschaften, 399–417. Frankfurt a. M., Campus. Elsner, J. (ed.) (2020) Empires of Faith in Late Antiquity. Histories of art and religion from India to Ireland. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Espagne, M. and Werner, M. (1985) Deutsch-Französischer Kulturtransfer im 18. und 19. Jh. Zu einem neuen interdisziplinären Forschungsprogramm des C.N.R.S. Francia 13, 502–510. Feldman, M.H. (2006) Diplomacy by design. Luxury arts and an ‘international style’ in the ancient Near East, 1400–1200 BCE. Chicago, University of Chicago Press. Giardina, A. (1999) Esplosione di tardoantico. Studi storici 40, 157–180. Gerogiorgakis, S., Scheel, R. and Schorkowitz, D. (2011) Kulturtransfer vergleichend betrachtet. In M. Borgolte, J. Dücker, M. Müllerburg and B. Schneidmüller (eds) Integration und Desintegration der Kulturen im europäischen Mittelalter, 385–466. Berlin, De Gruyter. Heather, P. (2005) The fall of the Roman Empire. A new history. London, Macmillan. Hodder, I. (2012) Entangled. An archaeology of the relationships between humans and things. Chichester, Wiley-Blackwell. Hodos, T. (2017) Globalization. Some basics. An introduction to The Routledge handbook of archaeology and globalization. In T. Hodos (ed.) The Routledge handbook of archaeology and globalization, 3–11. London, Routledge. Hübinger, P.E. (ed.) (1969) Zur Frage der Periodengrenzen zwischen Altertum und Mittelalter. Darmstadt, Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Inglebert, H. (2012) Introduction. Late antique conceptions of Late Antiquity. In S.F. Johnson (ed.) The Oxford handbook of Late Antiquity, 3–28. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Isaksen, L. (2007) Network analysis of transport vectors in Roman Baetica. In J.T. Clark and E.M. Hagenmeister (eds) Digital discovery. Exploring new frontiers in human heritage. Proceedings of the 34th CAA Conference, Fargo, 2006, 76–87. Budapest, Archaeolingua.

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Isaksen, L. (2008) The application of network analysis to ancient transport geography. A case study of Roman Baetica. Digital Medievalist 4. James, E. (2008) The rise and function of the concept ‘Late Antiquity’. Journal of Late Antiquity 1, 20–30. Jennings, J. (2011) Globalizations and the ancient world. New York, Cambridge University Press. Jennings, J. (2017) Distinguishing past globalizations. In T. Hodos (ed.) The Routledge handbook of archaeology and globalization, 12–28. London, Routledge. Johnson, S.F. (2012) Preface. On the uniqueness of Late Antiquity. In S.F. Johnson (ed.) The Oxford handbook of Late Antiquity, xi–xxix. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Kröger, J. (1982) Sasanidischer Stuckdekor. Ein Beitrag zum Reliefdekor aus Stuck in sasanidischer und frühislamischer Zeit nach den Ausgrabungen von 1928/9 und 1931/2 in der sasanidischen Metropole Ktesiphon (Iraq) und unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Stuckfunde von Taht-i Sulaiman (Iran), aus Nizamabad (Iran) sowie zahlreicher anderer Fundorte. Mainz, Philipp von Zabern. Latour, B. (2005) Reassembling the social. An introduction to actor-network-theory. Oxford/New York, Oxford University Press. Lemercier, C. (2012) Formal network methods in history. Why and how? In G. Fertig (ed.) Social networks, political institutions, and rural societies, 281–310. Turnhout, Brepols. Liebeschuetz, J.H.W.G. (2003) The decline and fall of the Roman city. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Marcone, A. (2008) A long Late Antiquity? Considerations on a controversial periodization. Journal of Late Antiquity 1, 4–19. Matthäus, H. (2001) ‘Das griechische Symposion und der Orient’. Nürnberger Blätter zur Archäologie 16, 41–64. Meier, M. (2012) Ostrom-Byzanz, Spätantike-Mittelalter. Überlegungen zum ‘Ende’ der Antike im Osten des Römischen Reiches. Millennium 9, 187–253. Meinecke, K. (2016) Katalog der Bauornamentik. In J. Cramer, B. Perlich and G. Schauerte (eds) Qasr al-Mschatta. Ein frühislamischer Palast in Jordanien und Berlin II, 59–195. Petersberg, Michael Imhof Verlag. Noever, P., Rosenauer, A. and Vasold, G. (eds) (2010) Alois Riegl revisited. Beiträge zu Werk und Rezeption/ Contributions to the opus and its reception. Wien, Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften (Veröffentlichungen der Kommission für Kunstgeschichte, 9). O’Donnell, J. (2005) Review of Heather (2005) and Ward-Perkins (2005). Bryn Mawr Classical Review 2005.07.69 http://bmcr.brynmawr.edu/2005/2005-07-69 (last accessed: 06/03/2020). Pirenne, H. (1922) Mahomet et Charlemagne. Revue belge de philologie et d’histoire 1, 77–86. Pirenne, H. (1937) Mahomet et Charlemagne. Paris/Bruxelles, Alcan. Rampley, M. (2013) The Vienna School of art history. Empire and the politics of scholarship, 1847–1918. University Park, Penn State University Press. Riegl, A. (1901) Die spätrömische Kunst-Industrie nach den Funden in Österreich-Ungarn im Zusammenhange mit der Gesamtentwicklung der bildenden Künste bei den Mittelmeervölkern. Wien, Hof- und Staatsdruckerei. Reynolds Cordileone, D. (2014) Alois Riegl in Vienna 1875–1905. An institutional biography. Farnham, Ashgate. Rossini, M. and Toggweiler, M. (2014) Cultural transfer. An introduction. Word and Text 4.2, 5–9. Roudometof, V. (2016) Theorizing glocalization: Three interpretations. European Journal of Social Theory 19, 391–408. Schmale, W. (2012) Kulturtransfer. Europäische Geschichte Online, 31/10/2012 http://ieg-ego.eu/de/ threads/theorien-und-methoden/kulturtransfer (last accessed: 06/03/2020). Seland, S.E. (2016) The Periplus of the Erythraean Sea. A network approach. Asian Review of World Histories 4, 191–205. Settis, S. (1999) Laocoonte. Fama e stile. Roma, Donzelli.

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Siegrist, H. (2003) Perspektiven der vergleichenden Geschichtswissenschaft. Gesellschaft, Kultur, Raum. In H. Kaelble and J. Schriewer (eds) Vergleich und Transfer. Komparatistik in den Sozial-, Geschichts- und Kulturwissenschaften, 305–339. Frankfurt a. M., Campus. Sommer, M. (2012) Heart of darkness? Post-colonial theory and the transformation of the Mediterranean. Ancient West & East 11, 235–245. Terrenato, N. (2005) The deceptive archetype. Roman colonization in Italy and post-colonial thought. In H. Hurst and S. Owen (eds) Ancient colonizations. Analogy, similarity and difference, 59–72. London, Bloomsbury. Valenstein, S.G., Juliano, A.L. and Lerner, J.A. (2019). Hellenism in Sui-Tang Chang’an: Dionysiac imagery on mortuary camels. In J.A. Lerner and A.L. Juliano (eds) New research on Central Asian, Buddhist and Far Eastern art and archaeology, 319–334. Turnhout, Brepols (Inner and Central Asian Art and Archaeology, 2). Versluys, M.J. (2014) Understanding objects in motion. An archaeological dialogue on Romanization. Archaeological Dialogues 21, 1–20. Versluys, M.J. (2015) Roman visual material culture as globalising koine. In M. Pitts and M.J. Versluys (eds) Globalisation and the Roman world. World history, connectivity and material culture, 141–174. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Versluys, M.J. (2017) Visual style and constructing identity in the Hellenistic world. Nemrud Dag and Commagene under Antiochos I. Cambridge/New York, Cambridge University Press. Ward-Perkins, B. (2005) The fall of Rome and the end of civilization. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Wickham, C. (2009) The inheritance of Rome. A history of Europe from 400 to 1000. London, Penguin. Yaldiz, M., Gadebusch, R.D., Weis, F. and Ghose, R. (2000) Magische Götterwelten. Werke aus dem Museum für Indische Kunst. Berlin, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin und Museum für Indische Kunst. Young, J.O. (2010) Cultural appropriation and the arts. Chichester, Blackwell. Ziff, B. and Rao, P.V. (eds) (1997) Borrowed power. Essays on cultural appropriation. New Brunswick, Rutgers University Press.

Part I Dynamics of provincial visual cultures in the late Roman empire

Chapter 1 Becoming glocal! Glocalisation, the victorious charioteer from the villa of El Pomar (Hispania Baetica) and the emergence of a regional visual koiné in 4th-century Augusta Emerita (Lusitania) Rubén Montoya González Introduction In recent decades, studies on Roman mosaics in the Iberian Peninsula have moved from an iconographic, descriptive approach towards a theoretical investigation of evidence in relation to the associated architectural and broader social contexts of their production, use and display. Within this discourse, both the local character of mosaics from Hispania and the global aspects shared by similar iconographies displayed across distant territories of the Roman world have been acknowledged. In spite of this, some scholars have criticised the idea that the visual culture from the Roman provinces of Hispania depended on external influences such as Italian and, in particular, North African models for the case of mosaics (Fernández Galiano 1984; Álvarez Martínez 1997). In my opinion, the traditional view of a dependence of Roman mosaics from the Iberian Peninsula on external influences implies a top-down approach that obscures the particular character of provincial evidence from Hispania. In seeking to identify the provincial aspects of visual culture (see e.g. López Monteagudo 2006), some scholars in the last decades have suggested the existence of a globalised visual koiné in the Roman world, within which both homogeneity and heterogeneity coexisted (e.g. Vlassopoulos 2013, 19–20; Versluys 2015, 141–174; see also Hingley 2005; Nederveen Pieterse 2015; Witcher 2017). Globalisation has been proposed as ‘one of the most potent theoretical frameworks of the moment’ (Hodos 2017b, 13). Waters (1995, 3) defined it as ‘a social process in which the constraints of geography on social and cultural arrangements recede and in which people become increasingly aware that they are receding’. However, one of the problems that emerged from theorising the Roman Empire is the combination of both the global and the local

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scale (empire-wide phenomena and local processes); and there has not always been a balance between the two (Gardner 2013, 7). For instance, Hodos (2017b, 5) noted that much more attention was traditionally paid to the former scale in globalisation approaches, while the character of the latter has been frequently neglected across disciplines until recently. But to what extent does globalisation theory successfully combine the global and local scales, and those in-between? This combination was noted by Witcher as crucial to further understanding global processes (2000, 220–221; 2017, 645; see also Hodos 2015). In an effort to achieve a successful combination of scales and a better acknowledgment of the local’s agency within global processes, recent decades have witnessed the appearance and increasing application of the glocalisation framework to material culture (Fine and Thompson 2018). Within this context, this paper aims to demonstrate the potential of the application of the glocalisation framework to late antique visual culture, an aspect which still needs to be investigated more thoroughly through this theoretical framework. In order to achieve that, I focus on the victorious charioteer mosaic from the villa of El Pomar (Jerez de los Caballeros, Badajoz) in Hispania Baetica and contextualise it in relation to other scenes with similar iconography at wider scales: such a contextualisation is possible because images of ludi circenses constitute one of the most popular iconographies in the late Roman world (Dunbabin 1982, 65). In this paper I identify four different scales: first, a global scale (the Roman world); second, a provincial scale (the provinces of Hispania); third, a regional scale (Augusta Emerita and adjacent territories); fourth, a local scale (the villa of El Pomar near Jerez de los Caballeros). Based on the common patterns observed across some of the images, I pay attention to wider political, socio-economic and cultural contexts in order to better understand the regional spread of these mosaics. Finally, by applying the glocalisation framework to some of the mosaics, I argue for the emergence and existence of a regional visual koiné and the regional character the decision-making process could acquire in the provincial territory of 4th-century Hispania, within a seemingly globalised visual koiné.

Glocalisation in a seemingly globalised visual koiné Glocalization is globalization refracted through the local.

(Roudometof 2016b, 65)

The glocalisation framework has – and is being – developed upon continuous responses starting from an emphasis on diversity, as opposed to initial homogeneity, within globalisation. Gardner (2013, 7) noted that in Roman studies the term has generally been used to investigate how global transformations (material, symbolic or visual) happened differently in discrete regions across the Roman world, therefore emphasising the creation of new identities. Nevertheless, in a recent discussion about interdisciplinary perspectives on the growing use of the glocalisation framework across social sciences, it was stated that the application of this concept to archaeological studies still appears

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to be overlooked. One of the keynote speakers, Victor Roudometof, argued that ‘the specific issue of how the concept should be applied to archaeological research […] is best left to the people in the field, as they are far more knowledgeable about their own field than outsiders’ (Barrett et al. 2018, 13). In fact, in his introduction to glocalisation, Roudometof (2016a; 2016b) critiqued that, although some models had been proposed, there had not been enough reflection to elaborate a clear theoretical framework. For instance, Robertson (1994; 1995) saw in glocalisation a better concept than globalisation to understand how global phenomena operate in local contexts; he proposed, from a monist perspective, a model in which both global and local, and therefore homogeneity and heterogeneity, existed in interdependency. Ritzer (2003), by contrast, argued for a dual perspective in which global and local were mutually exclusive and, when conflated, the glocal was formed. In Roman studies, the concept of glocalisation has been implicitly used (without calling it by this name) in relation with globalisation studies, as noted by van Alten (2017, 3). This tendency is well represented, in my opinion, by a recent collection of papers on globalisation in archaeology (Hodos 2017a), where the fundamentals of – principally – Robertson’s and Ritzer’s glocalisation theoretical models appear implicitly in the majority of contributions and explicitly in some of them, with different theoretical conceptions. The limitations inherent in Robertson’s and Ritzer’s models were identified by Roudometof (2016a, 391–397), who aimed to overcome them by proposing an analytical autonomous framework (Roudometof 2016b). In this paper I utilise Roudometof ’s model, which defines glocalisation as ‘globalization refracted through the local’ (2016b, 65). Using a metaphor, he conceived of global flows as waves refracted by the local, in which agency is always present. It is the agency placed in the local which makes the refraction process resulting in the glocal, as visually represented by him (Fig. 1.1). In Roudometof ’s (2016a, 399) words, ‘in glocalization, the global and the local shape the end state. The result is heterogeneity; just like light that passes through glass radiates an entire spectrum, so does globalization passing through locales radiate a spectrum of differences. In this sense heterogeneity becomes the end state of globalization’. In reality, the glocalisation process results in multiple glocalities, which are defined by Roudometof as ‘experiencing the glocal locally or through local lenses’ (2016b, 68). Such glocalities, once formed, become part of the global flows and can therefore be refracted by another local in another refraction process. One of the key aspects of the abovementioned framework is that it transcends one-sided, traditional, top-down or bottom-up approaches; instead, it acknowledges local agency, which is able to resist or Fig. 1.1: Victor Roudometof’s visual representation of adapt to global flows. Furthermore, the refraction of globalisation (from Roudometof 2016b).

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Roudometof ’s framework goes beyond previous monist or dualistic conceptions of homogeneity and heterogeneity within global studies and, concerning ancient visual and material culture in particular, beyond previous understanding of the diversity of forms evidenced within a seemingly global visual koiné. In the next sections I use Roudometof ’s (2016b) framework to interpret a specific case study, in order to demonstrate the applicability of this model to Roman visual and material culture.

The villa of El Pomar (Jerez de los Caballeros, Badajoz) and its figured pavement The residence of El Pomar is nowadays located within the urban demarcation of Jerez de los Caballeros, ancient Seria Fama Iulia (Badajoz, Extremadura, Spain). It was built in the 4th century AD in the north-western part of the province Hispania Baetica, in a territory within the limits of the conuentus Hispalensis traditionally known as Baeturia Celtica, near the provincial border between Hispania Baetica and Lusitania (España Chamorro 2017, 297, 508).1 The residential area was partially excavated between its discovery in 1969 and 1982. It is composed of at least 21 rooms organised around two distributional areas: a peristyle – the principal one – and an atrium – the secondary one (Fig.  1.2). The quadrangular peristyle has columns on three sides (north, west and south), enclosed by a total of 28 niches. A bath complex and an apsidal room are located in the southern wing of the building. The most representational area within the pars urbana is located on its western side, where two of the aforementioned niches surrounding columns vary in design and are aligned with a monumental fountain, three quarters of a circle in shape, and a rectangular pool, both built in the central, open courtyard. This combination of architectural features appears to be aligned with the largest space excavated in the villa: a room 9.40 m long (in the area preserved) and 7.65 m wide, with one small entrance communicating with the atrium and a tripartite entrance from the peristyle, with marble thresholds (Álvarez Sáenz de Buruaga et al. 1992, 54). This room contained the only pavement with figural scenes found in Fig. 1.2: Plan of the villa of El Pomar (Jerez de los Caballeros, the villa, consisting of two tessel- Badajoz) (authors: Francisco Montoya and Rubén lated areas on the sides decorated Montoya, after Álvarez Sáenz et al. 1992, fig. 1).

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Fig. 1.3: Mosaic depicting a victorious charioteer, from the villa of El Pomar (Jerez de los Caballeros, Badajoz) (courtesy of the Museo Arqueológico de Badajoz).

with geometric motifs, and three quadrangular fields with figural scenes in the centre of the room. Based on the partial remains of the pavement and considering its layout, I suggest that its overall composition responded to a U-shaped scheme or a similar variation: while the geometric panels on the sides would determine the position of the couches, the central area contained the richest and most profuse decoration (Dunbabin 1991, 125; 1999, 305). The first quadrangular field (starting from the tripartite entrance) contained xenia composed of pairs of fishes within octagons (Álvarez Martínez 1989, 346–347). Such a location of xenia at the entrance of the room may be interpreted as being intended to welcome guests as part of the dining arrangements (Dunbabin 1999, 310). The second quadrangular field (the central one) contains a medallion depicting a victorious charioteer, surrounded by four lozenges with personifications of winds (two of which

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are preserved), four semicircles with marine scenes (only a triton is preserved) and four floral motifs in the corners (only two of them fully preserved) (Álvarez Martínez 1989, 347–348). Finally, the third quadrangular field, only partially preserved, depicts characters from the Bacchic retinue (a maenad and a satyr) together with theatrical masks and floral motifs (Álvarez Martínez 1989, 349). The combination of different iconographies in the same room has been seen as characteristic of the late antique visual koiné (e.g. Álvarez Martínez 1989, 351). In this paper, I focus only on the central quadrangular field containing the depiction of a victorious charioteer together with personifications of the winds, marine scenes and floral motifs. The mosaic is now almost destroyed, and the following considerations are based primarily on the photograph kindly provided by the Archaeological Museum of Badajoz (Fig. 1.3).

The charioteer from El Pomar in the wider context: images of ludi circenses in mosaics and paintings from Hispania Since Humphrey’s (1986, 337–387) considerations on the significance of ludi circenses in the Iberian Peninsula based on archaeological, literary, epigraphic and artistic evidence, new finds have unveiled a substantially rich panorama that emphasises the popularity of circuses and chariot racing in the society of Hispania, especially among the elite (e.g. Nogales Basarrate and Sánchez Palencia 2001). The popularity of the games permeated visual culture. As noted at the beginning of this paper, the representation of figures and scenes associated with ludi circenses became one of the most popular iconographic repertoires in the Roman world across different media, but especially in mosaics and paintings (Dunbabin 1982, 65; Lancha 1999, 277–294; see also Nogales Basarrate and Álvarez Martínez 2001, 231). A general study of this category of scenes in Hispania, mainly in mosaics but with some painting examples mentioned, was carried out by López Monteagudo (1994). Although, according to her (1994, 343), mosaics from the Iberian Peninsula cannot be compared quantitatively with the North African repertoire, I argue that mosaics and paintings from Hispania can provide new insights on the different factors at play in the process of circulation of iconographic models and selection of specific scenes within a seemingly globalised visual koiné in a provincial territory.2 To the examples listed by López Monteagudo, some mosaics found in later excavations need to be added, such as the partially excavated circus mosaic from Astigi (López Monteagudo et al. 2010, 269–288) and the circus depiction from the villa of Noheda (Valero Tévar 2015, 346–355; 2017, 75–82). Mosaics and paintings from the Iberian Peninsula associated with circus and chariot racing can be classified in different groups, according to Dunbabin’s (1982, 66) initial classification of mosaics and related monuments, and López Monteagudo’s (1994) for evidence from Hispania, which also included representations of victorious horses, alone or accompanied by their riders. In this paper I only focus on: (1) images containing an architectural representation of the circus, with or without an associated narrative of chariot racing; and (2) images of victorious charioteers, in different

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representations in mosaics and paintings. I thereby exclude horses accompanied by their riders and depictions of victorious horses in isolation, usually accompanied by an inscription (see López Monteagudo 1994 for a study of such depictions). I must also note that in this paper I only consider some aspects regarding the type of scenes and the position of the figures; I do not aim to produce an exhaustive iconographic analysis of this category of scenes, already provided by Dunbabin (1982) and López Monteagudo (1994). Following López Monteagudo’s (1994, 343) classification, the first group I would like to present comprises mosaics depicting the building of the circus and several chariot racing activities taking place within it. Five examples of this iconography have been found so far in Hispania. These are: (1) the circus mosaic from Barcelona (Blázquez Martínez 2001, 197–215); (2) the circus mosaic from the villa of Bell Loc del Pla (Girona) (Vivó Codina et al. 2017, 67–73); (3) the now lost circus mosaic from Italica (Mañas Romero 2015, 311–319; de Rueda i Roigé 2004, 7–25); (4) the two panels from the villa at Cortijo de Paterna (Paradas, Sevilla) (Blázquez Martínez 1982, 19); and (5) the circus scene in the villa mosaic of Noheda (Villar de Domingo García, Cuenca) (Valero Tévar 2015, 346–355; 2017, 75–82). In all these, except at Noheda, the circus building appears as the main environment within which narrative scenes of chariot racing are displayed. Instead, at Noheda the architectural context of the circus appears in a secondary position, in the upper part of a mythological scene in which different quadrigae are depicted. The second group, the most numerous (fourteen examples found so far), comprises representations of victorious charioteers which (apparently) are not associated with the architectural context of the circus. Within this group, depictions of victorious charioteers on board a quadriga, in frontal perspective, are most common in Hispania. This corresponds to the ‘XZ’ iconographic scheme in the classification proposed by Dunbabin (1982, 70). In the Iberian Peninsula, seven examples of this kind have been found so far. One of these, badly preserved, is a 4th-century mosaic from the villa of Rabaçal (Portugal) depicting a quadriga which could have featured a victorious charioteer, located in an ambulatory giving access to a large room with three apses (Pessoa 1998). Another example is represented by the victorious charioteers in a mosaic pavement from Italica, now lost (Blanco Freijeiro 1978, 53–54). The third example is the aforementioned tessellated pavement from the villa of El Pomar, to which I shall return below. The remaining four come from Augusta Emerita, the provincial capital of Lusitania. Worth noting is the mosaic pavement from Calle Arzobispo Mausona, dated in the first half of the 4th century, which contains two images of victorious charioteers: Marcianus from the factio prasina (Plate 1.1) and Paulus from the factio ueneta (Plate 1.2) – according to the inscriptions and colourful clothes associated with them. The two scenes surround a central medallion, fragmentarily preserved, with figures from the Bacchic thiasos (Nogales Basarrate and Álvarez Martínez 2001, 226–229). Another mosaic from Calle Holguín has a partially preserved scene of a victorious charioteer, of which only two horses – with inscribed

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names – and a Victory are extant (Plate 1.3); this mosaic appears to be associated with a hunting scene in which Marianus, the hunter, accompanied by the horse Pafius, has been interpreted as the household’s patron (Álvarez Martínez 2017, 34). The last example of this iconography, dated to the 4th century, depicts a charioteer from a frontal perspective, but in painting (Plate 1.4); it was part of a larger composition including other circus and hunting scenes (Álvarez Sáenz de Buruaga 1974). Charioteers seen from other perspectives are also present in the Iberian repertoire. In another painting from the same context in Augusta Emerita, for example, the horses and charioteer are depicted in three-quarter view, seen from behind (Plate 1.5) (Álvarez Sáenz de Buruaga 1974, 174; the sense of movement conveyed by the scene was noted by Nogales Basarrate and Álvarez Martínez 2001, 226). From Córdoba comes a villa mosaic, dated to the 3rd century, with a victorious charioteer depicted in a three-quarter view which emphasises the movement of the horses (Blázquez Martínez 1981, 31–40; Neira Jiménez 2018, 170–171). A victorious charioteer in a biga in three-quarter view was depicted in a mosaic pavement from Italica, now lost (Blanco Freijeiro 1978, 53–54). A similar scene is displayed in the central medallion of a 4th-century mosaic from the villa at El Val (Alcalá de Henares, Madrid), where a painted fragment with a charioteer and two horses in side view was also found (Rascón Marqués et al. 1993, 330–335). Two mosaics, too, depict the charioteer in side view. One example is the late 2nd–early 3rd-century mosaic from the House of the Fountains at Conimbriga (Portugal), whose iconography has been subject to different and varied interpretations (see e.g. López Monteagudo 1997; Morand 2005, 123–129; for a summary, Correia 2017, 136–138). The second example comes from the villa of Faro de Torrox (Málaga) and depicts, in a more schematic view, a horse with harness and whip, which, without doubt, would have featured a charioteer in the area not preserved (Rodríguez Oliva and Beltrán Fortes 2016, 638). The final example I wish to mention, although not included in the following discussion due to its damaged condition, is a fragmentary mosaic found in a domestic space at Lugo, where some remains of horse legs have been interpreted as pertaining to either a circus or a hunting scene (Torres Carro 2005, 477–488).

Regional trajectories and local contexts If we look at the geographical distribution of mosaics and paintings from Hispania with images of chariot racing in circuses or associated scenes of victorious charioteers (Plate 1.6), there appears to be a regional concentration of the latter iconography – in both mosaics and paintings – from Augusta Emerita and its surroundings. The mosaic pavement from El Pomar is one of these. Studies on victorious charioteers and other circus scenes from Augusta Emerita have associated the popularity of such iconographies, not only in mosaics and paintings but also in bronzes and everyday objects such as lucernae, with the importance of ludi circenses at a local level (Nogales Basarrate and Álvarez Martínez 2001). It becomes necessary then, as noted by some scholars (Nogales Basarrate 2014, 117), to consider the political, socio-cultural, administrative

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and economic changes the city underwent during the 4th century AD. One of the structural causes of such changes was the new role of Augusta Emerita as capital of the recent Dioecesis Hispaniarum, resulting from the administrative reforms of Diocletian (ruled 284–305). Several changes introduced in the city (Arce 2002) had an effect on the redevelopment of public buildings (Mateos Cruz 2018, 130). Among these, a restoration of the circus is attested by a commemorative inscription found in 21 pieces near the carceres (Chastagnol 1976, 259–276). The restoration was carried out as a government enterprise under Constantine II (ruled 337–340): due to the poor state of maintenance of the building, a major redevelopment was carried out. The new circus, repaired, monumentalised and redecorated, was appropriate to the new role of Augusta Emerita as the capital of the whole Hispaniae (Humphrey 1986, 373–375). The restoration of the building allowed the continuation of one of the most popular Roman games, well-known in the provinces of Hispania. The Iberian Peninsula was one of the most in-demand breeding grounds for high-quality racehorses (Nogales Basarrate 2017, 24), as confirmed for the late antique period by Symmachus’ letters (Arce 1982). We may also mention the Lusitanian origin of Gaius Appuleius Diocles, the most well-known charioteer from Hispania. As noted by Carter and Edmondson (2014, 541), Diocles’ epitaph is the most detailed of all extant funerary inscriptions of charioteers. It states that he was ‘the most distinguished of all charioteers’ (omnium agitatorum eminentissimus) and obtained the victory 1462 times. Remains of a monument probably dedicated to him were found in the vicinity of St Peter’s Square in Rome during the Renaissance (Nogales Basarrate and Álvarez Martínez 2001, 221; see also García y Bellido 1955, 252). The restoration of the circus ensured the continuation of a ludic popular culture which had existed in Augusta Emerita since the construction of the building in the Julio-Claudian period (Humphrey 1986, 375; Nogales Basarrate and Álvarez Martínez 2001, 220). After the major redevelopments of the mid-4th century the circus was, in Humphrey’s words, ‘one of the most elaborately appointed circuses in the Roman world’ (1986, 374). He also stated that ‘the elaboration and degree of decoration of the Mérida circus as we see it in its final state should not be taken as typical of circuses on the Iberian Peninsula’ (Humphrey 1986, 374). That said, I shall add that the unique, monumental, spacious and redecorated building can also be understood as a prime example of the enormous popularity of the ludi circenses, not only among the society of Augusta Emerita, but also in the nearby regions surrounding what was now the capital of the Hispaniae.

Glocalisation and the emergence of a 4th-century regional visual koiné in Augusta Emerita and beyond In investigating ‘the power of images in the late Roman house’, with a special focus on Britain, Scott (1997, 66–67) stated the significance of regional trajectories and the relevance of choosing and displaying specific iconographies at a local level. She also

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stressed that beyond the complex meanings encoded in such images, transmitters of a status which differentiated the elite from lower social groups, the evidence needs to be considered also in relation to the local socio-political context: ‘the symbols were part of a system of values shared and recognized by other levels of the social hierarchy’ (Scott 1997, 67). I fully support this view, and I would add that the glocalisation framework expounded above can throw new light on the relationship not only between local and regional contexts, but also between city and countryside, as well as on the patron’s decision-making and the craftsmen’s role. As stated above, Roudometof (2016b, 65) defined glocalisation as ‘globalization refracted through the local’. I will apply first his theoretical model to the display of the victorious charioteer scene at the villa of El Pomar. Afterwards, I will contextualise this mosaic display within wider regional and provincial artistic practices and visual koiné, proposing the existence of a glocal visual culture in the territory surrounding one of the most important regional centres of 4th-century Hispania.

Glocalisation as a process: the victorious charioteer from El Pomar As stated above, at the core of Roudometof ’s theoretical model lies the metaphor of glocalisation as a refraction process in which the local’s agency is fully acknowledged. Thus, the first element to consider is the global one to be refracted. In this paper such a global element is constituted by a visual koiné within which images of circus and horse racing are found. Such a global visual koiné was refracted by the local. In this paper, I understand the patron’s household as the local element in the refraction process – that is, the owner of the villa at El Pomar. Even if several agents could be involved in the decoration process of a villa depending on the relationship existing between craftsmen and commissioners, the patron would remain the person located at the top of the decision-making chain. As stated by Curchin, ‘the choice of motifs […] was ultimately the decision of the homeowner’, who could have a very clear idea of what he wanted, would seek advice, or would leave relative freedom to the craftsmen (Curchin 2004, 12). The glocalisation framework acknowledges not only the commissioner’s agency in the process, but also the presence of other influencing factors at play which can affect the refraction of a global model. Here I would like to focus on two intertwined factors which could have influenced the decisions made by the homeowner at El Pomar. The first one is the role played by craftsmen in the transmission of models and designs. In this regard, the combination of different iconographic elements such as personifications of winds, Bacchic figures and the charioteer himself is paralleled in a mosaic pavement found in Calle Arzobispo Mausona in Mérida (López Monteagudo 1992, 974). Upon this basis, authors such as Guardia Pons (1992, 317) postulated the existence of pattern books for the transmission of the designs and suggested that both mosaics were made by the same workshop. However, as stressed by Álvarez Martínez and Nogales Basarrate (2005, 1234, note 68), differences in style, composition

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and technique between the two pavements make it impossible to ascribe them to the same group of craftsmen. Regardless of the identification of one or more mosaic workshops active in Augusta Emerita and its surroundings, the concentration of such depictions in this region (visually represented in Plate 1.6) can be seen as evidence of a recurrent interest in this iconography in the late antique period. This leads us to the second intertwined factor, namely the existence of a strong popular ludic culture, (re-)emerging (as stated above) through the socio-political, administrative and economic changes that Augusta Emerita, capital of the recently established Dioecesis Hispaniarum, underwent during the 4th century. In fact, in the context of the refraction of a global visual koiné happening through a glocalisation process at the villa of El Pomar, the identification of the aforementioned factors provides a basis upon which the selection and display of a victorious charioteer as the main figural scene in the pavement may be interpreted. As a result of this process, the displayed scene, although partaking in a visual koiné – especially characteristic of the western territories of the Roman world (Dunbabin 1982, 65) – can be seen as neither global nor local, but glocal.

Multiple glocalities: the emergence of a regional visual koiné Apart from the application of the glocalisation framework to individual examples, Roudometof ’s model also allows for the wider regional contextualisation of a phenomenon, since every glocalisation process results in a glocality (2016b, 68). In this paper, I consider the victorious charioteer from El Pomar as the glocality resulting from the refraction process expounded above. In a regional perspective, the glocalisation process results in a multitude of glocalities different from each other, since the local element – the homeowner and the associated influencing factors – in each process is different. In Roudometof ’s words, after the glocalisation process ‘a spectrum of differences is created and variation is systematically produced […] this variation is constitutive of the glocal’ (2016b, 65). Here I argue that this theoretical model may be useful to explain the systematic variation of the circus and horse racing iconographic repertoire within Hispania, especially for the case of the victorious charioteer with all its different iconographic groups evidenced above. Considering that in every glocalisation process the factors at play and the local differ, variations within a seemingly similar phenomenon are to be expected. Once a glocality is created, it becomes part of the visual koiné or repertoire, therefore constituting a potential factor at play in another glocalisation process. This explains, in my opinion, the creation of regional visual koinai such as the one presented in this paper, which originated probably in Augusta Emerita and then spread to the surrounding region as far as El Pomar. The outcome of a glocalisation process can be (quoting Vlassopoulos’ words on the result of globalising processes) ‘the emergence of a koine, in which individuals and communities come to participate in a world of shared symbols and meanings (…); use shared forms of material culture;

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employ shared means of communications; and even partake of shared forms of identity’ (Vlassopoulos 2013, 19–20). As stated above, one of the key aspects of the glocalisation framework is the agency attributed to the local in the refraction of global phenomena. Once we recognise the emergence of a regional visual koiné within a world of shared images in 4th-century Augusta Emerita and its surroundings, it is necessary to reflect on possible external influences on the images pertaining to such repertoire. Based on similarities of motifs and scenes, the traditional view recognised an influence of North African mosaics on the Iberian ones, stating a dependency of the latter on the former (e.g. Dunbabin 1999). Such a dependency was attributed to the use of the same models, as well as the presence of North African craftsmen in the Iberian Peninsula (Dunbabin 1999, 219–220). Although this interpretation was widely accepted and has been used by some scholars until relatively recently (e.g. Mañas Romero and Vargas Vázquez 2007, 317, 331), others have critiqued the excessive focus on North African influences, which have obscured the peculiar character of the mosaics from Hispania (see Fernández Galiano 1984, 111). Among the latter, Álvarez Martínez (1997), after comparing themes present in both territories, recognised the existence ‘of mutual relationships, of the interdependency, in both iconographic models, from a common archetype’ (Álvarez Martínez 1997, 50).3 I fully support this view, and I would argue that the glocalisation framework provides the basis upon which it is possible to interpret analytically the Iberian evidence in its local and regional contexts, without establishing ties of dependency between provincial territories. Indeed, my theoretical model is not concerned so much with stylistic influences, but rather with patrons’ choices and how they refracted widespread iconographic motifs in their local contexts. From this perspective, it is possible to affirm that the political, cultural, economic and administrative role of Augusta Emerita in the 4th century favoured the emergence of an iconographic model which became popular among urban and country elites. This social group saw in the display of victorious charioteers a means to project wealth and status to peers and inferiors by engaging symbolically at home in those circus games and horse racing that at least some of them would have attended personally (Álvarez Martínez and Nogales Basarrate 2005, 1223–1239) – all of this in a moment when the circus of Augusta Emerita had just acquired even more importance not only on a local and regional level, but also on a provincial and diocesan one. This may explain why there is a higher concentration of victorious charioteers in frontal view in Augusta Emerita and its surroundings and why, due to its vicinity, the villa owner of El Pomar, although administratively within the limits of Hispania Baetica, participated in the elite’s self-representation of the new capital of the recently reorganised Dioecesis Hispaniarum.

Conclusions In this paper, using the example of the victorious charioteer in mosaics and paintings, I demonstrated how, beyond the globalised visual koiné existent across the Roman world, a specific, seemingly global iconographic theme was differently formulated

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across several types of scenes at a provincial level in Hispania. In addition, the application of the glocalisation framework helped us to identify an emerging regional visual koiné in 4th-century Augusta Emerita and its surroundings. A thorough consideration of the evidence in relation with the wider socio-political and cultural context allowed us to further understand the mechanisms behind its emergence. At a local level, the analysis of the mosaic from the villa of El Pomar within wider regional, provincial and global contexts allowed us to associate the villa owner with the elite from Augusta Emerita. The application of the glocalisation framework has proved successful in investigating how global phenomena were adapted to a provincial context. Furthermore, this approach overcomes some limitations previously acknowledged when investigating global phenomena in globalisation studies: it allows moving across scales and reconciling them; and it acknowledges the local’s agency in the selection and display of global images. Within the subject debated in this book, I argue that beyond the seemingly global visual koiné which existed across the Roman world, a thorough investigation of local contexts may allow us to identify how each patron’s personal choices had a regional- and local-based character, rather than being passive recipients in a world of shared symbols and iconographies. Therefore, material evidence from local contexts can be understood as glocal formations, as the result of the refraction of a global phenomenon in a local context. By choosing a very specific example (the mosaic from El Pomar), the application of the glocalisation framework has unveiled the existence of a different regional geography within the Iberian visual koiné and the western territories of the Roman world, by identifying an assemblage of glocalities distinct from other examples due to peculiar iconographic choices. With regard to the glocalisation of other iconographies, I suggest that similar mechanisms may be at play in other refraction processes, regardless of the more local or global character resulting from the refraction process itself.

Acknowledgements This paper was started in Rome during my research stay at the EEHAR-CSIC and finished in Leicester in the last months of my PhD. In fact, the case study here expounded is part of a wider research project focused on glocalisation and villa décor within Hispania Baetica (1st century BC–4th century AD). I would like to thank Ass. Prof. Sarah Scott, Dr Jane Ainsworth, Dr Fabio Guidetti and Dr Katharina Meinecke for their comments on earlier drafts of this paper, as well as Dr Matthew S. Hobson for his help with the map.

Notes

1. The 4th century began in Hispania with major administrative and territorial changes after Diocletian’s provincial reorganisation. The number of provinces in the Iberian Peninsula increased from three (Baetica, Lusitania and Tarraconensis) to five (Baetica, Lusitania, Tarraconensis, Gallaecia and Carthaginiensis); later, two more provinces (Mauretania Tingitana and Insulae Baleares) were incorporated. All of them formed the Dioecesis Hispaniarum (Cordero Ruiz 2010, 160–161). As

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for Baetica, España Chamorro (2017, 653) has suggested that it probably maintained its previous provincial limits (see also Cordero Ruiz 2010, 161). 2. Note that in this paper I focus only on mosaics and paintings, excluding scenes evidenced in e.g. pottery, gems or other objects. 3. ‘de relaciones mutuas, de la interdependencia en ambos modelos iconográficos de un arquetipo común’ (Álvarez Martínez 1997, 50).

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Mateos Cruz, P. (2018) De capital de la Diócesis Hispaniarum a sede temporal de la monarquía sueva. La transformación del urbanismo en Augusta Emerita durante los ss. IV y V. In I. Sánchez Ramos and P. Mateos Cruz (eds) Territorio, topografía y arquitectura de poder durante la Antigüedad Tardía, 127–153. Mérida, Instituto de Arqueología (Mytra, 1). Morand, I. (2005) La maison aux jets d’eau de Conimbriga (Portugal): programmes architectural et décoratif. Paris, De Boccard. Morlier, H. (ed.) (2005) La mosaïque gréco-romaine IX. Rome, École française de Rome (Collection de l’École française de Rome, 352). Nederveen Pieterse, J. (2015) Ancient Rome and globalization: Decentring Rome. In Pitts and Versluys (2015), 225–239. Neira Jiménez, L. (2018) El mosaico pavimental en Corduba Colonia Patricia: sociedad, mito e ideología. In D. Vaquerizo Gil (ed.) Los barrios de Córdoba en la historia de la ciudad: De los vici romanos a los arrabales islámicos, 145–185. Córdoba, Real Academia de Ciencias, Bellas Letras y Nobles Artes (Colección T. Ramírez de Arellano, 7). Nogales Basarrate, T. (2014) Late antique sculpture in Augusta Emerita and its territory (Hispania): Officinae, patterns and circuits. In S. Birk, T.M. Kristensen and B. Poulsen (eds) Using images in Late Antiquity, 115–131. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Nogales Basarrate, T. (2017) Ludi circenses en Hispania: tipologías monumentales y testimonios iconográficos. In López Vilar (2017), 11–26. Nogales Basarrate, T. and Álvarez Martínez, J.M. (2001) Espectáculos circenses en Augusta Emerita. Documentos para su estudio. In Nogales Basarrate and Sánchez Palencia (2001), 217–232. Nogales Basarrate, T. and Sánchez Palencia, F.J. (2001) El circo en Hispania romana. Madrid, Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte. Pessoa, M. (1998) Villa Romana do Rabaçal: Um objecto de arte na paisagem. Penela, Câmara Municipal de Penela e Associação de Municípios da Serra de Sicó. Pitts, M. and Versluys, M.J. (eds) (2015) Globalisation and the Roman world: World history, connectivity and material culture. Cambridge/New York, Cambridge University Press. Rascón Marqués, S., Méndez Madariaga, A. and Sánchez Montes, A.L. (1993) El mosaico del Auriga de la villa romana de El Val (Alcalá de Henares, Madrid) y las carreras de carros en el entorno complutense. Espacio, Tiempo y Forma, Serie I: Prehistoria y arqueología 6, 303–342. Ritzer, G. (2003) Rethinking globalization: Globalizaton/grobalization and something/nothing. Sociological Theory 21, 193–209. Robertson, R. (1994) Globalisation or glocalisation? Journal of International Communication 1, 33–52. Robertson, R. (1995) Glocalization: Time-space and homogeneity-heterogeneity. In M. Featherstone, S. Lash and R. Robertson (eds) Global modernities, 24–44. London, Sage Publications. Rodríguez Oliva, P. and Beltrán Fortes, J. (2016) Faro de Torrox (Torrox). In R. Hidalgo Prieto (ed.) Las villas romanas de la Bética, vol. 2, 631–646. Granada, Editorial Universidad de Granada Roudometof, V. (2016a) Theorizing glocalization: Three interpretations. European Journal of Social Theory 19, 391–408. Roudometof, V. (2016b) Glocalization: A critical introduction. London/New York, Routledge. de Rueda i Roigé, F.-J. (2004) El mosaico del circo documentado en Itálica. Locus Amoenus 7, 7–25. Scott, S. (1997) The power of images in the late Roman house. In R. Lawrence and A. Wallace-Hadrill (eds) Domestic space in the Roman world: Pompeii and beyond, 53–68. Porthsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology (Journal of Roman Archaeology. Supplementary Series, 22). Torres Carro, M. (2005) Nuevos mosaicos romanos del Noroeste de la Península Ibérica. In Morlier (2005), vol. 2, 477–488. Valero Tévar, M.A. (2015) La villa romana de Noheda. La sala triclinar y sus mosaicos (dissertation). Toledo, Universidad de Castilla-La Mancha. Available at: http://ruidera.uclm.es/xmlui/ handle/10578/7161 (last accessed: 06/03/2020).

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Valero Tévar, M.A. (2017) La representación del circo en el mosaico de Noheda. In López Vilar (2017), 75–82. van Alten, D.C.D. (2017) Glocalization and religious communication in the Roman Empire: Two case studies to reconsider the local and the global in religious material culture. Religions 8, 8. Vivó Codina, D., Palahí Grimal, L. and Lamuà Estanyol, M. (2017). El mosaico del circo de Bell Lloc del Pla, Girona. Una interpretación global. In López Vilar (2017), 67–72. Vlassopoulos, K. (2013) Greeks and Barbarians. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Versluys, M.J. (2015) Roman visual material culture as globalising koine. In Pitts and Versluys (2015), 141–174. Waters, M. (1995) Globalization. London/New York, Routledge. Witcher, R.E. (2000) Globalisation and Roman imperialism: Perspectives on identities in Roman Italy. In E. Herring and K. Lomas (eds) The emergence of state identities in Italy in the first millennium BC, 213–225. London, Accordia Research Institute, University of London. Witcher, R.E. (2017) The globalized Roman world. In Hodos (2017a), 634–651.

Chapter 2 Clothing differentiation in a shared visual culture: Dress imagery in mosaic iconography

Amy Place This chapter examines two mosaic motifs found in North Africa and Sicily, which I call the ‘Venus-domina Adornment’ and the ‘Return of the Boar Hunt’, in order to highlight variations in sartorial imagery. My examination of particular visualisations of clothing posits a more nuanced appreciation of mosaic iconography as direct self-representational portraits of late antique elites. The production of these pavements, in both geographical areas, by African mosaicists allows us to interpret all of them as belonging to the same artistic environment. Any iconographic variation, therefore, may be interpreted as the consequence not of different artistic conventions, but of a desire to make mosaic imagery more suitable and personal to the respective patron. A close reading of the sartorial imagery in each example reveals that the mosaic visual language operated on two scales. By using elements of a shared visual koiné, the patron was identifying with a broad, globalised elite culture. Alongside this, a closer, more personally relevant identity was claimed through particular rendering of sartorial details.

Dress, mosaics and the late antique world Roman clothing communicated a variety of messages and associations to the viewers concerning the wearer’s individual and social identity. Identity, understood as the ‘systematic establishment and signification, between individuals, between collectives, and between individuals and collectives, of relationships of similarity and difference’, is ‘produced and reproduced both in discourse – narrative, rhetoric and representation – and in the practical, often very material, consequences of identification’ (Jenkins 2004, 5, 176). This matrix of overlapping Roman social identities included features such as gender, age, profession, rank and ethnicity (Harlow and Nosch 2014b, 13). Dressing the body in the Roman world was a symbolic and culturally significant act characterised

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by a complex rhetoric. Clothing forms were valuable social strategies and the temporary nature of dress, including the ability to divest one costume for another, made sartorial behaviours a malleable form of self-representation. Pertinent characteristics could be highlighted and negative traits suppressed. Of course, dress in Roman society never just signified the physical textile garment as worn. Dress evidence comes not just from archaeological remains, but also from textual sources and visual depictions. These latter categories represent also significant forms of dress discourse, informing and shaping dress practices. The apologist Tertullian in his De pallio, written at the beginning of the 3rd century, sarcastically notes that the Carthaginian community has time aplenty to criticise dress (Tert. pall. 1.1). Tertullian himself critiqued, negotiated and outlined ideas of appropriate dress, particularly with regard to female attire. He bemoaned the sartorial practices of contemporary North African women, warning of the dangers of artifice, ornament and desire for attention (Tert. cult. fem. 2.1.2). Tertullian was not alone in his moralising rhetoric: anxiety surrounding inappropriate female dress was a frequent literary topos employed by Christian authors (Harlow 2007, 541). At the same time, however, clothing did become increasingly ornate (Brown 2012, 28) and mosaics show a gradual transformation in clothing fashions, with tunics, the standard garment of the late Roman world, becoming more elaborately decorated and embellished. Although not limited to North Africa, tunics decorated with clavi, orbiculi, segmenta and other tabulae attest to a common social landscape that invested in such adornment, both in textile fashion and visual imagery. Mosaic representations of the clothed body offered a durable identity statement and these identity projections must have been deemed appropriate for the context and the patron’s needs. As part of architectural décor, mosaic designs laid claim to the appropriate performance of elite identity (Scott 1997, 64). Especially prominent in reception rooms (Ghedini and Bullo 2007), mosaics were important loci of self-advertisement in a context in which domestic architecture and art became increasingly popular means of defining and re-iterating social prestige (Scott 2004, 52). This was especially true in North Africa where the proliferation of mosaic floors attests to a particular association between patrons and this form of self-expression. An African domus represented and embodied aspects of society and ‘social realities’ (Carucci 2007, 1). As Brown notes, this was ‘art by the rich that was devoted with peculiar zest to the theme of being rich’ (2012, 194). The domestic decorative programme in these settings acted as a continuation of the patron’s performance of his social status and paideia. With motifs ranging from allegorical figures and personifications to genre scenes of elite life (Dunbabin 1978), mosaics spoke a common elite intellectual and visual language. Echoes of elite ideals were made tangible through mosaic pavements. Choices in mosaic design undoubtedly resonated with each proprietor. The increased popularity over the course of the late Roman period in North Africa of more ‘documentary-style’ mosaics, characterised by subjects taken from the real world, compared to the previous preference for mythological or allegorical scenes (Ling 2015, 275), shows changing attitudes to elite self-representation. Elaborate centralised compositions, as

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seen for instance in the famous 2nd-century ‘Neptune and the Seasons’ mosaic from Chebba (Plate 2.1), gave way to superimposed registers as used in the late 4th-century ‘Dominus Iulius’ mosaic from Carthage (Plate 2.2) (Levi 1941, 278; Foucher 1963, 83; Dunbabin 1978, 24–26). ‘Everyday’ genre scenes, featuring activities taken from elite otium, included episodes of hunting, estate life and bathing. The meticulously cultivated ‘portrait’ of the patrons and their life in these images paralleled the careful construction of the patron’s appearance through the wearing of lavish clothing and jewellery. Even the clothing worn by attendants and servants would be read as a reflection of the patron’s position and lifestyle. While clothing visualisations were never the primary aim of Roman art (Larsson Lovén 2014, 261), clothing played an integral role in conveying ideas to the viewer, just as the patrons used their dress in both real and visual form to present themselves in the most advantageous way possible. Motifs found in African mosaic floors were not passive images, but active components that were constitutive of the elite landscape. North African ateliers were often innovators of design and their artistic expertise was valued outside Africa. The movement of Carthaginian mosaic craftsmen to other Mediterranean regions like Sicily attests to their skill and reputation (Wilson 1983, 44–68). Their mosaic repertory had originated in North African commissions, but was assuredly relevant to the new Sicilian contexts. Not much is known for certain about the formal organisation of North African mosaic artisans working in Sicily, yet the presence of African craftsmen working in grand residences like Piazza Armerina was a social statement in itself by the patrons who hired them (Wilson 2018a, 203). The iconographic correlations between the examples discussed here have been noted elsewhere (for instance Dunbabin 1978, 54; 1999, 322; Wilson 1983, 52–53): yet, through a specific reference to clothing details, interpretations can be pushed further. After all, mosaic floors were too great a financial and social investment to be ineffectual or underused identity statements.

The ‘Venus-domina Adornment’ motif The first motif I will examine is the ‘Venus-domina Adornment’. Venus provided a suitable divinity by which women could underscore their socio-cultural role or aspirations (D’Ambra 1996, 223). Roman women would foster associations to Venus and her idealised feminine virtues, through iconographic depictions, initially adopting the guise of Venus and gradually using a combination of traditional iconographic elements, such as the loculus (jewellery box), mirror, adornment accessories and crowns, which served to construct a visual correspondence between the domina and her divine counterpart (Métraux 2008, 276). The inclusion of Venus representations on items of female adornment such as hair pins or objects associated with the female toilette implicitly aligned the user with this prototype of female behaviour (Swift 2009, 125–129, 150–153). Over the course of the 1st century AD, the previously restricted use of nude statuary such as the Capitoline or Cnidian types expanded, becoming suitable for the public visual depictions of private women (D’Ambra 2000, 102–103). Later,

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transforming cultural dynamics and attitudes towards self-presentation in the late Roman world saw two-dimensional representational forms, such as domestic mosaics, become increasingly popular as mechanisms of display in place of statue portraits for women (Schade 2016, 253–254). The passage from the traditional ‘Toilet of Venus’ to a wholly domestic, human depiction, creating the ‘Venus-domina Adornment’ motif, allowed women to use their own domestic contexts as an advertising space to communicate pertinent identity traits. Instead of portraying women in the guise of Venus, partially clad as had been the tradition in the earlier imperial period (Gigante 1999, 449–450), matronae now associated themselves with this deity using a visual vocabulary that also allowed them to showcase their own lived socio-cultural reality: exhibition not through nudity, but through the conspicuous presentation of the clothed body. Other mosaic pavements of this period, such as the mid-4th century ‘Toilet of Venus’ from Djemila, continue to depict the triumphant marine Venus naked with her associated accoutrements (Blanchard-Lemée 1975, 61–84; Hales 2008, 244): this suggests that the inclusion of realistic genre scenes was a particular choice of the artistic programme. The traditional Venus toilet motif was made more relatable for a late Roman audience through the employment of mortal, not divine, figures, thus intensifying the continued association between female behaviour and appropriate outward appearance. Preoccupation with the cultivation of beauty had long been characterised as a female pursuit (see e.g. Livy 34.7.8–9). As Tertullian notes, cultus and ornatus were long-standing enthusiasms of women (Tert. cult. fem. 2.1). With imagery showing females clothed, dress played a pivotal role in aligning, proclaiming and enacting elite female identity. Although aspects of the Venus iconography have been associated with male sexualisation (Wyke 1994, 135), for instance in the case of the 4th-century Projecta casket (Elsner 2003, 31), the iconography of the clothed matron characterised as Venus may also have served to highlight female subjectivity, the domina as a manufacturer of her own identity. This self-referential commentary of lived social practice highlights the matron’s growing desire to be depicted in imagery. While such scenes are representational and may not replicate reality detail for detail, their iconography is nonetheless a meaningful form of self-expression and a reflection of the patrons and their environment. As a visual microcosm of the late antique world of elite women, this imagery responded to elite competition for performing social prestige and inscribing identity into the very physical fabric of the Roman house. The only extant North African iteration of this mosaic imagery comes from the Baths of the Marine Thiasos at Sidi Ghrib, Tunisia, and is conventionally called the ‘Matron at her Toilette’ mosaic (Plate 2.3). The villa and bathing complex at Sidi Ghrib were laid out ca. AD 400 and remained in use until a fire destroyed the site just over 100 years later (Ennabli 1986, 55–56; Wilson 2018b, 284). The mosaics are contemporary with the construction of the building, which exhibits therefore a cohesive architectural and artistic programme. Iconographic themes employed in the décor include the marine Venus and Neptune’s thiasos (Dunbabin 1999, 322). The iconography of the

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‘Matron at her Toilette’ mosaic is an extension of this programme, with allusions to the marine Venus transposed into the realm of lived experience (Wilson 2018b, 284). Importantly, though, the imagery is made even more specific to the patron’s family, both in the very fact that the matron is depicted, and in her artistic rendering. Possibly serving as an apodyterium, this space was an integral part of the bathing process and including a representation of the matron here ensured guests would encounter the imagery. This mosaic floor, measuring 2.84 × 1.69 m, covers almost the entirety of the vestibule space (Ennabli 1986, 42–43). The depiction comprises three figures: the matron and her two attendants. Located centrally, the matron is shown seated in a high-backed chair flanked by her attendants; one of them holds a mirror while the other carries a silver basin. On the far side of each attendant are bathing accoutrements, which are appropriate both for the architectural setting and the deployment of this imagery in a domestic context. The column of images on the left depicts a pair of sandals, a copper-coloured storage container holding some sort of textile or garment, and a scalloped silver bowl. Complementing these objects on the opposite side are a silver ewer, a gold situla, and a silver casket with a chain. Shading around the items constructs a sense of their three-dimensional representation: to the viewer standing on the mosaic pavement, these objects would appear to be life-like. Through this perspective, the mosaic imagery is transposed from merely a representation of the familiar into a visualisation of actual activity. Clothing plays an important role in the narrative interpretation of the mosaic imagery. The matron is depicted in lavish clothing, as befitting her position. Her floorlength, multi-coloured tunic is suitably modest, covering her body, but revealing her shoulders in a reference to famous Venus statue types (Gigante 1999, 449). As such, her dress communicates her elevated social status and identity. Although her tunic is sleeveless, a sense of wealth and opulence is conveyed through the various folds in its draping and the inclusion of a double-row necklace, drop earrings, an armlet and various gold bangles. The matron’s dress contrasts with that of her attendants whose identities are anonymised through the use of identical clothing. The attendants’ belted dalmatic tunics are plainer and more utilitarian if compared with the matron’s costume, although a degree of social status is afforded by the depiction of earrings and a bracelet each. The attendant on the right also wears a necklace. Activities associated with bathing, such as the removal of clothing and the subsequent re-dressing of the body, allude to aspects of intentional self-representation. The viewer could not fail to miss the connection between the mosaic and the actual lived experience of the matron. The action of adjusting her hair and gazing at herself in the mirror professes the matron as an active participant in these activities. Within the same bath complex, the decoration of the main apse has been identified as including a representation of the marine Venus (Ennabli 1986, 33–34). Together with the latter image, the ‘Matron at her Toilette’ mosaic functions as an affirmation of the matron’s leisured lifestyle, a detail confirmed by her seated depiction. The all-female scene also serves to emphasise gender dynamics, locating the domina’s behaviour within suitable

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elite female practice. The presence, in a corresponding vestibule, of a panel depicting the dominus departing for the hunt further accentuates the focus on gender ideologies (Ennabli 1986, 44–45). Yet, this is not simply a generic iteration of the ‘Venus-domina Adornment’ motif, but a meticulous visualisation of the Sidi Ghrib matron that seeks to emphasise her elite behaviour and her desire to be characterised by traditional feminine virtues in a manner that reinforces her social position. Similar associations are fostered in the Sicilian version of this Venus-domina iconography in the trapezoidal vestibule mosaic at Piazza Armerina, referred to here as the ‘domina vestibule mosaic’ (Plate 2.4). The Villa del Casale near Piazza Armerina has long been posited as an iconic statement of elite identity in the later Roman world. Consensus now accepts that the villa and its bath complex were built ca. AD 320. The villa site is extensive, comprising over 1.5  ha, and includes over 3500 m2 of mosaic floors alone (Wilson 1983, 49). This residence was a physical statement of wealth and the vestibule mosaic emphasised this notion. Decorating the area that connected the peristyle to the bath-suite, this room possibly functioned as an apodyterium (Wilson 1983, 17). This entrance to the baths was a prime location to broadcast and cement elite affiliation and the mosaic iconography, depicting the procession to the baths, mimics an elite social practice. The use of figurative imagery provided a contrast to the geometric motifs displayed in the pavements of the alternative entrance from the courtyard (Wilson 1983, 20) which no doubt further emphasised the significance of the domina vestibule mosaic. Like that of Sidi Ghrib, the mosaic at Piazza Armerina employs a symmetrical composition. The matron is depicted in the centre, flanked by her two female attendants. All three women are dressed in dalmatic tunics, that belonging to the matron being slightly longer. While the wardrobe of the attendant on the right may be more vividly coloured than her mistress’s, the viewer cannot fail to ignore the matron’s lavish jewellery, most prominently her multi-rowed necklace. The dress of the domina is shown in rich hues, with ample decoration. Thick clavi run from shoulder to hem, and her wide, open sleeves have further patterning. A more limited tunic decoration is used in the depiction of the attendant on the left and the colour of her clothing mirrors that of her mistress’s. In this mosaic the matron is also accompanied by her two sons. A familial association between them is achieved through the detailing of their respective costumes and a sense of intimacy is conveyed through the close proximity and touching of the figures. Her sons wear long-sleeved, short tunics hanging loosely on their frames. Their clothing is individualised, with the colour of their respective tunics and cloaks inverted so as to sartorially reference each other. Orbiculi embellish both tunic hems and shoulders, and the decoration on the cuffs is the same in both costumes. A bathing interpretation of the scene is suggested through the depiction of two objects, a large casket carried by the attendant on the left and a brazier carried by that on the right. No doubt the architectural location, set between the peristyle and the baths, would also signal a self-referential iconography. The importance of this

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mosaic floor, and of the cultural ideals conveyed, should not be underestimated. As with the example from Sidi Ghrib, this pavement reinforces gender ideologies. At Piazza Armerina, in a domestic context that provides a veritable encyclopaedia of representational scenes with associated costumes, there is a striking paucity of depictions of the domina. With few mosaic designs offering the opportunity for the matron to lay claim to specific identity associations, it is likely that she capitalised on the occasions where she could, making the iconography particular to her, rather than just representing her social setting. As the wife of the proprietor, her identity was intrinsically linked with that of her husband, and the associations fostered by portraits of her husband and family would of course, by extension, include her. Yet, the vestibule mosaic reinforces her own social identities, gender and status. The gazes of all figures rest on the matron in the middle. Previous treatments of mosaic design and imagery at Piazza Armerina have sought to provide more clues as to the identification of the owner, with several candidates being posited (Wilson 2016, 3–4; see e.g. L’Orange and Dyggve 1952; Gentili 1999; Manganaro Perrone 2005). For the moment, such a definitive identification is not possible and thus the precise identity of the matron too remains a mystery. However, an impression of her personal identity and relevant interests is communicated through clothing. The message of the domina vestibule mosaic is clear: this is her domain and all figures are to be read with reference to her. This is conveyed to the viewer through the particular realisation of the mosaic iconography, most specifically the clothing details. By using her dress as a nexus of elite identity, with clothing being an appropriate arena to showcase female, aristocratic values, the matron conferred individuality and relevance onto her own iteration of a shared elite visual vocabulary. Her clothing in the mosaic fashioned her social status, mimicking lived reality. There are, of course, differences in the composition of these two mosaics. While the figures at Piazza Armerina suggest a certain degree of movement, imitating a procession to the baths, the seated matron at Sidi Ghrib anchors the narrative in a static context. Both scenes provide a suitable backdrop for bathing-related activities, although the Sicilian version appears to emphasise family and status, while the mosaic at Sidi Ghrib is more concerned with articulating the traditional virtue of beauty. Differences in the number of figures in each scene also evidence the adaption of the iconographic motif to the individual circumstances of each patron. At Sidi Ghrib, the three figures confirm relevant gender ideologies and the performance of appropriate feminine behaviours. The depiction of the two sons at Piazza Armerina conveys ideas of familial virtue, conferring wealth and status onto the patrons and their family. Formal variations do not, however, make an iconographic comparison worthless. The architectural setting of the baths primes the viewer with a context for interpreting the imagery, and additional items of adornment emphasise this notion. Through its association with bathing and dressing the body, the imagery signals to the viewer its sartorial context and highlights the significance of dress depictions. At Sidi Ghrib, the viewer’s attention is focused back onto the matron through the action of her

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gazing at herself in the mirror. A different, but no less effective, strategy is used at Piazza Armerina where all characters look towards the central figure of the domina, despite their apparent movement from left to right. This is not incidental imagery, but an active performance of elite identity. Care and consideration have been taken in the rendering of the imagery. With formal similarities in their imagery promoting associations between women, bathing and beauty, both mosaics are conspicuous statements about social status that use dress as a constituent part of their narratives to communicate various meanings to the viewer. An immediate point of iconographic difference are the costumes of the two dominae, whose distinction is constructed through sartorial details. At Sidi Ghrib, the matron wears a sleeveless tunic, while at Piazza Armerina she is garbed in a dalmatic tunic with wide, open sleeves. In the former example, the choice of garment explicitly differentiates the matron from her attendants, suggesting a distinction in social status. On the other hand, the domina at Piazza Armerina is clearly not to be understood as having the same status as her two attendants. Instead, social hierarchy is established here through various textile distinctions in the three iterations of the same tunic type. In contrast to the attendant on the right, the sleeves of the domina hang loose. The rendering of the iconography suggests that the matron wears her tunic belted at the bust: the decision not to portray her with her sleeves also retained by the same belt is therefore deliberate. The implication is that she needs not re-arrange her clothing to undertake manual work (Harlow 2004a, 207). The other attendant does not have belted sleeves, but since she carries a rather large casket, her servile nature is visually referred to in other ways. The popularity of dalmatic tunics for female use is attested by their prominence in dowries from Roman Egypt and Dura Europos in the 3rd century AD, suggesting a broad range of socio-economic contexts (Droß-Krüpe 2017, 296, 298). Diocletian’s price edict also attests that dalmatic tunics came in a variety of different qualities (Edict. imp. Diocl. 26). Indeed, there is no evidence to suggest that dalmatic tunics were inherently considered to be of a lower social status or quality than sleeveless or long-sleeved tunics. In fact, the tabula dotis of Geminia Ianuarilla, one of the 5th-century AD Albertini tablets found in Numidia (TA I), details a ‘pure African dalmatic’ as one of the dowry items (Courtois et al. 1952). That this garment constitutes the highest-valued item in the dowry, at 2000 folles out of a total of 11,500 folles, attests to its being lavish and expensive (Evans-Grubbs 2010, 88). The rendering of the dalmatic tunics at Piazza Armerina, then, may be interpreted as a visual claim of conspicuous consumption, by both the matron and her family. Although the domina is garbed like her attendants, her status is declared through her elaborate costume which contrasts with the clothing worn by the other two women. Here, the sartorial distinction is more nuanced than that evidenced in the Sidi Ghrib visualisation of the ‘Venus-domina Adornment’ motif, but no less impactful. As this iconographic comparison shows, clothing details were marshalled to provide individualised renderings of mosaic imagery, making each design personal to the matron depicted, emphasising elements of her character as desired.

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The ‘Return of the Boar Hunt’ motif The second motif that demonstrates the careful personalisation of mosaic iconography is what I call the ‘Return of the Boar Hunt’. The suitability of hunt imagery in late antique elite residences needs little qualification, other than to note that representation of this particular form of elite activity emphasised the patron’s immediate domain. Unlike circus and amphitheatre scenes which conveyed a sense of social euergetism to a broad audience, hunt scenes represent a rendering of more private elite pastimes (Dunbabin 1978, 47), a spectacle of power and prestige in their own right. Drawing on actual practice, such images conflate a series of moments and actions to represent a kaleidoscopic image of hunting activities. The ‘Return of the Boar Hunt’ iconography comprises two hunters carrying a trussed-up boar on a pole between them. Forming a small episode on larger mosaic hunting compositions, frequently featuring multiple types of hunters, this motif documents one aspect of the hunting process. As Ghedini and Bullo note, aristocratic hunting imagery and scenes showing servants hunting often co-exist in the same composition: both variants of hunting iconography serve to enhance and reinforce aristocratic identity (2007, 354). While the ‘Return of the Boar Hunt’ may not depict the patron himself, aspects of his personal interests and circumstances are made visible through the artistic rendering of such aristocratic recreation. No doubt, the wardrobe of lower-status hunters was directly read in relation to the status of their patron, reiterating his prestige. Although the ‘Return of the Boar Hunt’ is normally not the narrative fulcrum of the pavement, the effect of this imagery on its immediate audience may be addressed through a comparison of the North African and Sicilian depictions. An early iteration of the ‘Return of the Boar Hunt’ motif is seen in an apsidal mosaic, dated to the early 3rd century AD, from a residence on the so-called Hill of Juno in Carthage (Plate 2.5) (Poinssot 1940, 226–227). In this example, the figure on the left wears a short, long-sleeved green tunic, belted and decorated with orbiculi on the shoulders and segmenta on the lower hem. His legs are covered with fasciae crurales (leg wrappings) that create alternating light and dark chevrons. He is shown wearing a long red sagum. The costume of the figure to the right is more difficult to discern due to damage, but he too is shown in fasciae crurales and appears to wear a cape over his short tunic. This mosaic is generally interpreted as a very early example of hunting scene in the North African repertory (Dunbabin 1978, 48). Unfortunately, there is a large lacuna in the centre of the mosaic, and none of the figures in the lower register is preserved above the knee. Although this limits the dress comparison that can be undertaken, it does not preclude certain conclusions being drawn. For instance, the clothing of the returning hunters contrasts with the costume of the figures in the middle register, who do not wear cloaks. It is clear that the combination of tunic and cloak was an enduring fashion in North Africa: this mosaic from the Hill of Juno antedates by several decades another example found in the Dermech district of Carthage (Ben Osman-Bairem 1987). The Dermech hunt mosaic demonstrates the continued production of such clothing

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imagery in North Africa. Adorning the rectangular floor of a room with an apsidal end (Dunbabin 1978, 53–54), the hunting scene is the artistic focal point of the space. The rough size of the complete mosaic is 8.5 × 7 m, and the fragment depicting the ‘Return of the Boar Hunt’ motif is 1.62 × 1.51 m (Ben Osman-Bairem 1987, 215). Two coins of Maximian recovered from under the pavement provide a relatively precise dating, suggesting a terminus post quem to the very early years of the 4th century AD (Mahjoubi 1967, 276). The main field of the pavement features multiple scenes of hunting activities: the capture of lions, a hunter during his boar hunt, an elephant attacking a python, a lion attacking a horse, and two hunters carrying the carcass of a boar (Plate 2.6). Focusing specifically on the ‘Return of the Boar Hunt’ iconography, we may note that the two hunters wear the same wardrobe, although a sense of individuality is constructed through the depiction of their differently coloured ensembles. The figure on the left wears a short, red tunica manicata, a long-sleeved variant very popular in the later Roman world. His tunic is belted at the waist, and its brown-black decoration includes clavi that run from shoulder to hem, orbiculi on the shoulders and two decorative bands on the cuffs. Fastened around his neck is a light-coloured sagum. Fasciae crurales complete his hunting costume. His associate is shown similarly, except he wears a blue tunic and a red sagum. With similarly styled outfit but differently coloured clothing, the portraits of these boar hunters convey a sense of unity. Particular dress features may be interpreted as the result of specific artistic choices: for instance, the costuming of the figure on the left echoes that of the hunter spearing the boar shown in the lower register. The use of the same colour palette visually links these two episodes. Although the lower figure appears to have extra orbiculi on the hem of his tunic, such decorative elements may not be missing from the upper depiction, but merely concealed due to the hunter’s particular stance. In both North African examples, the hunters carrying the boar wear cloaks while other figures in the composition do not. This suggests a purposeful representation of such hunting characters. That the garments the hunters are wearing, namely the tunic and cloak combination, remain the same from one mosaic to the other is very significant. Even more telling of the meticulous construction of identity through clothing depictions is the fact that, in the Dermech panel, the boar hunters’ cloaks mark a contrast with the other type of outer garment shown in the mosaic: the chlamys. As an article of clothing derived from a military context, the chlamys became increasingly appropriate for wider usage in the course of the 3rd and 4th century (Harlow 2004b, 60) and is frequently employed in mosaic representations of elite men (Rinaldi 1964–1965). The viewer can easily distinguish between the different types of cloaks, as the chlamys requires a brooch. Such a fashion can be seen, for instance, on the figure riding his horse towards the ship depicted in the middle of the Dermech mosaic. His dress, a chlamys fastened by a fibula at the right shoulder and fluttering in the wind, distinguishes him from the boar hunters. This confirms that the realisation of the boar hunters with the inclusion of a mantle

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in their costume is a purposeful choice, intended to replicate sartorial reality in mosaic iconography. An iteration of the ‘Return of the Boar Hunt’ motif is found in the so-called ‘Small Hunt’ mosaic at Piazza Armerina (Plate 2.7). Located in a large room on the northern side of the peristyle, this mosaic covers an area of 7.3 × 5.9 m (Carandini et al. 1982, 175). The design is organised as a composition of five registers, with the main focus on two scenes: in the upper portion of the mosaic, a hunter sacrifices to Diana, while further down, in the centre of the pavement, five diners enjoy an open-air picnic. Subsidiary scenes around these two main episodes depict various different hunting activities, divided into either actual hunting scenes or the return of the successful hunters. In the scene of the two hunters returning with their dog and a boar carcass, both figures wear a belted tunica manicata; their tunics have different decorative elements, but in both cases the rendering of the decoration is dichromatic. The hunter on the left wears a yellow tunic with clavi running from shoulder to hem, orbiculi patches on the shoulder and two decorative bands at the wrists. The other hunter is dressed in a blue tunic decorated with shorter clavi that only extend as far as his waist, allowing room for orbiculi at the hem. He, too, has two bands of decoration at the cuffs. Both hunters wear fasciae crurales. The costuming of the boar hunt figures demonstrates a range of tunic decorative styles. Neither figure in the ‘Return of the Boar Hunt’ scene is meant to represent the actual hunter spearing the boar as shown in the episode at the bottom right of the mosaic pavement, nor the hunter dressed in the yellow tunic who appears to have been injured in the course of his hunt. Another iteration of the ‘Return of the Boar Hunt’ motif can be found, again at Piazza Armerina, in the ‘Great Hunt’ mosaic – except in this version the hunting dog is absent (Plate  2.8). Extending in a biapsidal ambulacrum over 60  m in length (Carandini et al. 1982, 197), the ‘Great Hunt’ mosaic portrays various scenes of hunting and capture of wild animals and was no doubt intended to celebrate the power and wealth of the proprietor. Here, the ‘Return of the Boar Hunt’ motif is, of course, just one episode in a plethora of vignettes. Yet, the costuming of the left figure in this iteration is particularly innovative, and his striped garments mark a vivid contrast to those of his fellow hunter and, indeed, of the other figures in the mosaic. Variations in the composition of the African and Sicilian imagery show how the ‘Return of the Boar Hunt’ motif was deployed in different geographical settings. Although Dunbabin has noted that in the North African hunt mosaics the various episodes are juxtaposed without reaching a degree of programmatic unity (1978, 55), the imagery in the Hill of Juno and Dermech mosaics does not show lack of care or consideration for the subject matter. Clothing details also attest to this. A critical comparison of these examples with those from the ‘Small Hunt’ and ‘Great Hunt’ mosaics at Piazza Armerina demonstrates the intentionality of these sartorial depictions. The boar hunters in the Sicilian mosaics are not dressed in cloaks, although their hunting colleague with the hounds in the upper right corner of the ‘Small Hunt’ mosaic, for example, does wear this extra garment. Such visual details suggest that, despite the

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appropriateness of this clothing for Sicilian hunting activities, a cloak was considered an unnecessary sartorial requirement in the case of the boar hunters. Although the North African craftsmen originated from an artistic context where the tunic and sagum ensemble was the most appropriate dress for this scene, they adapted their iconographic renderings to suit the Sicilian patron and his context. Differences in the costuming of the hunters carrying the boar carcass can be interpreted as part of the distinctive clothing imagery of each geographical context. Overall, the imagery from Piazza Armerina conveys a greater degree of fluidity, showing a greater variation of activities, and the sartorial details themselves are richer and more diverse in comparison to those from Carthage. A sense of this difference is reflected in the clothing decoration and the various iterations of the same tunic type. At Piazza Armerina, the tunics are more squarely shaped, being particularly wide across the torso. Their material abundance is also reflected in instances where a belted tunic is shown, presenting figures with a broad silhouette as their tunics billow around their waists. At Carthage, in contrast, tunic styles are more rectangular and serve to elongate the body. This is not to deny a sense of textile extravagance in these mosaics, but rather to note different local attitudes to visually presenting the body. A particular standardisation across time in the North African boar hunters’ costume, featuring the tunic and sagum together, attests to its continued relevance in the North African visual grammar. The use of this hunting ensemble thus served to re-iterate the patron’s relevance in his local environment. The continued socio-cultural significance of boar hunting as a pastime and pursuit undertaken by the elite is confirmed in an epigram by the 6th-century poet Luxorius (Lux. anth. 18.11–16), describing how his patron, Fridamal, commissioned a mosaic pavement which showed him in the heroic act of slaying a boar (Wasyl 2019, 657).

Conclusion: Dress in a shared visual koiné Mosaic iconography was a significant means of elite self-representation, never undertaken without thought and always with the viewer in mind. In a similar way, the importance of dressing behaviours as a vehicle for communicating social identities highlights the careful cultivation of elite dress both in art and in actual practice. Bearing such considerations in mind, we may acknowledge that variations in the realisation of particular iconographic repertories, specifically the costuming of mosaic figures, must be the result of meaningful choices by both patron and craftsman – a reflection of artistic personalisation for a particular audience. Sicilian mosaic floors cannot be dismissed as inaccurate attempts at copying North African exemplars, since they were laid by the same African ateliers. Therefore, the examples discussed above attest to the activity of skilled mosaicists responding to the expectations of each patron. Mosaics were powerful and transformative cultural artefacts. Individualisation of the commissioned mosaic iconography maximised the viewer’s response to the identity articulated by the patron as displayed in mosaic design. Since the use of mosaics was a shared elite behaviour,

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the individualisation of iconography not only re-iterated participation in elite cultural activities, but was also a means of re-affirming the patron’s status in relation to his personal setting. The clothing of attendants and servants in these mosaic floors is a direct statement of the patron’s interests and personal circumstances. A critical investigation of sartorial detailing in mosaic imagery highlights that viewers, too, likely responded to clothing visualisations. The intentional individualisation or repetitive costuming of figurative depictions in genre imagery highlighted personal ideals relevant to the patron. The viewer was always an actor in the patron’s conjured social network, and the patron had to maintain his self-image through his interaction with the viewer, both iconographic and experienced. The patrons are a fixed presence in mosaic iconography, as aspects of their personal interests are inscribed and encoded in architectural decoration. The viewers’ presence is less definite, but, as this comparison of motif visualisations has shown, equally felt. The patrons’ tailoring of their iconographies implies a viewership who implicitly understood the nuances in sartorial depiction: the clothed viewers make judgements about their own identity and that of the patrons through the interpretation of dress. Whether the intended audience was limited to local viewers or comprised also visitors from afar is difficult to substantiate, but the importance of mosaics in enacting elite identity would make them an underutilised resource if their imagery was incomprehensible to the second category of viewers. These findings have significant implications for understanding visual and material culture in the late antique world. Firstly, they re-iterate the notion that elites used a familiar, communal visual vocabulary to express themselves. However, encoded in the artistic realisations of this shared visual koiné were details that resonated with the patron’s immediate environment. Although the iconography employed in these mosaics was not intended as actual images of the patrons, but rather as appropriate representations of them, their imagery was constitutive of distinctions that resonated with the viewer. To this end, it is possible to identify sartorial fashions that were deemed appropriate for each context since they emphasised identity traits. Mosaic iconography was an important facet of self-expression for patrons. The imagery employed in floor decoration was part of a cohesive programme of self-advertisement. Just as, in lived experience, clothing played an integral role in the appropriation and ascription of identity affiliations, in the same way clothing as depicted in mosaics was no less of a significant mechanism for declaring social status. By fashioning iconographies that showcased significant dressing styles, patrons announced and enhanced their prestige in their immediate socio-cultural context.

Bibliography

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Blanchard-Lemée, M. (1975) Maisons à mosaïques du quartier central de Djemila (Cuicul). Aix-enProvence, Éditions Ophrys. Brown, P. (2012) Through the eye of a needle: Wealth, the fall of Rome, and the making of Christianity in the West, 350–550 AD. Princeton, NJ/Oxford, Princeton University Press. Carandini, A., Ricci, A. and De Vos, M. (1982). Filosofiana: The villa of Piazza Armerina. The image of a Roman aristocrat at the time of Constantine. Palermo, Flaccovio. Carucci, M. (2007) The Romano-African domus: Studies in space, decoration, and function. Oxford, Archaeopress (British Archaeological Reports. International Series, 1731). Courtois, C., Leschi, L., Perrat, C. and Saumagne, S. (1952) Tablettes Albertini: Actes privés de l’époque vandale (fin du Ve siècle). Paris, Arts et métiers graphiques. D’Ambra, E. (1996) The calculus of Venus: Nude portraits of Roman matrons. In N.B. Kampen (ed.) Sexuality in ancient art: Near East, Egypt, Greece, and Italy, 219–232. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. D’Ambra, E. (2000) Nudity and adornment in female portrait sculpture of the second century AD. In D.E.E. Kleiner and S.B. Matheson (eds), I Claudia II: Women in Roman art and society, 101–114. Austin, University of Texas Press. Droß-Krüpe, K. (2017) Χιτών – δαλματική – μαφόρτης – σύνθεσις: Common and uncommon garment terms in dowry arrangements from Roman Egypt. In S. Gaspa, C. Michel and M.-L. Nosch (eds) Textile terminologies from the Orient to the Mediterranean and Europe, 1000 BC to 1000 AD, 295–300. Lincoln, NE, Zea Books. Dunbabin, K.M.D. (1978) The mosaics of Roman North Africa: Studies in iconography and patronage. Oxford, Clarendon Press. Dunbabin, K.M.D. (1999) Mosaics of the Greek and Roman world. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Elsner, J. (2003) Visualising women in late antique Rome: The Projecta casket. In C. Entwistle (ed.) Through a glass brightly: Studies in Byzantine and medieval art and archaeology presented to David Buckton, 22–36. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Ennabli, A. (1986) Les thermes du thiase marin de Sidi Ghrib (Tunisie). Monuments et mémoires de la Fondation Eugène Piot 68, 1–59. Evans-Grubbs, J. (2010) Marriage contracts in the Roman Empire. In L. Larsson Lovén and A. Strömberg (eds), Ancient marriage in myth and reality. Newcastle, Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 78–101. Foucher, L. (1963) La maison de la procession dionysiaque à El Jem. Paris, Presses universitaires de France (Publications de l’Université de Tunis, Faculté des lettres. Archéologie-histoire, 11). Gentili, G.V. (1999) La villa romana di Piazza Armerina. Palazzo Erculio. Osimo, Fondazione Don Carlo. Ghedini, M. and Bullo, S. (2007) Late antique domus of Africa Proconsularis: Structural and decorative aspects. In L. Lavan, L. Özgenel and A. Sarantis (eds) Housing in Late Antiquity: From palaces to shops, 337–366. Leiden/Boston, Brill (Late Antique Archaeology, 3.2). Gigante, L.M. (1999) Roman commemorative portraits: Women with the attributes of Venus. In W. Reinik and J. Stumpel (eds) Memory & Oblivion: Proceedings of the XXIXth International Congress of the History of Art held in Amsterdam, 1–7 September 1996, 447–453. Dordrecht, Kluwer Academic Publishers. Hales, S. (2008) Aphrodite and Dionysus: Greek role models for Roman homes? In S. Bell and I.L. Hansen (eds) Role models in the Roman world: Identity and assimilation, 235–255. Ann Arbor, The University of Michigan Press (Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome. Supplementary Volume, 7). Harlow, M. (2004a) Female dress, third–sixth century: The messages in the media. Antiquité Tardive 12, 203–215. Harlow, M. (2004b) Clothes maketh the man: Power dressing and elite masculinity in the later Roman world. In L. Brubaker and J.M.H. Smith (eds) Gender in the early Medieval world: East and west, 300–900, 44–69. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press.

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Harlow, M. (2007) The impossible art of dressing to please: Jerome and the rhetoric of dress. In L. Lavan, E. Swift and T. Putzeys (eds), Objects in context, objects in use: Material spatiality in Late Antiquity, 531–547. Leiden/Boston, Brill (Late Antique Archaeology, 5). Harlow, M. and Nosch, M.-L. (eds) (2014a) Greek and Roman textiles and dress: An interdisciplinary anthology. Oxford, Oxbow Books (Ancient Textiles Series, 19). Harlow, M. and Nosch, M.-L. (2014b) Weaving the threads: Methodologies in textile and dress research for the Greek and Roman world – the state of the art and the case for cross-­ disciplinarity. In Harlow and Nosch (2014a), 1–33. Jenkins, R. (2004) Social identity. 2nd edition. London, Routledge. Larsson Lovén, L. (2014) Roman art: What can it tell us about dress and textiles. In Harlow and Nosch (2014a), 260–278. Levi, D. (1941) The allegories of the months in classical art. The Art Bulletin 23, 251–291. Ling, R. (2015) Mosaics. In B.E. Borg (ed.) A companion to Roman art, 268–285. Chichester, Wiley-Blackwell. L’Orange, H.P. and Dyggve, E. (1952) È un palazzo di Massimiano Erculeo che gli scavi di Piazza Armerina portano alla luce? Symbolae Osloenses 29, 114–128. Mahjoubi, A. (1967) Découverte d’une nouvelle mosaïque de chasse à Carthage. Comptes rendus des séances de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 111, 264–278. Manganaro Perrone, G. (2005) Note storiche ed epigrafiche per la villa (praetorium) del Casale di Piazza Armerina. Sicilia Antiqua 2, 173–191. Marzano, A. and Métraux, G.P.R. (eds) (2018) The Roman villa in the Mediterranean basin: Late Republic to Late Antiquity. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Métraux, G.P.R. (2008) Prudery and chic in late antique clothing. In J.C. Edmondson and A.M. Keith (eds) Roman dress and the fabrics of Roman culture, 271–293. Toronto, University of Toronto Press (Phoenix. Supplementary Volume, 46). Poinssot, L. (1940) Plusieurs inscriptions de Thuburbo Majus. Revue Tunisienne 41, 195–230. Rinaldi, M.L. (1964–1965) Il costume romano e i mosaici di Piazza Armerina. Rivista dell’Istituto Nazionale di Archeologia e Storia dell’Arte 13–14, 200–267. Schade, K. (2016) Women. In R.R.R. Smith and B. Ward-Perkins (eds) The last statues of antiquity, 249–258. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Scott, S. (1997) The power of images in the late Roman house. In R. Laurence and A. Wallace-Hadrill (eds) Domestic space in the Roman world: Pompeii and beyond, 53–68. Portsmouth, RI, Journal of Roman Archaeology (Journal of Roman Archaeology. Supplementary Series, 22). Scott, S. (2004) Elites, exhibitionism and the society of the late Roman villa. In N. Christie (ed.) Landscapes of change. Rural evolutions in Late Antiquity and the early Middle Ages, 39–65. Farnham, Ashgate. Swift, E. (2009) Style and function in Roman decoration: Living with objects and interiors. Farnham, Ashgate. Wasyl, A.M. (2019) Inter Romulidas et Tyrias manus: Luxorius and epigram in Vandal Africa. In C. Henriksén (ed.) A companion to ancient epigram, 649–664. Hoboken, Wiley. Wilson, R.J.A. (1983) Piazza Armerina. London, Granada. Wilson, R.J.A. (2016) Caddeddi on the Tellaro: A late Roman villa in Sicily and its mosaics. Leuven, Peeters. Wilson, R.J.A. (2018a) Roman villas in Sicily. In Marzano and Métraux (2018), 195–219. Wilson, R.J.A. (2018b) Roman villas in North Africa. In Marzano and Métraux (2018), 266–307. Wyke, M. (1994) Woman in the mirror: The rhetoric of adornment in the Roman world. In L. Archer, S. Fischler and M. Wyke (eds) Women in ancient societies: An illusion of the night, 134–151. Basingstoke, Macmillan Press.

Chapter 3 Act locally, think globally: Late antique funerary painting from the territory of present-day Serbia

Jelena Anđelković Grašar, Dragana Rogić and Emilija Nikolić Introduction During Late Antiquity the territory of present day Serbia was part of the Roman Empire and was included in the prefecture of Illyricum.1 This area is well-known not only as the homeland of several Roman Emperors (Mirković 1994, 89–105; Jovanović 2006; Korać et al. 2014), but as a border territory on the Danube limes (Korać et al. 2014) situated on the crossroads of important ancient communication routes that enabled the encounters of various cultures, cults and religious beliefs coming from east and west (Fig. 3.1). The end of the 2nd and the beginning of the 3rd century was the period of greatest economic and cultural prosperity on the territory of the province Moesia Superior and its capital city Viminacium. From that time onwards intensive trade activities, as well as craft production testify to a population growth which can be associated with migration from the eastern provinces during the reign of Septimius Severus. This is also reflected in the funerary practices, with the immigrant population being buried in the already existing necropoleis (Spasić-Đurić 2015, 47–55). The increasing craft manufacturing and the cultural shift also affected the artistic production. Tombs and graves with wall paintings have been discovered in several Roman necropoleis at Viminacium, belonging to the period between the 3rd and 4th century. These sepulchral paintings represent an exceptional body of evidence regarding the artistic tendencies and achievements in the Roman provinces, since monumental painted art is usually not preserved due to the destruction of its architectural supports.2 However, discovered fragments testify that painted decoration also existed in both private residences and public buildings at Viminacium, such as the baths or the amphitheatre, during the periods preceding Late Antiquity, when there was also an active artistic production in wall painting (see, for example, Rogić et al. 2007; 2017;

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Fig. 3.1: Map of the Roman emperors’ birth places on the territory of present-day Serbia (Documentation of the Institute of Archaeology, Belgrade).

Rogić 2014; 2018a). This paper will analyse some of the most popular and widely represented motifs in order to trace various influences on their iconography and style as well as certain compositional solutions. Funerary painting is strongly related to the architectural space of the tomb chamber. The architectural typology of the masonry tombs from the Balkans, to which the graves decorated with wall paintings belong, has been classified as the ‘PannonianMoesian’ type, due to its large prevalence in these two provinces of the Empire. These structures do not represent a separate entity within late antique architecture, since they were subject to influences of diverse origin. Nonetheless, they are characterised by some specific features, based on which the tradition of late antique and early Byzantine architecture in the Balkans developed (Đurić 1985b, 139–147). Among the masonry funerary structures with wall paintings, two general types can be recognised: graves with a trapezoidal or rectangular cross-section covered with tiles, stone slabs or barrel vaults; and tombs covered with a cross vault, a barrel vault or a sloping roof with additional rooms and open spaces (Milošević 2006; Anđelković Grašar et al. 2013, 75–80; Nikolić et al. 2018, 201–206). Graves and tombs were sacred spaces in Roman culture, and masonry funerary structures with wall paintings were no exception. Their architectural structure and

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painted decoration testify to the social status, often also the origin and religious thoughts of the deceased. This space was important for the deceased due to its meaning as eternal dwelling in the world of death, as well as for their living loved ones during the subsequent ritual practices (Valtrović 1884, 123; Vasić 1907, 93–94; Zotović 2000, 15–16; Spasić-Đurić 2002, 186; Milošević-Jevtić 2014).

Late antique funerary painting on the territory of present-day Serbia Although funerary paintings are known from several archaeological sites on the territory of present-day Serbia, such as Niš (Roman Naissus), Beška, Brestovik and Čalma (near Roman Sirmium), the largest number of painted graves was discovered at Viminacium.3 Research conducted so far showed that some iconographical patterns, well-known symbolism and compositional solutions were common and mostly associated with religion and cult. Although stylistic solutions varied depending on the skill of the individual officina, in general the painters deployed, more or less successfully, the usual stylistic language of Roman provincial art. Within the symbolic world of late antique funerary art, motifs alluding to the immortality and victory over the death of the deceased were commonly used in pagan tombs, whereas Christian motifs and figures were preferred in Christian tombs. One of the most prominent scenes equally popular in pagan and Christian funerary art was that of a banquet, frequently attested in the Central Balkans and the eastern provinces (Dunbabin 2003b). On the territory of present-day Serbia this scene was reduced to the portraits of the deceased individuals and their servants in a funerary procession painted in a pagan context (Anđelković Grašar et al. 2013, 83–84). Although the funerary paintings belong to a period characterised by rather blurred religious boundaries, it can generally be said that some graves and tombs from Viminacium (G-160, G-2624, G-3130, G-5313, G-4734, G-5464, G-5), Beška, Brestovik and Čalma belong to the pagan painting tradition, while graves and tombs associated with the Early Christian tradition can be found in Viminacium (G-5517) and Naissus (‘Tomb with an anchor’ and ‘Tomb of St Peter and Paul’) (Valtrović 1906; Mirković 1954–1955; Stričević 1956–1957; Milošević 1971; Milošević 1973; Đurić 1985a; Marijanski-Manojlović 1987, 17–32; Đorđević 2007; Korać 2007; Rakocija 2009; Anđelković Grašar et al. 2013; Rogić 2018c) (Figs 3.2–3.3 and Plates 3.1–3.9). This art, although rather diverse in its style and artistic achievement, is characterised by a common iconographical repertoire known throughout the Roman Empire.

Painted architectural elements An important part of the iconography of ancient funerary painting was the use of architectural elements to create the tomb or grave space (Rogić and Nikolić 2016; Nikolić et al. 2018). Sometimes these elements are reduced to the use of multi-coloured lines in

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order to create borders or the illusion of frames for figurative scenes, but sometimes there are also recognisable elements reproducing real architecture. For borders and frames the most frequently used colour was red, while for the achievement of an illusionistic impression red lines were accompanied with yellow, green and black, usually used for contours and accents. This type of organisation of the different scenes can be seen in seven graves in Viminacium (G-160, G-2624, G-3130, G-5313, G-4734, G-3869, G-5; Plates 3.1, 3.2, 3.4) in the tomb from Beška (Plate 3.5) and in the grave named ‘Tomb I’ with linear decoration from Čalma (Plate 3.6). Thick red lines used as borders in the upper and lower zones of the walls in the graves G-5517 and G-5464 in Viminacium can be understood as allusions to a continuous frieze, whereas in both tombs from Niš red borders are used to divide the space into a lower zone beneath the vault and an upper zone starting at the beginning of the vault (Fig. 3.2; Plates 3.3, 3.8, 3.9). In most cases, architectural paintings imitate revetments made of marble slabs, pebble stones or opus sectile. These occupy the lower part of the decoration in graves and tombs from Viminacium (G-3110), Beška and Brestovik, as well as in the ‘Tomb with an anchor’ from Niš (Plates 3.2, 3.5, 3.7, 3.9).4 Marble was frequently used for the decoration of various buildings throughout the Mediterranean world, and its imitation in painted decoration is considered a cheaper version of real marble. Marble imitation was painted in many Roman public or private, often luxurious buildings of profane, sacred or sepulchral character, with the aim of replacing the real material. These imitations alluded to the use of real marble revetments and were thus associated with wealth (Vranešević and Špehar 2016, 48–51). In many luxurious buildings, the walls – most often in the area of the socle – were covered either with rectangular stone slabs or in the opus sectile technique made up of stones cut into various shapes (Nikolić et al. 2018, 215–219). In the imitation of slab compositions or stone textures, the same kinds of decoration were created with lines and colours in wall paintings. Both imitations in sepulchral art allude to the terrestrial realm and the earthly life of the deceased. They are associated with the imitation of marble walls in Roman villas, i.e. the earthly dwellings of the individuals buried in tombs. In both contexts, this type of decoration should reinforce the idea of the deceased’s wealth (Anđelković Grašar 2015a, 269, 272, 274; Špehar 2017, 20–21). Painted balustrades and fences alluding to prototypes in marble or bronze, often with herms, can be seen in graves and tombs from Niš, Viminacium, Čalma and Sirmium. In the ‘Tomb of St Peter and Paul’ from Niš, under the red border in the lower zone, a fence is painted on three walls, its rails forming irregular rhombi of various size and orientation and its columns decorated with herms. Right below this fence, another one is painted, consisting of crossed bars decorated at the crossing points with oak leaves forming a cross (Rogić and Anđelković 2012, 91). On top of both fences, undefined herbs are depicted (Fig. 3.2). The same motif is painted a third time in the lowest zone of the tomb where the actual burial space was. A simple railing from Viminacium grave G-3869 is painted with dark colour probably alluding to a

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Fig. 3.2: Wall painting of the ‘Tomb of St. Peter and Paul’ from Niš (after Rakocija 2014, 52 fig. 3, 55 fig. 7, 56 fig. 8, 57 fig. 9–10, 63 fig. 16).

bronze railing, whereas the motif in the tomb with linear decoration from Čalma is defined as a balustrade due to the depiction of herms. In previous literature a bust of a youth on the southern wall, together with the one on the northern wall noticed later (which has not been included in Plate 3.6 illustrating this wall-painting), were explained as the representations of the deceased individuals, and the female figure in the long dress was treated as a servant, the gift-bearer (see, for example, Milošević

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1973, 85–87, pl. I with a colour-drawing of the compositions on all walls; Đurić 1985b, 133, 169–170). Ivana Popović offered another iconographical interpretation with which the authors of this paper agree: ‘On the south wall can be seen the bust of a youth, the herma, placed on a vertical column, ending with a horizontal line, under which there is a row of vertical lines, so it gives the impression that the bust is placed on a column of the railing. On both sides of the head of the herma the green garlands are hanging. The same composition, although not so well preserved and hardly noticeable, exists also on the north wall. We tend to recognise in the scenes represented on the south and north wall of the tomb the representation of the railing, composed of more segments, parapet panels, or cancelli, between which the herms are standing’ (Popović 2011, 242). A fence with a scale decoration is also painted in a small tomb in Sirmium (Rogić 2018b, 910). Cancelli with herms during the 2nd and 3rd century were used for enclosing parts of public profane spaces, peristyles in villas and nymphaea, while during the 4th and the first half of the 5th century such railings were intended for enclosing the imperial boxes to separate the emperor, his family and imperial high dignitaries from the present crowd during certain ceremonies. On the other hand this motif can allude to the domestic garden represented as a place full of trees and plants with fruits, in which there are fountains and where peacocks are walking, while birds are descending onto the railing (Popović 2012, 70–72). These iconographic solutions show the parks as pleasant places (loci amoeni), as in the representation of Livia’s garden from her villa in Prima Porta in Rome from the 1st century or the representation of a garden on the walls of the vaulted room in Via Genova in Rome, painted at the end of the 2nd or in the beginning of the 3rd century (Baldassarre et al. 2002, 151 with bibliography, figs on 152–153, 294–296). Fences or transennae in funerary painting visualised the border between heaven and earth and were considered the fence of paradise (Mirković 1954–1955, 62–65). These railings symbolise the entrance to the paradise gardens, into which mortals will step in their afterlife. Besides, a railing of this type with herms of Luna and Sol was discovered in Mediana, in what has been identified as a palace of Constantine the Great, built in the vicinity of his birthplace where the railing was brought during the stay of Julian the Apostate in Naissus in 361 and, probably, placed at the entrance into the small shrine, built in the place of the apse of the large triclinium of the villa (Vasić 2003–2004). There, the railing was also used as a border between the sacred zone of the sanctuary and the profane space for the faithful. This symbolical connotation of the railing as a border between two worlds, terrestrial and celestial, sometimes was sublimated in motifs which did not exactly look like fences. In the tomb from Brestovik painted beams had this function, whereas in the tombs from Beška and Viminacium it was a meander (Nikolić et al. 2017b) (Plates 3.5 and 3.7, Fig. 3.3). To date there are no painted examples of beams in ancient tombs in the territory of Serbia, except in Brestovik.5 Two painted depictions of a three-dimensional meander in an oblique projection found in graves at Beška and Viminacium may

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Fig. 3.3: Wall painting of the grave with meander from Viminacium (after Korać 2007, 75).

be connected to the representation of beams. The beams from Brestovik are shown in the place where they would have been in real architectural structures to carry the ceiling. Considering the overall painted programme, the beams in Brestovik and the meanders from Beška and Viminacium can be understood as borders between two worlds associated with the deceased’s terrestrial and celestial realms. Railings are usually associated with paradise gardens. That is why various herbs and vegetal motifs, especially grapes, often accompanied by birds, sometimes represented realistically and sometimes schematically, are depicted behind the fences. Although railings possess deep symbolical connotation within the complex religious narrative within the tomb, it should be mentioned that fences in this context, just like the marble imitation, can allude to domestic decoration and thus to the earthly life of a deceased. A specific combination of the two motifs – railings and vegetal and floral motifs – can be seen in grave G-5313 in Viminacium, where they can be interpreted as symbols of the paradise garden. The southern and most probably the northern wall were decorated with a system of diagonal bars which form rhombi enclosing a red flower. This pattern is associated with the form of the fence, while

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branches and flowers within the rhombi allude to the paradise garden. All together such a decoration can represent a hortus conclusus. Although the grid made of crossbars is depicted both in a tomb from Constanța and on the vault of the crypt of Santa Eulalia de Bóveda, this type of decoration is not as common for vaults in a funerary context as the combination of floral ornaments and stucco imitation which shall be discussed below (Barbet and Monnier 2001; Blanco-Rotea et al. 2009). Fences of paradise are also known from funerary paintings from Pécs, Osenovo and in the tombs no.  61, 89, 90 and 92 from Thessaloniki (Fülep et al. 1988, fig.  12, 13; Pillinger et al. 1999, 13–16; Makrí 2006, 140, 160–161, 186). Stucco decoration was also frequently imitated in painting and was applied in buildings for various purposes as well as in tombs. An example is the imitation of a coffered ceiling which can be seen on the vault of the tomb in Brestovik (Plate 3.7). It is decorated with bands of red astragals which are crossed at right angles.6 The ­corners of the square panels formed by the astragal bands are decorated with concentric circles, while a red four-petal flower is depicted in the middle of each square field. The decoration of the ceilings was a mixture of both the depictions of richly decorated terrestrial ceilings and stylised celestial paradise gardens. The decoration of tomb vaults with floral ornaments is known both in the east and the west. This composition alludes to the heavenly vault (Mijatev 1925, 109). Flower gardens in ancient painting can be inspired by oriental court gardens known from Egypt, Assyria and Babylon. Another source of inspiration could have been the Greek funerary gardens which were located in the vicinity of the cities’ gates. By the end of the Hellenistic period, plots were transformed into the funerary gardens known as kepotaphia (Carroll 2003, 74–76). These were enclosed places with abundant plants and trees and wells for their irrigation. In the vaults of many cubicula in Roman catacombs artists used various combinations of motifs. The space was divided into squares or hexagons with a rosette inside, while garlands, wreaths, birds or stars often fill the spaces. For Christians this combination of already known ancient motifs together with Christian images and Biblical scenes within the catacomb space created an atmosphere that expressed hope for salvation (Bakhuizen van den Brink 1933, 96–108; Wirth 1968, 165–183). Even when the vocabulary of the paintings was pagan, its origin was associated with motifs that usually were part of paradise depictions, which again can express Christian thoughts (Goodenough 1962, 115–117; Nikolić et al. 2018, 238).

Vegetal motifs Vegetal motifs are present in the paintings of the tombs from Beška, Čalma, Brestovik, Viminacium and Naissus, whether they belong to the pagan or Christian tradition. They are most often stylised and among them branches of laurel, myrtle, olive, palm, ivy, grapevine and acanthus can be recognised. Also trees, leaves and flowers are painted as individual motifs. In funerary art vegetal motifs not only have a decorative function, but are important symbols which correlate to other motifs usually alluding

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to the afterlife and the deceased’s victory over death. As already said, they are often combined with fences alluding to the paradise gardens. Apart from floral arrangements and individual vegetal motifs, wreaths and garlands were also very popular in Greek and Roman sepulchral art. Garlands or festoons signify holiness, honour and life after death and are usually depicted above the deceased’s portraits (Korać 2007, 77). Specifically garlands symbolise victory over death and the heroic character of the deceased, hence they are common not only in painting, but also as decoration on sarcophagi, urns or stelae.7 Their tradition in painting dates back to the Hellenistic period and, as a favourite motif, they are also found in most of the tombs of the Illyrian provinces (Hanfmann 1965, 228–229). The depicted garlands consist of strings of leaves, floral petals, flowers, branches or fruits and are often decorated with ribbons and bands. Garlands are painted in the tomb of Brestovik and the grave of Beška, as well as in graves G-2624 and G-160 from Viminacium (Plates 3.1, 3.4, 3.5, 3.7). Branches of laurel or myrtle can be seen in Brestovik, branches of undefined plants are painted in graves G-5313 and G-160 from Viminacium where they are placed in the hands of cupids, while palm branches are depicted next to the figures of saints in the ‘Tomb of St Peter and Paul’ from Niš (Plates  3.4, 3.7, Fig.  3.2). Waving with bouquets of branches was connected to victory, signifying the glory of the victors in games or the imperial entrance into a city after a successful military campaign. The same symbolism can be found in Christian art where it is associated with Christ’s entrance into Jerusalem and therefore with immortality, victory over the sins and salvation (Gerbran and Ševalije 2004, 248). Both laurel and myrtle are associated with immortality and are important in both pagan and Christian traditions (Rogić et al. 2012, 343–347). Palm branches next to the saints in the ‘Tomb of St Peter and Paul’ in Niš may allude to their martyrdom, as can be seen in the processions of male and female martyrs in Sant’Apollinare Nuovo (Ravenna), presenting Christ with wreaths made of silver leaves and decorated with precious stones (Mirković 1966, 262–264). Floral motifs painted in the tombs on the territory of Serbia can be interpreted as roses, flowers with three or four petals, as well as some flowers that find no prototypes in nature. Flowers with three petals from grave G-4734 in Viminacium can be interpreted as tulips due to the shape of the flowers’ calyx and leafs. Tulips signify honour and glory (Rogić and Anđelković 2012, 94, 100). Flowers with four petals are depicted in the tomb in Brestovik and graves G-2624, G-5313 and G-160 in Viminacium, and cross-shaped flowers with petals in the shape of hearts are depicted in the grave from the Viminacium site ‘Nad klepečkom’ (Rogić and Marković 2010) (Plates 3.1, 3.4). They resemble flowers from nature and can be compared to Oenothera biennis or Potentilla erecta. For these flowers it cannot be said with certainty if they are mere artistic creations, if they are supposed to imitate real, natural flowers or if they allude to the form of a star, swastika or cross.8 The red flowers on the western wall of the ‘Tomb with an anchor’ from Niš can be associated with roses or anemones, which symbolise rebirth in Greek mythology (Plate 3.9).9 For the Romans, the rose was the flower of

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Venus, the symbol of triumphal love and victory, while in Christianity it represents Christ’s wounds, martyrdom and rebirth.10 The association of roses with the dead is more Roman than Greek, as shown by depictions of roses on tomb stelae, along with epigraphical references to roses, while rose petals were strewn on the tombs during the feast of the Rosalia celebrated each year (Brenk 1999, 87). Roses as offerings to the dead are one of the gifts most frequently mentioned, along with food and drink, in funerary inscriptions. Often the deceased’s fellow members of a burial club or collegium were responsible for providing these gifts. Roses were regarded as pledges of eternal spring in the life beyond the grave, which may be why painted showers of roses and rose-gardens were so popular on the walls and vaults of tombs (Toynbee 1982, 63). White flowers, probably lilies, are depicted in the hand of the deceased woman from the tomb in Beška. This flower was associated with the goddesses Persephone and Venus, i.e. underworld and love, which in the context of this tomb may be understood as the grief of a wife over the premature death of her husband (Đurić 1985a). The grapevine is rich in symbolism; it is one of the most popular decorations in pagan and Christian art. In Graeco-Roman art it is connected with the cult of Dionysus/ Bacchus, while according to the Bible the vineyard is God’s protected space, and Christ is the vine and his Father the gardener (John 15:1; Ferguson 1961, 39–40). The grapevine belongs to the deciduous plants, and its rebirth was associated with the awakening of new life and thus connected with the resurrection. Therefore it is often represented on sepulchral monuments. The motif of the grapevine can be seen in graves G-5464, G-5517 and G-160 in Viminacium, in the tombs from Beška and Čalma, as well as in both previously mentioned tombs from Niš where only the vine without the grapes is depicted (Plates 3.3–3.6, 3.8, 3.9, Fig. 3.2). The tree is a motif associated with the idea of the arbor vitae. It is painted as a Christian symbol in the ‘Tomb with an anchor’ from Niš and in grave G-5517 in Viminacium (Plate 3.8). The tree is the symbol of life and death and a metaphor for the knowledge of good and evil (Korać 2007, 44–48). Heart-shaped motifs in tomb G-2624 can be associated with the shape of ivy leaves. Ivy was associated with death and immortality, and because of its evergreen colour symbolised longevity and eternal life (Ferguson 1961, 33, 39). Two motifs often combined with floral and vegetal designs are the cornucopiae and the kalathos. Both originate from the Hellenistic tradition. A kalathos is a bell-shaped basket usually filled with flowers or fruits. Sometimes this basket alludes to cornucopiae and can be associated with the personifications of the four seasons, as is depicted on a sarcophagus front in the Museo Pio Cristiano at the Vatican (Lawrence 1958, 294). This motif is painted in grave G-160 in Viminacium (Plate 3.4). Similarly rendered kalathoi can be found in the ‘Banquet tomb’ from Constanța, in the ‘Tomb of Eustorgius’ and in tomb no. 95 from Thessaloniki, on the walls of a mausoleum in Cuma, on the walls of tombs no.  14686 and 43427 and the ‘Tomb of the Seven Sleepers’ in Ephesus, as well as in a tomb from Sardis (Barbet 1994, fig. 10, 40; Makrí 2006, 139, 170; Brun and Munzi 2010, 502, 504–506, 508; Zimmermann and Ladstätter 2010, 146, 148, 155–156;

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Rautman 2011). Cornucopiae are usually filled with flowers, fruits, grains and ribbons. According to the Graeco-Roman tradition they signify fertility and happiness, alluding to the abundance of divine gifts. The term cornucopiae or ‘horn of plenty’ refers to the myth of Amalthea and Zeus who broke off one horn of the goat that was suckling him and gave it power always to be filled with good things for its possessor (Leeming 2005, 13). It is often associated with Greek and Roman deities, particularly those associated with the harvest, prosperity or spiritual abundance, such as Terra-Tellus or Fortuna (Zanker and Ewald 2012, 44; Anđelković Grašar 2015b, 64). One is depicted in the tomb from Beška (Rogić and Anđelković 2012, 101–102) (Plate 3.5).

Christ’s monogram in a wreath Christ’s monogram appeared in Constantine’s time in southern, eastern and western Europe (Pillinger 2012, 25–27). In funerary art it can be an individual central motif flanked by birds, sometimes held by cupids, surrounded by vegetal motifs or garlands or flanked by saints. Christ’s monogram in a laurel wreath is painted on the main, western wall of tomb G-5517 from Viminacium (Plate 3.8). In Christian art the laurel wreath represents the triumph of the deceased over death and his resurrection. Even if this belief reflected a strong pagan heritage, Christian art easily and quickly adopted its meaning and symbolism. However, there was a distinctive difference in the origin of the triumph. The crown of thorns with which Christ, the winner over death, was crowned suggests a sacred triumph, while the laurel wreath of Roman emperors suggests a secular triumph (Matthew 27:28–29; Mark 15:17–20; John 19:2–3) (Rogić et al. 2012, 343–346). The reconciliation between the Empire and Christianity was possible when Christian religion and philosophy became an instrument of power under Constantine the Great. Constantine’s vision before the battle of the Milvian Bridge, in which he saw the initials of Christ’s name (Chi Rho) within a laurel wreath, opens a new chapter in Christian art (Lactantius, De mortibus persecutorum 44.5–6; Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History 1.28–29). As he was told in his vision that ‘with that sign he would win’, it is possible that the laurel wreath maintained the symbolic power which it once had in a different, Christianised context. It was easy to transfer that idea of winning a battle to the victory of Christianity as a whole and from there to the victory of the resurrection (Rogić et al. 2012, 345). Hence it is not surprising that from that period on, in funerary art, Christ’s monogram began to appear in the place where once, in pagan depictions, a portrait of the deceased stood, with all the attributes of triumph and glorification. Motifs of palm wreaths are painted in the ‘Tomb with an anchor’ and the ‘Tomb of St Peter and Paul’ from Niš (Plate 3.9, Fig. 3.2). Palm wreaths with Christ’s monogram remind of Christ’s martyrdom which should be the ideal for every Christian (Rakocija 2009, 91). The motif of the palm tree is a symbol of triumph over death and often of martyrdom. Palms are signs of a happy ending in heaven and belonging to the kingdom of heaven (Revelation 7:9). In iconography Christ is often depicted

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in scenes featuring palm branches. The best known one is his entry into Jerusalem, where people greet him with palm branches (John 12:13) (Rogić et al. 2012, 346). The depiction of an anchor with hastae within a medallion in the ‘Tomb with an anchor’ from Niš is the only example of this motif in funerary painting on the territory of Serbia. It corresponds to Christ’s monogram in the same tomb. According to its position on the western wall, the same as Christ’s monogram in grave G-5517 from Viminacium, it represents a powerful Christian symbol to which the buried person wanted to be linked, putting it in the place of their own portrait. This reveals that the soul of the deceased had found peace in Christ, as a sure sign of the salvation that leads to Paradise (Rakocija 2009, 93, 102).

Zoomorphic motifs In funerary art on the territory of Serbia most zoomorphic motifs depict birds, more precisely peacocks, while other animals appear sporadically except on tombstones or sarcophagi. As a funerary motif, the peacock is usually placed within scenes which evoke Elysium in pagan contexts, or the Garden of Eden or paradise in Christian contexts (Anđelković et al. 2011). As said above, funerary paintings include depictions of gardens located behind railings and characterised by a plenitude of plants and fruits. Different species of birds inhabit these places of bliss: among them, the most common are pigeons and peacocks. The whole vault in the ‘Tomb of St Peter and Paul’ is decorated with grapes and birds behind a railing (Fig. 3.2). The same idea is found in the tomb at Beška where three peacocks are depicted, two placed opposite each other and a third one without a pair (Plate 3.5). Another arrangement of motifs features the figure of an individual peacock (depicted on both side walls) over a kantharos filled with vine, as is the case in grave G-2624 at Viminacium, or with kalathoi, as in grave G-160 (Plates  3.1, 3.4). In both examples they face towards the western wall, usually intended for the depiction of the deceased (Anđelković Grašar et al. 2013, 83). Although the figures are not well preserved, the specific features of the peacock’s iconography allow us to conclude that these birds were painted in graves G-4734, G-3130 and G-5313 at Viminacium as well (Plate 3.2). Individual peacock figures are associated with immortality and the deceased’s victory over death. Peacocks can be represented in pairs, flanking a kantharos filled with water which in grave G-5517 at Viminacium alludes to the aqua vitae and, together with the depiction of the aforementioned arbor vitae, form a complex Christian scene of pax aeterna in paradise (Plate  3.8) (Korać 2007, 43–48). In grave G-5464 an amphora is located between the paired peacocks (Plate 3.3). In this context the peacocks represent the souls of the deceased in the ambience of blessing and eternal life (Anđelković et al. 2011, 239–240). Similar compositions of peacocks can be seen in tombs from Silistra, Iznik, Sofia, as well as many late antique tombs from Thessaloniki and in Roman

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catacombs (Barbet and Selçuk Şener 1999, 213; Atanasov 2007, 451; tomb no. 1, Mijatev 1925, 5–14). From its symbolism in the cults of Dionysus and Juno through the Garden of Eden in the world of the blessed the peacock, as an ancient symbol providing immortality to the deceased, maintained its function as a sacred bird in Christianity (Anđelković et al. 2011). Paired birds over a kantharos are depicted in grave G-160 at Viminacium (Plate 3.4). Unlike the peacock, whose representations are naturalistically rendered, the pair of birds over the kantharos are painted in a schematic manner. However, the common iconography allows to interpret them as doves, quails or partridges. In Greek mythology, doves are Aphrodite’s sacred birds. Based on their correlation with the afterlife and the symbolic significance of the peacocks, together with whom the doves are most often depicted, here they may be viewed as symbols of the souls of the righteous ones, and the bowl from which they are drinking water is a symbol of the spring of memory (Anđelković Grašar et al. 2013, 87–88). Four doves and two partridges are depicted over similar vessels in the ‘Banquet Tomb’ from Constanța (Barbet 1994, 37). Quails and partridges in funerary art symbolise the deceased’s soul approaching the fields of bliss. Being endowed with the possibility of flying, the bird itself is a symbol of the connection between heaven and earth or of the heavenly world. Quails are the symbol of romantic fervour and, as migratory birds, are also associated with nature’s cycles and the arrival of spring (Anđelković Grašar et al. 2013, 89). Two birds, identified as doves because they relate to Christ’s monogram in the vault, are depicted in the ‘Tomb with an anchor’ from Niš, next to the entrance (Plate 3.9). Their presence at this spot symbolised the saved soul of a person buried in the tomb, which found peace in heaven (Rakocija 2009, 93). As an important symbol in Christian art, the dove is often combined with other motifs such as grape vine, garlands or kantharoi or with clearly Christian symbolic motifs such as the orans, anchor or Christogram, suggesting not only a general message of peace, but also of hope and freedom of spirit (Testini 1985, 1165). The existence of zoomorphic motifs in the Brestovik tomb is known only from the reports of previous researchers. Within the circles of the opus sectile decoration, according to Mihailo Valtrović, birds and floating ducks were painted (Valtrović 1906, pl. V, fig. 2–3; Đurić 1985a, 7). In grave G-5517 from Viminacium, a lion, a dog and a panther are depicted along with two horsemen, one riding a black horse and the other a white one, within a complex scene with a deep eschatological context. These animals will be further analysed in the section about human figures.

Mythological figures Cupids are depicted in grave G-160 at Viminacium, hence named ‘Tomb with Cupids’ (Plate 3.4). The Cupid on the right is well preserved, while the one on the left is significantly damaged: the contours of the body can be noticed, as well as the palm of the

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right hand and, behind the left shoulder, a little blue spread wing. Cupids are associated with the goddess Venus and often depicted in her company and service. They are also found in the company of Dionysus, usually depicted together with vines, grapes or wine, and linked to the afterlife through the Dionysian cult (Anđelković Grašar et al. 2013, 90–93). Cupid’s Greek counterpart, Eros, ensures through love and longing the creation and the permanent renewal of the world: he is, as such, the opposite of Thanatos, death (Anđelković Grašar et al. 2013, 96). The deceased’s portraits were probably depicted on the western wall of the ‘Tomb with Cupids’. If this was the case, the cupids on the eastern wall may have had the function of introducing the deceased individuals into the afterlife, as intermediaries between gods and humans. Cupids are also depicted on the eastern wall of the crypt in Kerch, in the niches of tombs from Roman Alexandria (Stagni) and Ostia, in tomb no. 89 from Thessaloniki and in a Roman tomb from Anemurium (Cilicia) (Minns 1915; Rostovtzeff 1919; Russell 1977, fig. 4; Venit 1999; tomb no. 89, Makrí 2006, 145; Barbet 2014, pl. LXXIV, fig. 11). In most examples, Cupids, as escorts to the deceased, are depicted in pagan tombs (Đurić 1985b, 175), but they also carry Christ’s monogram in the tomb from Thessaloniki (Makrí 2006, 145). On the eastern wall of the tomb at Beška, the Fates are represented with haloes around their heads and sceptres in their hands (Plate  3.5). They can be identified thanks to their attributes: the Fate in the middle holds a scroll, the one on the left a scale and the one on the right a spindle. The worship of their three aspects is usually associated with increasing divine powers, as is the case with goddesses such as the Gorgones or Hecate, as well as with triads or holy trinities such as the Celtic Matrons, the Greek Moirai, the Roman Parcae or the Slavic Suđaje, goddesses which assign and define the destiny of mortals (Marić 2003, 47). Other attributes such as haloes and sceptres can be associated with the dating of the tomb in the 4th century and with a form of divine appearance (Anđelković et al. 2013, 389). Depictions of the Fates and their attributes in funerary contexts have a strong eschatological meaning: for this reason they are occasionally also depicted on sarcophagi (Zanker and Ewald 2012, 54). Defining the life cycle and its end, they can be interpreted as psychopomps, bringing the deceased (depicted on the western wall) into the afterlife.

Figures of Saints The ‘Tomb of St Peter and Paul’ from Niš is named after the depiction of two saints on the eastern wall, left and right of the entrance with Christ’s monogram above it, as well as on the western wall, left and right of the small niche, with another depiction of Christ’s monogram in between (Fig. 3.2). The saint on the right side of the eastern wall is depicted with an open book in his hands, while the one on the left is depicted with a scroll in one hand, while the other hand is in the act of blessing. A blessing figure with a scroll is depicted on the right side of the western wall, while the left figure is represented in a deesis iconography. Lazar Mirković identified these figures as saints, namely the apostles Peter and Paul on the eastern wall and martyrs from Naissus on

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the western wall, whereas a more general identification of all four figures as disciples of Christ was given by Srđan Đurić (Mirković 1954–1955; Đurić 1985b, 209). The same identification of the figures as Peter and Paul in the closest analogy for the painted decoration can be found in a tomb from Pécs (Sopianae) (Hudák 2009, figs 4, 5; Hudák and Nagy 2009, 39–44). In both examples the depiction of Christ’s monogram alludes to Christ himself, i.e. a substitute of his image, flanked by the figures of St Peter and Paul – a scene depicted also in the catacombs of Marcellinus and Peter in Rome (Fiocchi Nicolai et al. 2002, fig. 144).

Depictions of the deceased and servants Human figures in painted tombs usually depict the deceased. In the eastern Mediterranean they are depicted in couples in most cases, with male and female figures usually representing spouses. Single individuals are attested by fewer examples. In most cases the deceased are accompanied by figures of servants, male and female, in a funeral procession (Anđelković Grašar 2015a). A deceased couple is depicted on the western wall of the Beška tomb, standing on green ground covered with pink dots, probably suggesting flowers, while the upper part of the background is blue, suggesting the sky (Plate 3.5). This could be an abstractly represented landscape, alluding to their terrestrial life. Both spouses are dressed in festive clothing which, together with the cornucopiae, points to their high social rank and prosperity. The couple are looking into the distance, towards the opposite wall, where the three Parcae are depicted.11 On the southern wall, in the first zone divided into metopes, a funeral procession consisting of three young men and a woman approaches the deceased couple, each bringing a different gift: a basket with fruits, grapes, garments, a glass cup and a jug, as well as a tray with breads (Marijanski-Manojlović 1987, 18–19). The smaller dimensions of the servants in the procession seem to indicate that they are not on the same level as their masters (Špehar 2017, 17–18). Within the poorly preserved painting from ‘Tomb I’ in Čalma, among linearly rendered ornaments, an image of a woman is recognisable (Plate  3.6). In earlier research she was interpreted as a maidservant, but a recent new interpretation sees the woman depicted on the eastern wall as the deceased waiting to enter the gates of Eden (Popović 2011, 241–243). The same interpretation explains two male busts as herms as part of a paradise railing. Another example of the mistress of a tomb can be found on the western wall of grave G-2624 at Viminacium (Plate 3.1b). She is depicted with all the luxury and ornaments of a Roman matron and holds a small bottle made of white glass in her right hand, probably a balsamarium which was used in her everyday life (Anđelković Grašar and Tapavički-Ilić 2015, 17–19). Unlike most of the idealised portraits of the time, the deceased is depicted at an age corresponding to the moment when she actually died: she was most probably portrayed at the end of her life.12 This portrait testifies to the transition from the Orant of catacomb art to the portrait of the deceased mistress,

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represented in a similar frontal view with an expressive look with big eyes staring slightly upward (Anđelković Grašar 2015a, 271; Anđelković Grašar and Tapavički-Ilić 2015, 17–19). The portrait of the deceased lady from tomb G-2624 is among the rare individual portraits found in funerary painting,13 while married couples or family portraits can be found in many painted tombs, for example in Silistra, Plovdiv, Osenovo and Thessaloniki (Danov and Ivanov 1980, 105–121; Pillinger et al. 1999, 14, 42–46; Dunbabin 2003a, 454). Unlike the tomb at Beška, where the offering procession is full of attendants, two graves from Viminacium show a reduced version of this motif. In the longitudinal rectangular panels on the southern and northern walls of the ‘Tomb with Cupids’ (G 160) two figures, male and female, take part in a funerary procession (Anđelković Grašar et al. 2013, 83–87; Plate 3.4). Both figures are oriented toward the west, i.e. the wall where probably the portraits of the deceased once stood. A maidservant carries in her hands a white oval tray on which round, ritual breads are displayed, while the male servant is holding a goblet. The same breads are depicted on the tray of the servant from grave G-2624. He is painted on the wall opposite the mistress, as a whole figure in movement (Plate  3.1a). Servants from the offering procession or offering scene are bringing gifts to the deceased. An offering or funerary procession is known from several tomb paintings from present day Bulgaria, at Plovdiv, Osenovo and Silistra, as well as from Sidon, where the group of servants is depicted together with their inscribed names (Barbet et al. 1997; Pillinger et al. 1999, 13–14, 23–42; Atanasov 2007, 449–450). A funerary feast is represented in a tomb from Constanța, including five reclining men who are eating at the table, while two standing servants are offering drinks to them (Miron 2008, 288, fig. 2.2). These scenes are typical for the Balkans, but some of them can be found in the Middle East too. They are inspired by royal iconography in which these figures served their masters, emphasising the hierarchy between them. A similar aspiration toward the representation of social hierarchy and status, as well as the deceased’s wealth was the basis for the popularity of these scenes in funerary art, where they were probably painted to convey the wish of the deceased to be treated in eternal life as they had been during their terrestrial one (Đurić 1985b, 163). In grave G-5517 at Viminacium two horsemen are depicted within a complex eschatological Christian narrative (Plate 3.8). On the northern wall a horseman is riding a white horse, with a spear in his hand pointing toward a lion’s jaws. In Greek art lions symbolised virtue and protected the graves of those who died heroically. According to the eschatological thought originating from the East and accepted by Romans and later Christians, the lion was the symbol of a heavenly fire which needed to be passed by the deceased for the purpose of spiritual purification (Milovanović 2008, 16). This scene may be identified as an earthly hunt, though (Korać 2007, 49–56). Lion hunt is a frequent scene in Roman art, while within the sepulchral context the lion is a symbol of the ravening power of death and of man’s victory over it, thus the lionhunt sarcophagi can be interpreted as allegories of the victory of the soul over death

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(Toynbee 1973, 65–66). The hunter on horseback slaying a lion was an appropriate way of self-representation for the deceased, an allegory of male virtus on 3rd-century sarcophagi (Andreae 1980; Birk 2013, 59–114). In such a way this scene would be an example of displaying social status, an important part of the earthly life of the deceased. For Christians the lion possessed a dual symbolism: on the one hand it represented evil and cruelty, while on the other it is associated with Christ’s resurrection (Psalm 7:3; Bisconti and de Maria Bisconti 1988). Another horseman is depicted on the southern wall, riding a black horse and followed by a dog. A panther is depicted in front of him, and again the spear of the rider is directed towards the animal. The panther is sacred to Dionysus and strongly associated with his cult, but in Christian art it alludes to sin, cruelty and the Antichrist (Toynbee 1973, 82–86; Korać 2007, 62). The dog has a chthonic character and is considered to be the guide of the souls in the underworld, a psychopompos. Dogs protect sacred places and the underground (Milovanović 2008, 22). As attributes of mother-goddesses who belonged both to the underworld and to this world as the source of its fertility, dogs function in their double death-and-healing role, enabling the dead to be ‘healed’ by rebirth into the afterlife (Toynbee 1973, 123). This scene may be identified as a heavenly hunt (Korać 2007, 57–62).

Conclusion From the analysis of the paintings found on the territory of Serbia, we can conclude that the artistic production was extensive, but usually associated with large urban centres such as Sirmium, Naissus and Viminacium. Since the funerary painting is dated within the period from the end of the 3rd to the beginning of the 5th century, it can be said that it was under the influence of several religious and cultural elements which were brought to this region by the military and by the migration of civilians. Artistic production, such as the decoration of sarcophagi, stelae, small cult icons, craft production such as pottery, glass, jewellery etc., as well as a number of painted tombs and graves lead to the notion that officinae specialised in tomb painting were active at Viminacium (and probably Sirmium), certainly during the late antique period, if not even earlier. As is the case with other arts and crafts, and specifically fine arts such as glyptics, pattern books travelled along with masters or workshops (Popović 2010, 203–224). Possible routes can be reconstructed through the comparison with other arts: most certainly they were associated with main communications, such as the greatest water route on the Danube River, the Via Militaris that followed the river, and the Via Egnatia which connected western Europe with Thessaloniki.14 The same can be said for the iconographic motifs: the most popular ones have travelled through space and time as well. Some compositional patterns, scenes and individual motifs were known since the Hellenistic period and were present throughout the Roman Empire, in both east and west. Christian art inherited many pagan motifs whose meaning was not changed, but gained a Christian character. Thus, the majority of late antique themes were incorporated and reshaped in medieval art.

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As has been pointed out, similar motifs and paintings can be found on the territory of present day Hungary (Pécs), Romania (Constanța), Bulgaria (Silistra, Sofia, Serdica, Plovdiv, Osenovo, Devnya), Greece (Thessaloniki, Corinth), Turkey (Sardis, Ephesus, Anemurium, Nicaea), Ukraine (Kerch), Lebanon (Sidon), Egypt (Alexandria) and Italy (Rome, Pompeii, Cuma). This means that the same symbolism and values were appreciated by Roman citizens throughout the vast Roman Empire. There is no doubt that the taste of the commissioner was the essential factor in the selection of the painted scenery, which can be understood as a paradigm of the late antique painting fashion (Rogić and Anđelković Grašar 2015). Another interesting feature are the allusions to afterlife and immortality, which seem to be characteristic of funerary painting. Portraiture was very important in funerary art and, according to the custom of late antique tradition, it may have a symbolic meaning of afterlife that was based upon the concept of apotheosis. The belief in the immortality of the soul and in the soul’s return to its heavenly seat was to gain fresh lustre from the apotheosis of the ruler, and similarly the artistic compositions of apotheosis were transferred to the representations of the deceased, with all necessary motifs and symbols subordinated and focused on the portrait (Strong 1915, 63). The images of the deceased were frequently reproduced on Christian sarcophagi, and the patrons of the sarcophagi had influence on the sculptural choice of images of salvation expressing Christian hopes of an eternal life. Resemblance of the portrait was not a priority, but rather idealised features together with attributes characterised the departed individuals, suggesting their social status – rank, wealth, education and beauty (Studer-Karlen 2012, 64–73; for the Central Balkan’s region see, for example, Anđelković Grašar 2018). Other motifs, such as vegetal and zoomorphic elements or Paradise gardens, were painted in order to reinforce the idea of victory over death and the afterlife. On the other hand, the decoration of the portraits and figures, such as costumes, jewellery, fibulae and shoes, as well as the dishes in the funeral processions can be associated with the grave goods which were laid down into the grave together with the deceased in the period preceding the custom of painted graves. In both cases, laid down or painted, these motifs, besides a practical role, had an important social one – namely, to suggest the economic position and social status of the deceased.15 In addition, motifs related to cult and religion, such as mythological figures or Christian symbols, were often used for the decoration of oil lamps, items which were also important in funerary practice and ritual (Anđelković Grašar and Tapavički-Ilić 2016; Crnobrnja 2006). The funerary painting on the territory of Serbia reflects an eclecticism of styles that were adjusted to local traditions. The local style resulting from this process reflects Roman imperial style more or less successfully, i.e. adapting metropolitan style. The white background of the painting, together with the abundance of borders, lines and frames in red, green, yellow and black, as well as the artist’s wish to overcome the horror vacui by means of floating motifs, are similar to the painting style of Roman catacombs, namely the so-called ‘Flavian’ red-green linear style (Gerke 1973, 9–47; Grabar 1982, 7–8). Motifs which break the image frame suggest an aspiration towards

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illusionism, while the presence of naturalistically rendered motifs in the friezes suggests that artists probably were informed about the imperial revival of the Second and Fourth Pompeian styles (Čubova 1966, 5–120; Wirth 1968, 30–49). Depictions of vegetal and zoomorphic motifs were rendered in expressionistic manner, while the expressionistic classicism of Constantine’s era can be seen in the human figures (Čremošnik 1984, 198–199). For further analysis of the tombs painting, two styles are important as well, which Michael Ivanovitch Rostovtzeff (1919, 147–148, 150–151) called ‘the true incrustation style’ and ‘the floral style’. The origin of the first one should be traced to Mesopotamia and today’s Iran where the buildings were usually made of adobe and stone, and in order to obtain a polychrome effect stone plates of one colour were incrusted into others, which was the basis for the creation of the real incrustation style. The earliest painted examples are from Pompeii, while later it was very popular in Rome, Egypt and Palmyra. In the floral style Rostovtzeff distinguished the so-called ‘carpet style’ and the ‘true floral style’. The origin of the carpet style can be associated with the tents of nomadic tribes which were covered with carpets, while the true floral style originated from naturalistic tendencies in Hellenistic and Roman art. Fashion developed from the Ptolemaic restoration of Egyptian art, so the walls and ceilings were painted with motifs of flowers, garlands, other plants and animals, without any order, and with figures in the central fields and lunettes. This style expanded throughout the whole ancient world, from the sepulchral buildings and catacombs of Rome to the tombs of Leptis Magna and Palmyra, Phoenicia, Salona, Serbia and Bulgaria. According to Rostovtzeff the combination of incrustation and floral style in the late Roman Empire and the Middle Ages became ‘a style’ (Rostovtzeff 1919, 151–152, 161–163). It can be assumed that in the ancient tombs in Serbia a free floral style is visible, while the Viminacium tomb with the three-dimensional meander represented a purer form of Hellenistic decoration originating from Syria and Egypt (Rostovtzeff 1917, 57). Eastern influence specifically associated with Syria and Palestine can be assumed for the decoration of the Brestovik tomb with painting based on geometry, lines and contours (Rostovtzeff 1919, 153). For Julia Valeva (2001, 169–170) the decorative system of the tombs of the eastern provinces from the end of the 4th to the 6th/7th century extended a tradition originating in the 1st century AD, as a pattern that persisted until the end of antiquity with orthostats at the base as the frames for figures, a ceiling or a vault that symbolises the space above the terrestrial one and a frieze as the border between the real world and the celestial dwellings. Valeva associated the late antique painting tendencies in the eastern part of the empire with the degradation of ancient constructive systems and their replacement by eclectic systems, representing two types of painted tombs. In her opinion the so-called ‘pseudo-constructive’ (‘pseudo-structural’) type followed the constructive idea of ancient wall decoration and bore reminiscences of the decorative ideas of the ‘structural style’ (with orthostats, rows of beams and coffered ceilings) (Valeva 1989, 1248, 1250; Nikolić et al. 2018, 213–214). The style of decoration with garlands on the walls and representations of birds and flowers or with combinations

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of symbolic patterns connected to Christianity is, in contrast, ‘totally different from the constructive idea’. Julia Valeva based this classification on the analyses by Krsto Mijatev, who discerned two groups of tombs, namely those with vegetal motifs and birds, bearing ideas of pagan antiquity, and those with a painted cross – noting that many tombs were between the two groups, reflecting the transition between pagan decorative art and Christian art (Mijatev 1925) – and Dimitar Ovcharov, who classified the tombs in more detail, while also emphasising the ‘transition of ancient illusionism to the symbolism of Christian art in the sepulchral decoration’ (Ovcharov 1977, 22–30). Incrustation style marble, scattered flowers and garlands, almost as a carpet-like background, baskets, peacocks and smaller birds represent the common painting programme of eight 4th-century hypogaea at Sardis which Vanessa Rousseau (2014, 194) considers as a generic image of paradise that could serve any religion and reflects Graeco-Roman visual culture more than any specific belief system. According to her this painting fits into a late Roman trend toward prospective paradisiacal funerary imagery, together with related paintings found across the Roman world from Rome to southern Russia. The same trend can be supposed for the funerary painting in Serbia. However, the funerary painting in Serbia shows a great degree of variation which reaches from masterpieces such as the mistress’s portrait from grave G-2624 at Viminacium, painted on a perfectly polished surface, the portrait almost achieving a three-dimensional representation, to the painted linear decoration of the grave at Čalma with its almost unrecognisable motifs. This diversity should be ascribed to the skills of the painters and probably to the practice of having experienced masters work on the most difficult parts such as the incarnates, while students or apprentices executed the motifs which were more familiar and common in the decoration, such as vegetal and zoomorphic elements. In addition, the meaning of the popular motifs and compositions was probably so well-known to the clients that sometimes painters felt free to improvise with forms. Finally, looking at the funerary painting in Serbia, and specifically the paintings of the Viminacium artistic workshop, it can be said that artists were well acquainted with the basic pictorial elements and principles in the creation of images. This is in accordance not only with the global artistic trends of the time, but with the universal artistic solutions known throughout the history of art. Besides using lines for the borders of the frames and friezes in which scenes and motifs were set, artists used them as contours in the creation of various forms. Colours of natural origin were sometimes used to imitate colours in real life, but often they were used with symbolical connotations, such as in grave G-5517 at Viminacium. Red, associated with earth, blood and fire, dominates the northern wall where the earthly horseman is depicted, while blue, as the colour of heaven, sky and eternity, is dominant on the southern wall, where the heavenly horseman is visible. Artists could achieve a rhythm by repeating the naturalistic shapes of vegetal forms. As has already been said, the mastery of proportions is usually associated with the rendering of human forms, and those who knew good body proportion were probably master painters.16 Some

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pictorial elements and principles are associated not only with the two-dimensional image plane, but rather with the three dimensional space of the tomb as a sacred space within which everything corresponds in a compositional and symbolic connection between elements, iconography and space. This has the effect of uniting the individual scenes and motifs into a universal image of cosmic drama, known from the early Christian programmes, testified in mosaics or later painted decoration of churches (Cvetković-Tomašević 1978, 87–101). This is why the position and orientation of the scenes and motifs were crucial for the creation of a three-dimensional space for the afterlife within a sacred space such as the tomb. In this context images are not only individual motifs, but part of a complex scene which is subordinated to the philosophy of death and creates an intimate reality of the deceased’s afterlife. For instance, the trapezoidal section of some graves at Viminacium can be related to the golden section, i.e. divine proportion, which could indicate and accentuate individual motifs and their importance within the complete painted programme (Anđelković Grašar et al. 2013, 77–80). The balance existing in the tomb design as well as in each scene within it is achieved through the careful use of various types of symmetry, such as bilateral, right hand/left hand symmetry (or mirror symmetry), translational, rotational, radial, spiral, ornamental or repetitive symmetry (Anđelković Grašar et al. 2012). Mirror symmetry is also important in a symbolical context, because it alludes to another world, i.e. the afterlife, which reinforces the symbolism of the individual motifs (Gerbran and Ševalije 2004, 624–628). In some cases symmetry is necessary in order to understand the meaning of this complex pictorial story, such as in grave G-5517 at Viminacium where the observer must actually turn clockwise around his axis. Thus all four walls take part in the rotational symmetry of the observer, which occurs in the middle of the tomb’s space, on the axis of the observer’s body, while one attempts to read the narrative. Thus symmetry, iconography and symbolism, assembled within the tomb’s space, provide the viewer with an impression of a ‘kinetic’ composition, somewhat untypical for ancient art. In this way the narrative may be understood as the complex transformation of a pagan horseman (northern wall) who is passing the spiritual purification within the garden of Eden (eastern wall), thus becoming a Christian horseman (southern wall) who is heading to the resurrection (western wall) (Korać 2007, 63–68; Anđelković Grašar et al. 2012, 256–257). In conclusion, iconography, painting style and the knowledge of pictorial elements and principles suggest that well-educated painters worked at the funerary paintings within a territory where influences from the east and west met, which led to a local interpretation of global painting standards and fashions. Considering the iconography, analogies for motifs and scenes can be found across the vast territory of the Roman Empire, and the popularity of some motifs both in pagan and in Christian art, such as wreaths, garlands, peacocks, mythological figures or saints is attested by other media as well, such as jewellery, oil lamps, glass, sarcophagi, etc. Comparable to painting from other provinces, such as the aforementioned examples from Sardis, funerary painting on the territory of Serbia reflects a late Roman trend toward prospective

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paradisiacal funerary imagery with motifs that can be related to those known from Rome to Syria and southern Russia. In terms of painting style it can rather be said that the late antique funerary painting from the territory of present day Serbia belongs to the artistic legacy of the eastern provinces of the empire and shows influences which originated from Syria, Egypt and Palestine, but were interpreted in accordance with local traditions and executed by local artists.

Acknowledgements This article derives from the project ‘Viminacium, Roman city and military camp – research of the material and non-material culture of the inhabitants, using the modern technologies of remote detection, geophysics, GIS, digitisation and 3D visualisation’ (no. 47018), funded by the Ministry of Education, Science and Technological Development of the Republic of Serbia. The authors are grateful to the unknown reviewer and to the editors for their valuable suggestions and improvement of the article and to the dear colleagues Maja Đorđević and Miša Rakocija for providing photographs used in this contribution.

Notes

1. Under Constantine the Great the territory of Serbia was part of the newly founded prefecture of Illyricum, which was divided into the Dacian and Macedonian dioceses. Later, after the division of the Roman Empire, the territory of Serbia was part of Eastern Illyricum (Zečević 2002, 165–182; Maksimović 1980, 17–57). 2. Most of the Roman urban centres in the territory of present-day Serbia were devastated during the Hunnic attacks in 441, their population was dispersed, and Naissus became the southern limit of Hunnic expansion (Mirković 1994, 97). What survived these devastations in antiquity, the medieval times and later was destroyed in the 18th and 19th centuries, when the ancient ruins were used as a source of free building material (Kostić 2011, 70–86; Nikolić et al. 2017a, 575–576). 3. 29 painted graves from Viminacium have been published so far, and their number is constantly increasing since the excavations at the site are in progress (Korać 2007, 247–261). 4. The panels at Viminacium are considered to imitate a type of conglomerate (Rogić 2018c, 171–181). Since the lower part of tomb G-5 is not preserved, it can only be assumed that a marble imitation was painted there (Rogić and Marković 2010). 5. The vividly coloured beams are also found in tombs in Iznik, Silistra and Beit-Ras (Russell 1977, 45–46, 48, 52, fig. 2; Atanasov 2007, 450; Hembrey 2008, 6–7, fig. 6; Zinko 2009; Barbet 2013, 69, 73; Base Décors antiques 2017, BEIT.00004). 6. The astragal motif is one of the most commonly used ornaments in classical architectural decoration in all materials (Rogić et al. 2011). 7. The popularity of this motif in funerary art in the 3rd century throughout the empire has been called ‘ghirlandomania’ (Turcan 1981; Baldassarre et al. 2002, 55). 8. The swastika is associated with Christ in the heritage of early Christian catacombs. In funerary art it alludes to creation and the movement of the universal cycles (Gerbran and Ševalije 2004, 908–909). 9. Roses sprung from Adonis’ body after his death (Gerbran and Ševalije 2004, 796–797). 10. In funerary practice the rose is associated with the cult of Venus Funeraria (Ferguson 1961, 37; Jovanović 2000, 11–19).

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11. There is an interesting opinion that these portraits were painted later, in an already prepared and painted tomb (Popović 2011, 238). 12. Interestingly, some details of her iconography can be connected to the anthropological analysis of her remains. She is depicted with a fine net on her head, as was common for young unmarried girls. The osteological material from the tomb also suggests a young woman; its analysis showed an illness on her femur almost causing immobility. The portrait presents her only from the waist up (Mikić 2008; Anđelković Grašar 2015a, 270). 13. A similar portrait can be seen in the medallion on the eastern wall from the tomb in Or ha-Ner in Israel (Michaeli 2014, pl. CXXXIII, fig. 10). 14. Some funerary motifs popular in the decoration of sarcophagi and stelae travelled from the Rhine region, via Noricum, Dalmatia and Pannonia, to Moesia Superior (Dautova-Ruševljan 1983, 77–78). 15. On the relation between grave goods and painted motifs see Tapavički-Ilić and Anđelković Grašar 2013. 16. On pictorial elements and principles see: Anđelković et al. 2017.

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Chapter 4 The emperors in the province: A study of the Tetrarchic images from the imperial cult chamber in Luxor Nicola Barbagli Introduction The temple of Luxor, founded by pharaoh Amenhotep III (1390–1353 BC) as part of the complexes devoted to the cult of Amun in ancient Thebes, was one of the most important temples in Egypt well into the Roman period. Between the end of the 3rd and the beginning of the 4th century, the temple underwent major architectural and decorative alterations, which gave the sanctuary the outward appearance of a fortified complex, while the interior of the precinct was enriched by colonnaded streets and statues dedicated to the emperors. The inner structure of the temple was also altered to accommodate new functions: a vestibule to the holy of holies was partly closed off and painted with new frescoes depicting the emperors and other figures involved in various activities. These interventions have usually been interpreted as aimed at adjusting the abandoned temple to convert it into a military camp: according to this interpretation, the painted chamber would have been either the ‘shrine of the standards’ or a room dedicated to the imperial cult. Much effort has been devoted to the reconstruction and interpretation of the paintings, relying mostly on the watercolour sketches made by Sir John Gardner Wilkinson in 1856 and rediscovered in 1953 by Ugo Monneret de Villard (Monneret de Villard 1953). The paintings, in fact, suffered much damage during their history, not least at the hands of Egyptologists, eager to clear the walls in order to see the ritual scenes and hieroglyphic texts underneath the frescoes. Later studies, especially by Johannes Deckers, attempted to reconstruct as far as possible the original appearance of the paintings, also with the help of photographic documentation and autoptic analysis, offering different interpretations of the scenes (Deckers 1973; 1979; 1983; Kalavrezou-Maxeiner 1975; Gabelmann 1984, 284–285; Rees 1993, 183–187, 198; Elsner 1995, 173–176; Kolb 2001, 175–186; Török 2005, 139–152; Moormann 2011, 146–148). More recently, thanks to the restorations carried out by

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the American Research Center in Egypt (2005–2009) and the subsequent publication of a richly illustrated monograph, new materials have been made available for further analysis (Jones and McFadden 2015, with high-quality reproductions of Wilkinson’s watercolours in the appendix). These frescoes are almost unique in the panorama of ancient art. They are not only one of the few extant large-scale paintings surviving from Late Antiquity, but also one of the best preserved painted representations of Roman emperors and, remarkably, from a sacred space. Furthermore, the frescoes represent one of the few examples of monumental Tetrarchic images found outside Rome and the imperial residences:1 the emperors are shown at least twice, both as a couple and as a group of four. The aim of this chapter is to examine the temple and its paintings within the wider framework of late antique visual culture, on both a local and a global scale. After an overview of the old and new architectural arrangements of the temple, the analysis focuses on the paintings, especially the images of the emperors, comparing them with contemporary Egyptian visual culture as well as other official representations in an empire-wide perspective, in order to highlight the peculiar features of the Luxor frescoes and their possible meanings. The detailed analysis of this unique piece of evidence will contribute to better understanding the integration of Egypt within the visual culture of the late Roman empire, as well as the visual manifestations of imperial ideology during the Tetrarchic period.

The temple of Amun and its late antique transformation The works carried out under Amenhotep III, probably replacing older structures, were limited to the southern part of the temple (the holy of holies), the surrounding chapels and halls, the solar court and the foundations of the processional colonnade (Fig. 4.1) (on the history of the temple see Wilkinson 2000, 166–171). During the reign of his son Akhenaten (1353–1336 BC) the works were stopped: the royal residence was moved from Thebes to the newly founded city of Akhetaten in Middle Egypt (present-day Amarna), and the Theban cult of Amun briefly experienced a difficult time. It was Tutankhamun (ca. 1330–1324 BC) who restored the worship of the Theban god and resumed the works, completing the construction and decoration of the colonnade. Afterwards, Ramesses II (1279–1213 BC) added a huge colonnaded open court, a triple bark shrine and a pair of pylons, all orientated according to the processional way which connected Luxor to Amun’s main temple at Karnak. In front of the pylons, decorated with scenes depicting the battle of Qadesh, he also erected a pair of obelisks and six colossal statues. Afterwards, there were only minor interventions until the late Roman period. During its heyday the temple was the focus of one of the most famous Theban festivals, the Beautiful Feast of Opet, celebrated once a year, in the second month of the Inundation, called Φαωφί (‘the month of Opet’). The celebration was connected to the Nile’s flood: its main themes were, indeed, fertility and the renewal of Amun and his son, the king.2 Occurrences referring to the Festival of Opet and, in general, the cult of Amun in Luxor are attested until the mid-2nd century: the absence of reliable

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Fig. 4.1: Plan of the temple at Luxor (Drawing by J. Dobrowolski. After Jones and McFadden 2015, 24 fig. 2.1, by kind permission of Yale University Press).

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written sources after this date only allows speculations about any kind of continuity of the cult until the late antique period.3 Between the late 3rd and the early 4th century, the appearance and function of the sanctuary underwent profound changes (El-Saghir et al. 1986, 5–19; Heidel and Johnson 2015). The enclosure wall was rebuilt and equipped with towers and gates, partly reusing materials from the pharaonic period. The inner space was organised with a grid of colonnaded streets, at whose intersections two monumental tetrastyles were erected, bearing the statues of the emperors (Lacau 1934, 20–33; Deckers 1979, 603–608; El-Saghir et al. 1986, 11–12, 122; Pfeiffer 2015, 333–339, no. 81).4 The West Tetrastyle, erected between 300 and 302 by Aurelius Reginus, praeses of the recently created province of Thebais, was dedicated to the emperors of the so-called ‘first Tetrarchy’: Diocletian, Maximian, Constantius and Galerius. Some years later (308–310) Aurelius Maximinus, dux Aegypti et Thebaidos utrarumque Libyarum, added a smaller tetrastyle in front of the eastern gateway, modelled after the previous one and dedicated to Galerius, Licinius, Constantine and Maximinus Daia. The inscriptions on both monuments are in Latin, but the names of the dedicatees are in accusative according to the Greek usage; remarkably, the emperors’ personal names in the East Tetrastyle dedication were painted in yellow (whereas the rest of the inscription was painted in the more customary red ink), perhaps in order to imitate the shine of gold letters. The dates of these two monuments allow us to place the reconfiguration of the temple at the beginning of the 4th century at the latest. It is possible, however, that works started earlier, during Galerius’ campaign in 293–294, or in preparation of Diocletian’s visit in 298, after he crushed the revolt of Domitius Domitianus.5 The area of the pylons, the first court and the processional colonnade were subject to only minor structural interventions, while major changes and additions can be seen from the solar court onwards. The entrance to the hypostyle hall was probably decorated with a new monumental facade featuring Corinthian columns and a tympanum, of which only some granite and limestone blocks survive in front of the hall. Along the processional way, between the columns, the base of a bronze statue was found, dedicated to Constantine by the dux Valerius Rometalca between 310 and 324. Three other bases, one dedicated by the same official to Constantine, and two by the rationalis Valerius Evethius to the Caesars Constantius and Galerius between 302 and 304, have been found in the sanctuary and may well have decorated the processional way.6 The following room became the focal point of the new processional axis: the floor was raised using granite blocks and sandstone drums from older structures, and the doorway which formerly led to the offering hall and the holy of holies was sealed off with a wall, in which a niche was built. Some of the chapels around the holy of holies were dismantled, and this sector of the temple received a new entrance through a colonnaded portico on the eastern side. The pharaonic reliefs from the vestibule to the offering hall were covered with layers of plaster, which served as the basis for the frescoes.

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Late antique Luxor, with its walls, its internal grid of streets and its processional axis leading from the main gate to a chamber ending with a niche, has been interpreted by scholars first as a new fortified civic centre for the city of Thebes, then as a legionary camp which reused the pharaonic structures for the principia and housed at least a detachment of a legion in its barracks.7 The unusual plan of the late antique site has been compared to that of the so-called ‘Camp of Diocletian’ in Palmyra, which included the temple of Allat within its walls, as well as to other fortified sites of the Tetrarchic period such as castra Dionysiados in the Fayyum region, close to Qaṣr-Qarun. All these structures featured a chapel with a niche or an apse at the end of a processional colonnaded way, an internal grid-like organisation, and defensive walls with projecting square and U-shaped towers (Monneret de Villard 1953, 97–101; El-Saghir et al. 1986, 25–31). In addition to the architectural evidence, the etymology of the name ‘Luxor’ has been used as supporting argument. The modern toponym al-Uqṣur, in fact, comes from the Arabic noun qaṣr, which derives from the Greek κάστρον and the Latin castrum: the name ‘Luxor’, translated as ‘the castles’, is commonly taken to suggest that the area was formerly occupied by a legionary camp. The indication given by the toponym seems to be corroborated by references to one or more Theban κάστρα in Greek papyri and Coptic ostraca dating from the 4th to the 7th century (Legrain 1917, 54; Lacau 1934, 43 note 2; Otto 1952, 44).8 The construction of a military camp in Luxor is seen as one expression of the wider phenomenon of fortifications promoted by Diocletian throughout the Roman empire, which heavily affected also the reorganised Egyptian provinces. The documentary and archaeological evidence, however, is far from definitely proving that late antique Luxor actually was an army camp. The papyri and ostraca provide some dispersed and variously dated references to one or more κάστρα in Thebes, but none of them can be linked with certainty to the site of Luxor: indeed we cannot be sure that the κάστρα mentioned there have been preserved until today or have left any archaeological remains. Even so, one may wonder if this word really meant ‘military camp’. In late antique Greek the term κάστρον could apply also to a stronghold, a small city or even a monastery:9 for instance, on the opposite side of the Nile, the temple of Ramesses III in Medinet Habu, which in Late Antiquity had been hosting a settlement since a long time, was frequently referred to as κάστρον Μεμνωνίων or simply κάστρον, although it never had any military connotations (Wilfong 2002, 8 and note 29). Therefore, even if we accept the direct link between the Greek κάστρα, the Arabic al-uqṣur and the extant temple, the toponym ‘Luxor’ alone is not enough to prove that the name of the settlement derives from the presence of a legionary camp built within the old temple: it may derive, for example, from the fortified appearance of the sanctuary itself or other structures in the area – as is the case for the toponym Karnak, meaning ‘fortified village’, which likely derives from the appearance of its sacred precincts (Kuentz 1951, 293; cf. the different explanation by Otto 1952, 43).10 Finally, the archaeological parallels are not really decisive because the same architectural features and layout are found also outside the realm

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of functioning military architecture, for instance in the palace of Diocletian at Split.11 Further arguments against the interpretation of Luxor as a military settlement are its geographical position, which does not seem strategically relevant, and the absence of barracks – although this, admittedly, may be due to the limited extension of the archaeological excavations and consequently the incomplete knowledge of the site. The evidence found in the sanctuary itself is not decisive either to establish a military function for late antique Luxor – quite the contrary. Despite what one would expect from a legionary settlement, only one of the inscriptions that can be surely attributed to Luxor and dated to Late Antiquity bears a reference to the commander of a legion, the legio II Flavia Constantia (El-Saghir et al. 1986, 120 no. 50).12 The inscription, tentatively dated to the end of the 3rd century, was found within the temple area; according to the latest edition, it is a dedication of a commander on behalf of his army unit, wishing themselves good fortune as long as the emperors are safe and sound. The presence of one dedication of this kind, however, does not necessarily entail that Luxor was the camp of the legion or one of its detachments, since the soldiers may have been hosted elsewhere in the city or region: when the temple was still functioning as a cult centre of Amun, members of the army too used to inscribe acts of worship in honour of the Theban god and to make dedications within the sanctuary.13 The fact that the dedicants of the monumental tetrastyles and the imperial statues were civil and military high-ranking officials (one praeses, one rationalis, two duces) rather suggests that Luxor was more than a military camp. A parallel may be provided by the site of Lambaesis, in Numidia (modern Tazoult, Algeria): here, behind the so-called ‘praetorium’, three statue bases honouring Diocletian and Maximian have been found, dedicated between 286 and 293 by Marcus Aurelius Diogenes, vir perfectissimus, praeses provinciae Numidiae.14 Founded as a military camp of the legio III Augusta, Lambaesis had been chosen as the administrative centre of Numidia in the period of Gallienus, and was therefore the seat of the provincial governor and his subordinates. In a similar way, the site of Luxor may well also have hosted a garrison, but the new monuments and dedications erected in the Tetrarchic period, together with the architectural context of the temple itself and its still visible original decorations (such as the obelisks and the colossal statues of Ramesses II), seem to be more suited for ceremonial functions on a provincial level.15

The late antique paintings of the cult chamber The artists commissioned to give a new appearance to the cult chamber executed their work using the fresco technique. This entailed covering the walls with at least two layers of plaster (the arriccio and the intonaco), gradually thinner and finer in their components, in order to prepare the surface for the pigments. The latter were then applied to the moist lime plaster, while some details and colours were added after the plaster had dried (a secco).16 The result was an impressive and colourful display of figures and scenes, all centred on the depictions of the emperors. Today, the frescoes

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Fig. 4.2: Reconstruction of the decorative programme of the imperial cult chamber in Luxor (after Deckers 1979, fig. 34).

on much of the surfaces, except on the south wall, have almost disappeared and can be reconstructed mainly thanks to Wilkinson’s watercolours and photographic documentation (Fig. 4.2).17 All in all, the organising principle of the decoration can be compared to that of the paintings in the synagogue of Dura Europos, with scenes of different size and content delimited by frames and arranged in superimposed registers (Moormann 2011, 194–199, with references to earlier literature). A dado, painted in imitation of polychrome marble inlay, ran all along the base of the walls; its height (ca. 220 cm) was slightly reduced on the south wall, probably to give more space and emphasis to the depictions above. These scenes, framed by a double stripe in black and red, were the largest within the chamber, taking all the space up to the ceiling on both sides of the central niche. On the other three sides, the decoration above the dado was divided in at least two horizontal registers, each framed by coloured stripes. The lower register on the east wall (the only one for which there is enough evidence) depicted a continuous scene starting from the main doorway, extending along the eastern half of the north wall and the east wall, and ending at the corner between the east and the south wall. A similar decoration may have featured on the opposite wall but, unfortunately, almost no traces of it survive, and glimpses of its original appearance can only be guessed from Wilkinson’s notes. The dado featured a pattern of alternating square and rectangular panels: the latter were consistently green-coloured, in imitation of cipollino marble, except at some relevant points (on both sides of the niche, for instance); the square panels were decorated with a variety of geometric designs, imitating the colours of stones like red porphyry, giallo antico, rosso antico, etc. It seems that each square had its unique, brightly coloured design, giving the ensemble the overall appearance of a lavish and colourful decoration. Finally, the upper cornice of the dado featured a uniform

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pattern based on the combination of triangular elements. Painted imitations of stone panels are well attested in Egypt from the Ptolemaic period onwards; in Roman times, stone and stonework imitations were a recurring and widespread feature of painted decoration all over the empire.18 Among the Egyptian evidence, the arrangement with alternating square and rectangular panels, as well as their geometric designs and colours, find their best parallels in the paintings of the so-called ‘Brunnensaal’ and the funerary church in the monastery at Deir Abu Fana (Buschhausen et al. 1989, 254–257; 1991, 137–138; good images in Lembke et al. 2004, 112–113, figs 190–193).19 These paintings, tentatively dated by the excavators to the second quarter of the 6th century based on comparisons with Justinianic materials, feature motifs also attested in other monastic settlements of Middle and Upper Egypt, showing the continuing popularity of such decorations in this geographical area, as well as its connection with the wider Mediterranean world.20 Only a few fragments of the figural register on the east wall (originally ca. 2.50 m in height) are now preserved, the most readable close to the corner with the south wall. Wilkinson’s watercolour allows us to reconstruct a sequence of people and horses moving from the main entrance towards the corner of the south wall (Plate 4.1). They cast their shadows on a sand-coloured ground, while their background is of a washedout red. The figures are rendered in three-quarter view and their overlapping creates a three-dimensional illusionistic effect. Their differing positions, the twisting heads of the horses and the spears drawing diverging trajectories all contribute to making the parade of people and animals dynamic and lively. Armed with spears, short swords and round shields, the figures can be identified as soldiers, all featuring the typical late 3rd-century close-cropped hairstyle and dressed in ceremonial attire. Each of them wears a short embroidered tunic belted at the waist, dark-brown leggings (tubiae) and presumably black shoes (campagi). They are similar to the soldiers depicted on the early 4th-century ‘Great Hunt’ mosaic in the Villa del Casale at Piazza Armerina (Sicily), representing the capture and transport of exotic animals from African and Oriental territories (Muth 1999, with references to the abundant ealier literature).21 Above the procession are the remains of a second register, double-framed. Here is still preserved the depiction of a blue oval shield with a yellow umbo and feather-like yellow ornaments, leaning on a wall made of regular ashlars; next to the wall are two red cylindrical objects. Unfortunately, nothing more of this decoration is discernible or documented, and its interpretation is purely speculative. The opposite side of the chamber featured a similar procession, starting on the western half of the north wall and moving southwards. However, this scene was probably not just a pendant of the previous one: according to a note by Wilkinson, it included a chariot bearing the name of Diocletian on one of its wheels. If this piece of information is reliable (this section of the wall was almost totally destroyed already in Wilkinson’s times), it is likely that the emperor was originally depicted on board the chariot: if this was the case, the scene can be interpreted as the representation of an imperial adventus (Jones and McFadden 2015, 158–159).22

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The eastern section of the south wall accommodated a large scene (6 m wide, ca. 8 m tall) depicting an imperial audience with several dignitaries gathering at the emperors’ feet (Plate 4.2). The lower part of the scene is occupied by three rows of officials, rendered in three-quarter view and placed on different levels. All have the same close-cropped hairstyle and their gaze and gestures are directed towards the enthroned figures above them. The dignitaries wear a ceremonial dress: a white longsleeved tunic, fastened on the waist by a golden bejewelled belt and decorated on the shoulder with embroidered pieces of fabric (orbiculi), and a coloured mantle buckled on the right shoulder with a crossbow fibula and covering its owner’s hands. Some of them carry decorated belts on their veiled hands. Among the figures on the left in the bottom row, a standard bearer can be recognised; his vexillum extends beyond the preserved layer of plaster, making it impossible to know what was depicted on its red surface (only the fainted remains of tendril-like designs can be seen at present day). At the opposite end there are other officials dressed in the same way, except for the figure in the lower right corner, next to the double frame dividing the scene from the central niche: this dignitary is almost totally covered by a fringed mantle and carries in his veiled left hand a rod with a curved end, while the other arm was probably raised in an acclamation gesture (Deckers 1973, 26 and note 107). He is identifiable as a person of markedly high status: the fringed mantle was usually worn by the highest-ranking military officers, including the emperors (Deckers 1973, 26; KalavrezouMaxeiner 1975, 236, with references to images of the Tetrarchic period),23 while the wooden stick he carries is seen, for instance, as an attribute of the most important character in the ‘Great Hunt’ mosaic at Piazza Armerina. The gaze and gestures of the dignitaries create a converging movement focusing on the centre of the scene. Here two emperors were most likely depicted, seated frontally on a double throne with their feet resting on two lavishly bejewelled footstools.24 Today only the corner of a footstool survives, supporting the purple and golden shoe of an emperor and the hem of his purple mantle; besides are traces of a dark-coloured fabric, perhaps a curtain. It is not possible to state with certainty that this composition was mirrored on the other side of the niche, but some figures of dignitaries comparable to those depicted in the eastern section make this reconstruction quite likely: both Wilkinson’s watercolours and the actual remains show some figures clad in yellow mantles decorated with embroidered pieces of fabric of various shapes (paragaudae framing the edges and other segmenta, in addition to the common orbiculi) and wearing black campagi. Here, too, one of the figures holds a wooden stick with curved end. The two parts of the main wall, therefore, probably depicted two audience scenes, featuring either all four members of the imperial college or the same two emperors replicated twice. Despite the poor preservation of the frescoes, some considerations about the emperors’ appearance and the overall interpretation of the scene can be made. The combination of purple mantle, precious shoes and the footstool decorated with gemstones is quite new in imperial representations. Before the Tetrarchic period, although the emperor’s superior status was often overtly remarked, his appearance

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remained essentially that of a magistrate, involved in various civil or military activities, usually assisted by members of his family and other high-ranking officials. This new extraordinary apparatus of insignia can be seen as a consequence of the sacralisation of the emperor and the reform of court ceremonial which the ancient sources ascribe to Diocletian (Alföldi 1970, 6–8; Kolb 2001, 38–46 and 171–175). The purple, gold and gemstones decorating the emperor’s clothes and attributes surrounded him with a sacral and luminous aura, aimed at visually removing his figure off the human sphere. The purple colour, previously materialised mainly in the paludamentum worn by the emperor in his capacity as military commander, became a distinctive mark of his figure. It is undoubtedly because of the relevance acquired by this colour that a workshop specialised in the production of porphyry sculptures was settled in Egypt, most likely under imperial patronage Fig. 4.3: Colossal porphyry statue of and control. Images of the emperors produced a togate emperor enthroned, from by this atelier, characterised by the melding of Alexandria. Porphyry. Egypt, ca. AD 300. Roman iconographies and a clearly Egyptian Alexandria, Graeco-Roman Museum, inv. stylistic overtone, were distributed throughout 5934 (photo: D-DAI-ROM-2550). the empire, primarily in the imperial residences.25 The innovation in the emperors’ robes and attributes found expression in this medium too. The two pairs of embracing emperors now walled in St Mark’s Basilica in Venice, for instance, display many gemstones set in their muscle-cuirasses and campagi, as well as lavishly bejewelled belts and scabbards (Plate 4.3).26 A colossal seated togate statue in Alexandria (Fig. 4.3) confirms the use of the throne as imperial attribute, around the same time as the Luxor frescoes: although the footrest is broken (regrettably, since it is the only element preserved in the paintings), the throne is decorated with rows of gemstones at its edges.27 The dramatic distance between the emperors and all other high-ranking officials, sanctioned by strict rules regulating the approach and access to their presence, is visually expressed in the Luxor frescoes through the larger proportions given to their figures and their isolation from all other participants in the scene.28 The sacralisation of the imperial figure also explains all those ritual gestures previously attested only in exceptional circumstances and now prescribed by the court ceremonial: for instance the ritual of the adoratio, which required the performer to bow down and kiss the hem of the emperor’s mantle. The officials’ veiled hands

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Fig. 4.4: Ceremonial plate celebrating emperor Theodosius’ decennalia. Silver. Thessalonica, AD 388. Madrid, Real Academia de la Historia, inv. 176 (© Real Academia de la Historia, España).

must be seen in light of this ritual practice: any object which entered in contact with the emperor partook of his sacredness, therefore could not be touched with bare hands (Alföldi 1970, 33–35; Marotta 1999, 81–87). This gesture, of which the Luxor frescoes provide the earliest surviving depiction, is also found, for instance, in the so-called ‘missorium’ of Theodosius, a silver dish donated by the emperor himself to some high-ranking official during the celebrations of his tenth year of rule in 388 (Fig. 4.4) (Almagro Gorbea et al. 2000; see also Guidetti in this volume, 219–221).29 Its decoration is divided in two scenes. The bottom one features Tellus and the Seasons,

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while the upper and larger one shows three emperors seated against an architectural background and accompanied by four armed guards. All three emperors, depicted frontally, wear the same richly embroidered costume, made of a long-sleeved tunic and a mantle fastened on the right shoulder with a bejewelled fibula. On their heads, encircled by nimbuses, they wear diadems decorated with pearls, which had become common as imperial insignia by the time of Constantine. The central and larger figure, undoubtedly to be identified as Theodosius, the commissioner and donor of the plate, is delivering the codicillum of office to a small dignitary, who uses his own mantle, fastened by a crossbow fibula, to veil his hands: his gesture and attire are exactly the same as those of the officials depicted in Luxor, although the costume of the Theodosian dignitary appears more lavishly decorated. The Theodosian silver plate depicts a well-defined circumstance, made easily recognisable by its inscription. By contrast, the scenes in Luxor, mainly because of their poor state of preservation, seem to escape any conclusive interpretation. It is unclear, for instance, if the dignitaries are gathering at the emperors’ feet in order to enjoy their generosity (namely, the bestowal of coins and donations) or because they are bringing gifts to the rulers: the decorated belts which some of them carry on their veiled hands may be interpreted either as offerings to the emperors or as gifts bestowed by the rulers to some officials.30 However, the interpretation of the scene as an illustration of imperial liberalitas is probably the most likely: images illustrating this virtue (which could be directed to Roman citizens, provincials and barbarians alike) are commonly found in monuments throughout the imperial period (Kloft 1970). An example close to the Luxor frescoes both in time and visual rendering is the last panel of the late antique frieze of the Arch of Constantine in Rome, erected by the Senate in 312–315 to celebrate the overthrowing of Maxentius (L’Orange and von Gerkan 1939, 89–102). The scene, representing the congiarium made on the first day of Constantine’s consulship (1 January 313), is similar to the Luxor paintings especially in the composition of its central part: the togate emperor, seated frontally on a high platform in the centre of the panel, pours coins to a senator who is holding out his toga to receive the money. It seems unlikely, on the other hand, that the scene in Luxor intended to represent the bearing of gifts to the emperors. The most common circumstances for such practice were the arrival of foreign embassies and the delivery of golden crowns (aurum coronarium) by certain communities on some specific occasions (for instance the emperor’s accession, a military victory or other events related to the imperial family): but no such episode can be recognised in the extant paintings.31 Other occurrences in which gifts were given to the emperor are scarcely attested in the literary sources because of their occasional nature, and it would be quite surprising to find one of them represented on a monumental scale. Indeed, apart from the two contexts just mentioned, the privilege of giving a gift to the emperor was probably limited to the most influential patrons and to exceptional circumstances. One known example is the ivory diptych of Probus, donated by the consul of 406 to the emperor Honorius (as stated by its inscription); the consecratio diptych may well have served

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a similar purpose, although its monogram tells us only the name of the patrons (the Symmachi), not that of the recipient (on both diptychs see Guidetti in this volume, with references to earlier literature). In short, the most plausible interpretation for the fresco on the south wall seems to be that of a scene of liberalitas. According to the occasion and recipients of the imperial generosity, this act might be differently labelled: in the case of Luxor, since it seems directed towards military officers, it should probably be called a donativum. In short, the frescoes of the cult chamber in Luxor represent at least two episodes of imperial ceremonial, namely an adventus (on the west wall, and perhaps on the east wall too, although the latter might also have depicted a different procession) and an audience scene (on the south wall). In theory, both ceremonies may have happened in Thebes itself on the occasion of an imperial visit. But such episodes are not necessarily to be contextualised in a local setting and, even so, their representation should not be taken at face value. While the procession with Diocletian’s chariot on the west wall may well have commemorated his arrival in Thebes, the likely presence of more than one emperor in the audience scene makes it difficult to interpret it as depicting an event which actually took place in a local setting, since the contemporary presence of two emperors in Egypt is never attested for the Tetrarchic period. Interestingly, the two scenes are marked by the use of different modes of representation (Kalavrezou-Maxeiner 1975, 235–236; cf. McFadden 2015b, 105–106). The processions feature overlapping figures of soldiers and horses characterised by a great variety of gestures and movements, resulting in an illusionist rendering of space in keeping with Hellenistic artistic tradition. The figures in the audience scene, by contrast, are arranged in superimposed registers around the emperors, whose hierarchical superiority is emphasised by their central position and larger proportions. This visual language, as is well known, will rapidly become the hallmark of late antique imperial representations.32

The imperial images in the niche The main focus of the whole room was the niche, measuring 5.50 m in height, 3.05 m in width. Its decoration (Plate  4.4) shows four larger-than-lifesize figures standing against a sky-blue background, clothed in purple garments worn on the bare skin, sandalled, holding attributes in their hands. These figures stand on a stripe of lightbrown ground, their shadows indicated by a darker colour. Their heads, encircled by yellow halos and now completely erased, were originally facing the viewers. Between the two central figures are the remains of a floating bust, nimbate and draped in a purple mantle. In the semi-dome above, an eagle flies with spread wings against a blue background holding a bejewelled golden crown in its claws (Plate 4.5). Each panel, on the niche wall and on the semi-dome, is separately framed by red stripes. The niche was enclosed by an architectural setting, probably a ciborium supported by four columns of red granite with limestone Corinthian capitals: it is not certain

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whether something (an altar, a throne or a statue) once stood in front of the niche under this structure.33 The figures depicted on the niche wall, first interpreted as images of saints due to their nimbuses, have been recognised by Monneret de Villard as the four members of the imperial college conventionally called ‘Tetrarchy’ (Monneret de Villard 1953, building on a suggestion already expressed by Lacau 1934, 45–46). Since the inscriptions on the tetrastyles honour two different quartets of emperors, however, the identity of the figures and the dating of the frescoes have been subject to debate. Most scholars agree in identifying the two central figures as the Augusti Diocletian and Maximian, accompanied by their respective Caesars, Constantius and Galerius (Monneret de Villard 1953, 101–102; Deckers 1973, 18–19; Kalavrezou-Maxeiner 1975, 244).34 The erasure of the third figure from the left strongly supports this interpretation: most probably, it originally represented Maximian, who fell into disgrace after his death in 310, to be rehabilitated and consecrated as divus by 317 or 318. Contrary to the crude removal of the emperors’ faces and the floating bust, which took away the painted surface and the plaster layers, exposing the masonry behind them, the erasure of this figure was carried out with great care in order to avoid any damage to the neighbouring ones, leaving the emperor’s faded image well visible next to his remaining colleagues: therefore, it must have happened in a period when the preservation of the paintings was still of some importance (Deckers 1973, 16–17 and note 53; cf. McFadden 2015a, 29–31 for the technical details of the erasure and a discussion about the condemned emperors Maximian and Maximinus Daia). A good parallel for this procedure is provided by the careful erasure of the figure of Geta on the Severan tondo now preserved in Berlin (on which more will be said below): in both cases, the erasure was not intended to delete the memory of the condemned person, but rather to visualise his disgraced status. Just as Geta’s bust and sceptre in the Severan tondo, the outline of Maximian’s faded shadow in the Luxor niche was left perfectly visible after the erasure of his figure, and his identity must have remained easily recognisable to every contemporary viewer. At first glance, the four emperors wear the same costume, but it is clear that their garments are differently arranged. The bad state of preservation of the paintings does not make the analysis of the draperies particularly easy, but some distinctions can be made. The robe of the Augusti is just draped around the body, probably starting from behind the left shoulder and going back again on it from the back; the remaining cloth falling from the left shoulder may have been wrapped around the left forearm (although this detail is not so clear). The mantle of the Caesars, by contrast, is fastened on the right shoulder with a bejewelled buckle, then draped across the chest and around the body, and finally wrapped around the left forearm. These purple garments have been generally interpreted as Greek mantles, more precisely himatia for the Augusti and chlamydes for the Caesars; their different characterisation, however, has found several possible explanations. According to Deckers, the Greek purple garments worn on the bare skin made the figures resemble statuary depictions of the emperor as a god: in his

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opinion, this was intended to suggest their divine status. Resuming this interpretation, Guidetti recently proposed that the costumes of the Luxor emperors may be linked to those worn by the senior deities, particularly Jupiter (Deckers 1973, 16 and 21–23; Guidetti 2018, 20).35 By contrast, Kalavrezou-Maxeiner and Kolb suggested that the choice of Greek clothes was due to the eastern context of the paintings.36 The idea that the geographical context played a role in the choice of the himation, however, seems quite unlikely. In fact, although some ancient sources attest the occasional use of the Graeca vestis by some emperors and members of their families in a Greek context, we have no evidence that any Roman ruler was ever depicted wearing the typical Greek costume, which in the imperial period had well-established civic and philosophical connotations.37 By contrast, Jupiter and other mythological figures, characterised by himatia and chlamydes draped in a great variety of arrangements, were widely used as models for imperial representations throughout the Roman world. Diocletian himself is depicted with the iconographic features of Jupiter in a bronze medallion minted in 287: the obverse, with the legend IOVIO DIOCLETIANO AVG(usto), shows the bust of the emperor, laureate, covered only by a mantle on his left shoulder and right arm (similar to depictions of Jupiter in contemporary coinage) and holding a long sceptre in his right hand.38 Legend and iconography together contribute to highlight Diocletian’s superiority over his colleague Maximian, who is depicted on the reverse in military costume, in the company of Hercules, both seated and crowned by Victory; the legend says HERCVLIO MAXIMIANO AVG(usto). Another version of the same medallion, now preserved in the Vatican, replaces Diocletian’s laurel crown with a corona radiata: the assimilation of the emperor to his divine counterpart is further emphasised by the legend IOVI DIOCLETIANO AVG(usto), expressly identifying Diocletian with his tutelary deity.39 In light of these parallels, the assimilation to the iconography of Jupiter remains the most likely interpretation also for the emperors depicted in the Luxor niche. Even if it cannot be linked to the most widespread statuary types (such as the enthroned Capitoline Jupiter or the standing Hüftmanteltypus), the costume worn by the figure of Diocletian in the Luxor niche shows some similarities to that of the so-called ‘Dresden Zeus’, a classical Greek statue from the second half of the 5th century BC known from Roman replicas mainly dating to the Antonine period (Knoll et al. 2011, 106–113). The statue depicts the god, standing and draped in a wide himation, with his right arm hanging down and the left one bent at the elbow. In this type, the mantle starts from the left shoulder and covers the lower part of the torso and much of the legs, with a triangular overfold hanging towards the left; then it covers all the back of the figure going up again to the left shoulder, from which its lower end hangs down the god’s left side. It is not possible to compare in detail the drapery worn by the figure of Diocletian with that of the Dresden Zeus, because of the bad state of preservation of the Luxor frescoes. However, the overall arrangement of the garment, with its end hanging down the left side and the right part of the chest left bare, can be linked to the 5th-century model; moreover, the figure of Diocletian wears a type of Greek sandal, the crepidae, commonly found in depictions of Jupiter. Apparently, the Dresden Zeus type was

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not a particularly popular choice for depictions of the emperor as Jupiter: its only attestation are two statues of the co-emperors Balbinus and Pupienus (who ruled together for some months in 238) found in the harbour of Piraeus.40 While the statue of Pupienus is too fragmentary to allow for an analysis of its drapery, that of Balbinus (Fig. 4.5) shows some variations with respect to the classical Greek model: the position of the arms is different, certainly because of the attributes it was intended to hold, and the himation is more voluminous, covering much of the torso and the left part of the chest. Both variations are also found in the figure of Diocletian in the Luxor frescoes; moreover, the remains of the painted surface and the outline of the figure seem to suggest that an identical costume was worn by Maximian too. Perhaps the best parallel for the mantle of the Augusti is provided by a statuette of Zeus from Cyrene (Fig. 4.6), itself loosely inspired by the Dresden Zeus, in which the overfold of the himation has been eliminated in favour, again, of a more extended covering of the body.41 The costume of the Caesars, by contrast, is a variant of the well-known Hüftmanteltypus, Fig. 4.5: Statue of the emperor Balbinus in which the Greek himation is replaced by the as Jupiter. Marble, AD 238. Athens, Roman military paludamentum, fastened with Archaeological Museum of Piraeus, inv. a buckle on the right shoulder, brought across 278 (photo: D-DAI-ATH-Piraeus-0123). the upper chest and then to the back round the left shoulder. This type is attested by a mid-1st century imperial statue from Megara (Fig. 4.7), depicting probably Claudius or Nero as Jupiter, as confirmed by the eagle next to the figure’s right foot.42 The statue features a voluminous garment, arranged on the shoulders like a commander’s mantle, then brought from the back to the front, where it covers the lower part of the torso and the legs, ending on the left forearm, from which it hangs down. Notably, the garment still shows some traces of crimson painting, suggesting that it was intended to appear purple-dyed. The choice of the paludamentum activated military associations in addition to those connected with the image of Jupiter;43 in the figures in Luxor, such associations may have been further enhanced by the high-laced sandals worn by the Caesars, whose red stripes are still visible today (more clearly in the figure on the right). The differences between the Luxor figures and the Megara statue, apart from the position of the right arm, are minimal but significant: in Luxor, the voluminous

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Fig. 4.6: Unfinished statuette of Zeus, from the sanctuary of the ‘Alexandrian gods’ in Cyrene. Parian (?) marble. Cyrene, Sculptures Museum, inv. 14.136 (after Paribeni 1959, pl. 59).

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Fig. 4.7: Statue of a Julio-Claudian emperor in Hüftmanteltypus, from Megara. Pentelic marble, mid-1st century AD. Athens, National Archaeological Museum, inv. 1759 (Photo: D-DAI-ROM-58.3243).

purple garment covers much more of the emperors’ bodies, as was the case also for the figures of the Augusti; moreover, the simple round brooch has been replaced by a golden bejewelled buckle with a large blue gemstone in the centre surrounded by minor ones of various colours. As was the case with the bejewelled footstool, the use of this precious buckle too may be linked to Diocletian’s reform of the imperial attire. The circular bejewelled fibula is seemingly unparalleled in contemporary Tetrarchic depictions, which usually display either the traditional round buckle or the crossbow fibula.44 Perhaps it can be interpreted as an intermediate step in the development of imperial insignia, halfway between the round buckle and the bejewelled fibulae with pearl pendants, which are found on Constantine’s coinage and will become a

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permanent imperial attribute later in the 4th century (Bastien 1992–1994, 403; cf. Bergmann 2018, 83–86 on the development and use of this type of buckles between the 3rd and 4th century). On the other hand, the possibility remains open that the pendants were originally present in the paintings, but then disappeared due to their poor conditions of preservation. In sum, the arrangement of the emperors’ garments in the niche is most likely based on two different models, both used to depict the emperor in the guise of Jupiter. If this interpretation is right, the Luxor images are in keeping with a long-established tradition providing an effective visual tool to express the emperor’s position as ruler of the world and ultimate source of authority. The two statues of Balbinus and Pupienus confirm that the use of Jupiter types was deemed appropriate also to depict co-emperors. The two different costumes of the Augusti and the Caesars, however, still require an explanation. The Caesars’ garments, with their military associations, may have been chosen to indicate that they had an active role in warfare. In fact, they were appointed as members of the imperial college precisely to take care of two war fronts: Constantius was immediately entrusted with the suppression of the revolt caused by Carausius in Britain, while Galerius conducted the war against the Persians. This differentiation of roles within the imperial college is found elsewhere in Tetrarchic art. It is shown, for example, by two reliefs decorating the arch erected to celebrate the Persian victory of Galerius in his city of residence, Thessalonica.45 The first relief (Laubscher B I 17), located on the eastern side of pier B, was immediately visible on the right for those going from the city towards the imperial palace (Fig. 4.8) (Laubscher 1975, 52–57; Pond Rothman 1977, 440–442; Engemann 1979, 155–156; Meyer 1980, 400–406). The focus of the scene is Galerius pouring a libation on an altar, whose sides are decorated with images of Jupiter and Hercules. The Caesar wears a

Fig. 4.8: Thanksgiving sacrifice of Galerius and Diocletian. Thessalonica, Arch of Galerius, relief B I 17. AD 298–305 (photo: Hermann Wagner, D-DAI-ATH-Thessaloniki-0221 [detail]).

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cuirass and a fringed mantle, resting on the left shoulder and brought from the back onto the left arm. On the opposite side of the altar, and taking part in the ritual, is Diocletian, dressed with a tunic and a fringed mantle, fastened on the right shoulder and covering most of his figure. The emperors are surrounded by the attendants to the sacrifice and by a group of personifications, who can be identified with the help of the extant inscriptions as (from left to right) Aion, Oikoumene, Homonoia and Eirene; the whole scene is framed by two trophies placed at opposite ends of the panel. The relief has been interpreted as depicting the sacrifice of thanksgiving for the victory over the Persians, held in Antioch in 298. Raeck correctly recognised that the emperors wear two different military costumes, corresponding to their different roles in the management of the war: while Galerius wears a battle cuirass, appropriate for his role as commander of the troops at the front, Diocletian has a parade military dress typically used by high-ranking military leaders when not directly involved in fighting. The different costumes, in other words, confirm that the Augustus kept for himself the leading role, while his Caesar took a more active part in warfare, putting into effect the Augustus’ orders. The same characterisation, obtained by different means, is found in a relief on the northern side of pier B (Laubscher B II 21), at the same level of the previous one, but even more visible because of its position along the road leading to the city (Laubscher 1975, 69–78; Pond Rothman 1977, 444; Engemann 1979, 156–157; Meyer 1980, 416–422; Guidetti 2018, 14–16).46 The scene (Fig. 4.9) features in the centre the two Augusti, each crowned by a Victory, seated above the busts of two personifications with billowing mantles, identifiable as Heaven and Earth (Terra). Diocletian, on the left, has a long sceptre in his left hand and (most likely) a globe in his right; Maximian, on the right, has a short sceptre in his left hand, while the attribute in his right is now lost. Besides the seated Augusti are the Caesars, both standing, each of them raising up

Fig. 4.9: The cosmic rulership of Diocletian and his colleagues. Thessalonica, Arch of Galerius, panel B II 21. AD 298–305 (photo: Hermann Wagner, D-DAI-ATH-Thessaloniki-0387 [detail]).

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a female personification: the latter are probably to be interpreted as the provinces of Britannia and Mesopotamia, won back to the Roman Empire by Constantius and Galerius, respectively, in 296 and 297. The four rulers are surrounded by the tutelary deities of Rome, arranged in symmetrical couples at their sides: Sarapis and Jupiter, the Dioscuri, Virtus and Mars, Isis and Fortuna. At the extremities of the panel are the lying figures of Ocean and Tethys, on the left, and of Earth (Tellus), accompanied by the four Seasons, on the right. The scene is a symbolic representation of the Tetrarchic rule over the whole universe, now set in order and peace thanks to the imperial actions, sanctioned by the favour of the gods. The differentiation of roles within the imperial college is expressed here not by the emperors’ costumes (they all wear the same long-sleeved tunics and mantles), but by their gestures: the Caesars, involved in the restitution of the provinces, are those entrusted with action, while the seated Augusti keep the leadership over the world. In the Luxor frescoes, too, the attributes held by the emperors express their qualities and contribute to specifying the hierarchy within the imperial college, which is also suggested by their respective positions within the group; moreover, the figures of the Caesars are slightly (ca. 10 cm) smaller than those of the Augusti (although this may be due also to the need for optical adjustments). The long golden sceptre held by Diocletian in his right hand clearly indicates that he possesses the highest authority. This attribute traditionally expresses supreme sovereignty and is closely linked to the iconography of Jupiter, the king of the gods and ruler of the universe (Alföldi 1970, 228–235; Bastien 1992–1994, 419–434, esp. 426–428). In fact, the adoption of the Jupiter scheme for the emperor resulted also in the use of the long sceptre as a recurrent imperial attribute, even when his image was not actually modelled after that of the supreme god. Frequently associated with the sceptre, the globe, borne by the emperor in his left hand, was traditionally used to represent the universe and became an established attribute of Jupiter as well during the imperial period (Schlachter 1927; Alföldi 1970, 235–238; Bastien 1992–1994, 491–526, esp. 498–507).47 Unlike the long sceptre, the globe could also be replicated more than once, to indicate the shared responsibility for the well-being of the world: this is the case, for instance, of the Vatican Tetrarchs, each holding a globe in his left hand. Together, the sceptre and globe visually express Diocletian’s position as senior emperor and world ruler. The use of the long sceptre to indicate Diocletian’s superior position is not limited to Luxor. The abovementioned relief B II 21 on the Arch of Galerius depicts all four emperors, but only one of them holds the long sceptre, and therefore must be identified as Diocletian; notably, his position within the imperial college is the same as in Luxor – namely, the right figure in the central couple. Later, the same convention is found again in the ‘missorium’ of Theodosius (Fig. 4.4). The central position and larger dimension of the figure of Theodosius within the depiction must not mislead the interpretation: after all, he was the commissioner of the plate and the only adult member of the imperial college. But the different insignia clearly indicate where seniority of rank lay: namely, in the hands of the emperor on the left. He holds a globe in

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his left hand and the long sceptre in his right, and must therefore be identified as the senior Augustus Valentinian II. Arcadius, on the opposite side, has a globe, indicating his status as co-sharer of power over the world, but neither he nor Theodosius are entitled to hold the long sceptre, attribute of supreme sovereignty. Unfortunately, it is not possible to give a proper account of the attributes of Maximian in the Luxor fresco, but the position of his arms excludes that he held a long sceptre; perhaps he had a globe in his right hand, matching that carried by Diocletian.48 The Caesar on the left holds a rotulus in his left hand, while the other attribute is no longer visible. Since the right arm points downwards, it is possible that he had a patera, usually associated with the rotulus in sacrifice scenes.49 The Caesar on the right bears a laurel branch in his right hand and, most likely, a military standard in his left: close to his shoulder are the remains of a rectangular piece of pink fabric with brown decorations. The two attributes are symbols of victory and martial prowess respectively, bolstering the military associations already evoked by the paludamentum. While these attributes are commonly found in imperial representations already in the first centuries AD, the nimbus is quite new. Generally found in depictions of gods as expression of their luminous presence, it was used only occasionally in relation to the emperor before the Tetrarchic period, both in Rome and the provinces (Collinet-Guérin 1961; Ahlqvist 1990).50 It is first attested on the reverse of aurei and sesterces minted in Rome, representing the emperor Antoninus Pius, cuirassed, holding a branch and a spear, his head encircled by a radiate nimbus. This peculiar kind of nimbus is probably a reference to the phoenix, which was depicted with the same type of halo: just as the appearance of the legendary bird signalled the beginning of a new era, so Antoninus’ principate marked the beginning of a new golden age.51 The first occurrence of a plain disc of light surrounding the emperor’s head is in a fragmentary fresco depicting the apotheosis of Marcus Aurelius, decorating the semi-dome of the apse in the western portico of the temple of Hercules at Sabratha (modern Libya) (Caputo and Ghedini 1984, 36–68). The emperor, carried by an eagle against a blue starry sky, is clothed in a purple garment, holds a long sceptre and bears a jewelled golden crown on his head, which is surrounded by a light-blue nimbus and framed by a billowing garment behind it. Here the nimbus highlights the divine epiphany of the newly recognised god of Rome, the Divus Marcus Antoninus Pius. Afterwards, the nimbus is found on the reverse of a very rare aureus minted in Rome for Geta, probably on the occasion of his first consulship in 205 (RIC IV.1, 319 no. 37d (AD 205–208); Bastien 1992–1994, 171): Geta is represented on horseback as princeps iuventutis, followed by two young knights. Here, the halo marks the majesty of the emperor’s son distinguishing him from his companions. From the end of the 3rd century onwards, however, the nimbus starts to be a recurring element in imperial representations. Diocletian and Maximian are depicted with their heads encircled by nimbuses on a lead medallion, most likely the model for a gold multiple, dated to the last years of the 3rd century.52 On a gold medallion struck in Trier to celebrate the consulship of Constantius and Galerius in 305, the two

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togate emperors pouring a libation on a portable altar in front of a tetrastyle temple have their heads encircled by nimbuses (RIC VI, 168 no. 35; Bastien and Metzger 1977, 137–138, nos. 393–394). The emergence of the nimbus as a characteristic feature of imperial iconography during the Tetrarchic period is probably best explained as a further expression of the sacralisation of the emperor, whose bejewelled clothes and attributes contributed to surrounding his figure with a luminous, divine halo (Guidetti 2018, 17–18 and 20). This visual effect is brilliantly conveyed by the anonymous author of Panegyrici Latini 10, given at Trier in 289 in honour of Maximian, through the expression ‘illa lux divinum verticem claro orbe complectens’ (Paneg. 10.3.2: ‘that light which surrounds your divine head with a shining orb’). Here the orator develops his discourse about the emperor’s divine appearance taking as his starting point the light effectively cast by the golden and bejewelled imperial insignia (in this case perhaps a radiate crown) and transfiguring it into a veritable halo of supernatural light surrounding the ruler’s head (Nixon and Saylor Rodgers 1994, 58 note 15). The nimbus encircling the emperors’ heads in Luxor, therefore, may be interpreted as further emphasising the characterisation of the imperial figures as divine epiphanies. Two elements in the decoration of the niche remain to be analysed: the floating bust between the figures of Diocletian and Maximian and the eagle in the semi-dome above them. Despite its desperate state of preservation, some details of the former are still discernible: the bust is draped in a purple mantle and has a yellow nimbus around its head, on which some traces of greenish-coloured pointy shapes may be recognised, perhaps the leaves of a crown. The identity of the figure is debated, but it can probably be interpreted as Jupiter.53 The king of the gods is frequently depicted nimbate and purple-mantled, for instance in a painting from the Casa dei Dioscuri in Pompeii.54 Jupiter was from the very beginning the protector and auctor of Diocletian’s power, as shown already in the coinage proclaiming his elevation as Augustus (Kolb 2001, 143–145).55 Then, the god became the protector of the two Augusti and finally of the whole imperial college (Kolb 1987, 88–114, suggesting that all four emperors were considered kin to Jupiter; cf. also Fears 1977, 296–299). The best parallel for the scene depicted in Luxor, where Jupiter occupies the central place among the four emperors, is provided by the monument known in archaeological literature as the Fünfsäulendenkmal, erected in the Roman Forum in 303 for the celebrations of the 20th anniversary of the Augusti and the 10th of the Caesars (L’Orange 1938; Kähler 1964; see now Marlowe 2016, convincingly arguing for senatorial patronage). This monument can be reconstructed on the basis of its depiction in the adlocutio relief of the late antique frieze of the Arch of Constantine: it was composed of five granite Corinthian columns erected on sculpted marble bases and crowned by statues. Four of them represented the emperors, with their togas draped in 1st-century fashion (similar to that of the sacrificing emperor depicted on the only extant column base of the monument), most likely holding a patera in their right hands and a rotulus in their left. The four imperial statues were arranged on both sides of the central image of Jupiter in hip-mantle, holding a long sceptre and another attribute, perhaps a globe

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or a thunderbolt. Of all Tetrarchic monuments, this is the only one that certainly depicted the emperors and Jupiter together.56 Therefore, if the identification of the floating bust as Jupiter is accepted, the paintings in Luxor would be the second visual document attesting to the god’s role as patron of the whole imperial college. As to the question whether the presence of Jupiter in Luxor resonated also with the memory of the temple as cultic place of Amun (of whom Zeus was the Greek equivalent, as shown by the Greek name of Thebes, Diospolis), it is impossible to definitely prove it in the absence of any supporting evidence. The composition in the niche is surmounted by a giant eagle with spread wings, holding a golden bejewelled crown with wavy fillets hanging from it (Plate 4.5). The crown is made of leaves, which, because of the badly preserved state of the painting (but perhaps also of its execution), seem to escape precise botanical classification – although their outline, and the apparent absence of the acorns typical of oak wreaths, may favour an interpretation as laurel.57 The crown is decorated with five gemstones: a blue oval one in the centre, followed on each side by two green ones, one rectangular and one oval. The presence of several gemstones may be linked to their widespread use in the late antique imperial attire. As the animal sacred to Jupiter, the eagle is usually depicted close to him, sometimes with a crown; when depicted alone, it can symbolise both the king of the gods and Rome. In Roman art, the motif of the eagle holding a wreath with both claws dates back at least to the beginning of the imperial period: its first occurrence is found on an aureus struck in Ephesus under Augustus, whose reverse shows an eagle with spread wings in front of two laurel trees, holding a corona civica (RIC I, 62 no. 22: Alföldi 1970, 130; Zanker 1987, 98–99).58 The same image of an eagle holding an oak or laurel wreath in its claws or (more often) its beak is then found on various media, especially coinage.59 A close parallel for the painting in Luxor is provided again by the Arch of Galerius in Thessalonica, specifically by the battle scene positioned right above the aforementioned relief with the four emperors (Laubscher B II 20) (Fig. 4.10) (Laubscher 1975, 64–69; Pond Rothman 1977, 442–443; Meyer 1980, 414–416). In the centre of the panel the emperor, cuirassed and mounted on a rearing horse, thrusts his spear towards a Persian enemy on horseback, usually identified as King Narses; all around them the battle is raging on. On the upper cornice of the panel, shaped as a wreath made of laurel leaves and decorated with ribbons, an eagle hovers above the emperor’s head holding a crown in its claws.60 The composition illustrates the emperor’s military prowess and highlights the victory attributed to him by the gods, as signalled by Jupiter’s eagle crowning him with a wreath. In Luxor, the eagle hovers above all four emperors, expressing their status of perpetual conquerors and the divine sanction of their rule. To sum up, the paintings in the niche at Luxor display a melding of traditional and innovative iconographic elements, adjusted to fit the representation of the new collegial rulership headed by Diocletian. The emperors’ costumes show the continuity with time-honoured models, to which both artists and patrons could refer in order

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Fig. 4.10: The victory over the Persians. Thessalonica, Arch of Galerius, panel B II 20. AD 298–305 (photo: Hermann Wagner, D-DAI-ATH-Thessaloniki-0384 [detail]).

to express the divine qualities of the rulers, further specified (as customary) by their attributes. The use of costumes to suggest differences in rank and function is not unparalleled in imperial representations:61 here the attributes, quite traditional in themselves, are chosen with the aim of singling out the senior member of the imperial college, whose authority surpasses that of his colleagues. As has been shown, this focus on the senior Augustus, as well as the use of nimbuses and the iconography of divine sanction conveyed by the crowning eagle, are found also in other contemporary imperial images. The eagle motif is cleverly adapted to the display of the four rulers as a group, thanks to its position in the semi-dome above the niche: in this way, it concisely expresses a meaning quite similar to that conveyed by the tutelary deities surrounding the four emperors on the Arch of Galerius. The floating bust in the centre, if its identification as Jupiter is correct, further connects the Luxor frescoes to the visual network of imperial ideology. Within the wider framework of contemporary Tetrarchic representations, however, the images in the Luxor niche are quite unique. Indeed, the use of divine iconographies for both the Augusti and the Caesars is not otherwise attested. When depicted together, Diocletian and his colleagues usually wear the cuirass (sometimes decorated with gemstones) or the long-sleeved tunic with the mantle, according to the context (Deckers 1973, 21; cf. Rees 1993; Hekster et al. 2019, 618–626). There are, however, some peculiar instances: for example, when represented performing a sacrifice in Rome (in the Fünfsäulendenkmal) the emperors wear old-fashioned 1st-century togas according to the traditional ritual habit of the capital. Similarly, the choice of Jupiter types in Luxor is most likely the result of the particular local context and function of the images. In many temples of the imperial period, but also in domestic sanctuaries

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such as the lararia, a niche, an apse or an aedicula was the place where the cult statues were located (on the meaning of the apse see Brenk 2010). From this point of view, the Luxor paintings may have resonated with another set of imperial portraits, most probably statuettes or busts, placed within the niche as cult images: a very similar configuration is common in Roman lararia, where the cult statuettes of the Lares were often accompanied by paintings depicting the same household gods on the walls inside or adjacent to the niche (Giacobello 2008; Flower 2017). The choice of iconographic schemes of Jupiter, together with the architectural context, the frontality of the imperial images and the nimbuses around their heads, unambiguously mark out the emperors as gods, majestically appearing to the viewers who approached the cult chamber to worship the divine rulers of the world.

The Luxor frescoes and the visual culture of late Roman Egypt The new arrangement of the temple of Luxor resulted in a fortified area marked out by the juxtaposition of Graeco-Roman and Egyptian elements, the former becoming more and more prominent as one proceeds towards the imperial cult chamber: in contrast to the rest of the sanctuary, this space received a whole new decoration, which obliterated the reliefs made under Amenhotep III. This juxtaposition of different visual languages within the same architectural context was not really new in Roman Egypt: the cityscape of many Egyptian centres in the Graeco-Roman period would have shown the viewers the consequences of their multi-layered cultural history. Egyptian and Classical elements were also used together in the decoration of funerary monuments (both in Alexandria and the rest of Egypt) and sometimes of temple spaces.62 In the city of Kellis in the Dakhla Oasis, for example, a mudbrick structure, probably a mammisi (birth-temple of the god), added to the temple of Tutu in the 2nd century was painted with a mixture of both visual languages: the dado was decorated in imitation of stonework panels, while the upper part featured depictions of the local gods according to the traditional Egyptian iconographies and accompanied by hieroglyphic inscriptions (Kaper 1997). From the point of view of the juxtaposition of two different styles, therefore, late antique Luxor was not a unique site. Concerning the image of the ruler, however, the distance with past practices becomes more striking. The obliteration of the old images of the pharaohs with the new Tetrarchic frescoes is seemingly unprecedented and may look surprising if one considers that the rest of the temple still retained its earlier decoration. Indeed, royal images depicted according to the traditional visual language were undoubtedly the most common in Egyptian temples also in the Roman period. As had happened during the Persian and Macedonian dominations, the Roman rulers too had been integrated into the ancient royal tradition: the Egyptian religious system and world-view needed a pharaoh who, as mediator between the gods and humanity, maintained the cosmic order through the perpetuation of the rituals. The Roman emperors received their hieroglyphic royal titularies, updated during and even after their reigns (for instance in case the

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so-called ‘damnatio memoriae’ was carried out), and were represented as pharaohs in temple reliefs, stelae and sometimes statues.63 Over time, however, Classical elements also entered these sanctuaries, probably because their visual language had become familiar to many, if not most, viewers: the paintings representing Egyptian gods in Graeco-Roman guise, coming for the most part from the Fayyum region, are one famous instance of this phenomenon (Rondot 2013).64 Imperial images in this style, however, are scarcely attested in Egyptian temples. The famous tondo representing the Severan family may have been one of those small images (εἰκονίδια) of Caracalla and his parents set up in some temples of the Oxyrhynchite and Kynopolites nomes as votive offerings, as mentioned in a list of temple properties dated to the early 3rd century (P. Oxy. XII 1449; cf. Heinen 1991). The tondo, recut in the modern period from a square or rectangular board, depicts Septimius Severus, his wife Julia Domna and their two sons, Antoninus and Geta.65 The three male emperors are clothed in white garments embroidered with purple and gold stripes; all three hold long sceptres and bear golden crowns decorated with three jewels each (as can be recognised also for Geta’s erased head). The representation of garments and insignia is wholly Roman, but the imperial family is probably seen through the eyes of the locals who commissioned the piece; they apparently considered the three male emperors as equal in rank, even if the painting was most likely produced on the occasion of an imperial visit to Egypt in 199–200, when Geta was only Caesar.66 Unfortunately, the aforementioned list does not provide any clue as regards the architecture of the temples in which such images were dedicated – namely, whether they were built in Egyptian or Graeco-Roman style: therefore, the question of how far Egyptian-style sanctuaries accommodated images of the emperors depicted in the Graeco-Roman visual language (as we know they did with representations of the local gods) must remain open. All the evidence we have is reduced to a handful of bases of lost bronze statues.67 In any case, Classical-style images of the emperors never replaced the representations of the pharaohs in the reliefs of the old temples, precisely because the latter had a fundamental ritual role. For this reason, the obliteration of the old reliefs of Amenhotep III with the new frescoes in Luxor may be seen as the most telling evidence of the change of function that the temple underwent in Late Antiquity. At that time, probably very few centres still produced images of the Roman emperors as pharaohs, and they were linked to the continuity of long-standing and very popular cultic activities. For instance, in the city of Hermonthis, just 15 km south of Luxor on the west bank of the Nile, the burials of the local sacred bull (called Buchis) were still marked by funerary hieroglyphic stelae with the account of the animal’s life and the image of the offering pharaoh. One of the last ones is dated to the 12th year of Diocletian’s reign. Interestingly, while the figure of the pharaoh is left unnamed (as happens on other stelae of Buchis dated to the 2nd and 3rd century), the dating formula mentions also the 11th year of Maximian and the 4th of the Caesars Constantius and Galerius, showing that the traditional regnal formula

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was adjusted to the new format attested by contemporary Greek documents. All four names are encircled by a royal cartouche, indicating that all four were equally considered pharaohs.68 The quality of the execution and layout of the hieroglyphic text, however, is definitely lower than in the stelae dated to the 1st and 2nd century: this may suggest a lack of demand of such traditional products and a decrease in the number of skilled artisans and scribes learned in the hieroglyphic script and capable to keep the old standards. As has been shown, the images of the emperors in Luxor are in keeping with contemporary iconography of the imperial college and the reforms of court ceremonial. In the highly connected late Roman world, the presence of such depictions in a provincial city like Thebes hardly needs justification: in the 4th century, the wide outreach of Roman visual language and its consistency throughout the empire is apparent, in terms of both common themes and iconographies, and the shared elite culture they imply. A good example from an even more peripheral context is provided by the paintings of the so-called ‘House of Serenos’ in the settlement of Trimithis (modern Amheida) in the Dakhla Oasis (Montagno Leahy 1980; McFadden 2019, with references to earlier literature). The decoration, dated around the mid-4th century, was executed in tempera on a layer of dry plaster (a secco) – a very common technique for wall painting in Egypt. The wall decoration of room 1, probably a reception hall, was divided in two sections: the lower zone contained panels with varied geometrical designs, similar to those found in many late antique mosaics and textiles; the upper level featured a range of scenes of various sizes, some of them arranged in a narrow register and framed by a dark-coloured stripe. On the eastern wall, a long and narrow scene showed an enthroned city personification and a group of Olympian gods witnessing the adultery of Ares and Aphrodite. This scene attests to a remarkable attention to the three-dimensional rendering of space, achieved by arranging the figures on different levels, with partial overlappings. This suggests that the artists not only had access to high-quality Hellenistic models, similar (for instance) to those of the roughly contemporary mosaics of the so-called ‘House of Aion’ in Paphos (Cyprus) (Bowersock 1990, 4–5 and 49–52), but were also able to internalise and appropriate them, at least to a certain point. Despite their undeniable local flavour, the paintings in Amheida attest to the reception of shared themes, iconographies and stylistic features in an apparently peripheral area: in other words, they bear witness to the wide circulation of models, pattern books and most probably artists in late antique Egypt. This bears some consequences for another key issue: namely, the provenance of the workshop which created the frescoes in Luxor. Scholars have remarked their apparent lack of connection with local visual culture, from the point of view of both style and technique: indeed, the parallels examined above show that such paintings could actually have been found anywhere in the late Roman Empire. For this reason, it has been suggested that the Luxor frescoes were made by artists associated with the imperial court or the army (McFadden 2015b, 107).69 Surely, the audience scenes

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with their up-to-date imperial insignia indicate that the workshop was well aware of the latest developments in court ceremonial and imperial representation. This, however, does not necessarily mean that the artists were connected to a centre of imperial power: the enhanced mobility of the Tetrarchic emperors resulted in a much wider dissemination of their representational practices, both in visual media and in actual ritual performances, than it was the case when the emperors resided mostly in Rome. Through the proliferation of new, more or less temporary cities of residence, the rulers’ mobility also helped the development of a polycentric system of artistic production, establishing that visual network of imperial ideology which caused, for instance, porphyry statues with definitely Egyptian stylistic features to enter some cityscapes in Asia Minor, the Balkans, and even Rome itself. Once we acknowledge the polycentric character of late antique visual culture, and if we keep in mind how much evidence has been lost especially in terms of monumental painting, the idea that the Luxor frescoes might have been produced by an Egyptian workshop becomes, in my opinion, much less problematic. From the technical point of view, despite the predominance of the a secco technique in Egyptian wall painting, we must note that frescoes are also attested, not only in the funerary paintings of Alexandria, but also in more peripheral contexts such as the oases.70 A house built along the processional road of the main temple in Kysis (modern Tell Dush), in the Kharga Oasis, was decorated in the early 4th century with frescoes (most likely unfinished). The paintings feature three figures whose identification is quite difficult, since only their lower part is preserved (Gehad et al. 2013). The artists who created them most likely came from outside the area of the western desert, but (given the peripheral position of Kysis within the cultural and communication network of the late Roman world) probably not from outside the Egyptian provinces. In the same way, the artists who painted the frescoes in Luxor, too, may well have come from Egypt itself: maybe from the provincial capital Antinoopolis, or even from Alexandria. At the same time, of course, we cannot exclude that they came from elsewhere in the empire: since any comparable evidence from Egypt (or, for that matter, the rest of the Roman world) is lacking, at the present state of our knowledge the question of the geographical origin of the workshop cannot receive a final answer. In whatever way the transmission of these images actually happened, the frescoes in Luxor clearly attest to the integration of late antique Thebes into an empire-wide cultural and visual koiné, whose hallmark is surely the use of shared iconographies, but which in this particular case also extends to the stylistic language and, at least to some extent, the technique of execution. From this point of view, the paintings represent a new chapter in the history of Egyptian integration in the cultural and artistic dynamics of the Mediterranean world. Using a set of iconographies well attested all over the empire, the images of Diocletian and his colleagues in Luxor visualised, in their provincial context, those new ideas about imperial authority which were rapidly developing throughout the late Roman world.

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Acknowledgements I am grateful to Fabio Guidetti and Katharina Meinecke for their comments on previous drafts of this paper. I also wish to thank Elke Noppes and Gertrud Lingens-Leser for having shared with me the photos by Karl H. Leser, which were really helpful to better grasp some details of the paintings at an early stage of this work. Finally, I express my immense gratitude to the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago and the staff of the Epigraphic Survey, particularly W. Raymond Johnson, Brett McClain and Krisztián Vértes, who generously granted me the use of their photos for this publication. Unless otherwise stated, all dates are to be intended AD.

Notes

1. The surviving imperial depictions of the Tetrarchic period are conveniently assembled and discussed in Boschung and Eck 2006; to these one must add the reliefs recently found in Nicomedia, on which see Şare Ağtürk 2018. For more references on Tetrarchic imperial representations see below. 2. On the Opet festival, especially on its late history, see Waitkus 2013; cf. Klotz 2012, 386–388 specifically on the evidence from the Roman period. On the local cult of Amun see Bell 1985, who argued for a strong connection between the god and the ruler cult, focused on the worship of the royal ka, a generative and immanent force shared by all the pharaohs. Against this widespread interpretation see now Waitkus 2008. 3. It is not possible to dwell here upon this debated issue, or upon the role the cult of Amun may have played in the late antique reuse of the temple: most recently Klotz (2012, 376–379, 388), followed by Heidel and Johnson (2015, 48–54), argued for continuity, but see Smith (2017, 520–523) for good arguments against this often repeated hypothesis. The story of the martyrdom of Dalcina, Sophronius and Shenotom in the version preserved by the Luxor synaxarion (Legrain 1914, 9–17), stating that people made sacrifices in honour of the divine idols and the genius of Caesar in the old temple of Amun, is the only source suggesting the persistence of the cult until the early 4th century. Other versions of the story, however, lack any references to the temple or the emperor’s genius; the addition of these details in the Luxor synaxarion can be the result of influences by later oral traditions: Serdiuk 2013, 127–129. 4. The most recent discussion of the tetrastyles is provided by Ulrich Gehn in the Last Statues of Antiquity database (http://laststatues.classics.ox.ac.uk, last accessed: 12/03/2020): see LSA-2626 to LSA-2629 for the West tetrastyle, LSA-2621 to LSA-2624 for the East tetrastyle. 5. The date of Galerius’ campaign, however, seems too early for the West Tetrastyle: most likely the works were prompted by Diocletian’s first visit to Egypt (the second one, in 301, was probably limited to Alexandria). On imperial visits to Egypt in the Tetrarchic period see Barnes 1976, 180–182; Bowman 1978, 26–28. 6. The bases of three statues dedicated to Constantine by the dux Valerius Rometalca are known, but only two of them have a Theban provenance (LSA-1180 and LSA-2630, the latter found on the northern wall of Amenhotep III’s court), while a third one may be from Alexandria (LSA1179). The bases of the two statues dedicated by Valerius Evethius to Constantius (LSA-2631) and Galerius (LSA-2629) were found to the west of the Ramesside court. 7. The idea of a civic centre was advanced by Legrain (1917) and followed by Lacau (1934, 43–46). The much more successful interpretation as a military camp was first suggested by Monneret de Villard (1953, 95–105), who interpreted the painted room as a chamber dedicated to the cult of the military standards and the emperors, and has been accepted by all subsequent scholars: see e.g. Deckers 1973, 2–8; Deckers 1979, 603–608; El-Saghir et al. 1986.

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8. The first scholar who explicitly interpreted the mention of κάστρα as indication of the existence of military camps was Deckers (1979, 603 and note 15), based on the words of Lacau (which, however, may be somewhat confusing, since he labelled the two halves of the fortified area as ‘villes’, ‘villes fortifiés’, ‘camps’, ‘castra’); his suggestion was then followed by El-Saghir et al. (1986, 23–24 and 33–34) and Speidel (2009, 671). 9. Lampe 1961, s.v. κάστρον. Łajtar (1997, 44–45) argued for a differentiation between κάστρον and κάστρα, the latter used exclusively for military camps between the 3rd and the 5th century; against this strict distinction Bagnall 2001, 7–9. 10. Interestingly, as noted by Legrain (1917, 54) and Otto (1952, 44) two Arabo-Coptic lists of bishoprics identify the city of Thebes by means of other toponyms referring to the word κάστρον: ⲐⲎⲂⲞⲚ – ⲠⲒⲄ̅ ⲚⲔⲀⲤⲦⲢⲞⲚ – ⲠⲞⲖⲒⲤ ⲔⲀⲤⲦⲈⲢⲞⲚ – ‫الثالث مضال األقصرين‬, meaning ‘Thebes’ – ‘the three castles’ – ‘the city of the castles’ – ‘the three labyrinths of Luxor’ (the word maḍalla, tentatively translated as ‘labyrinth’ by Otto, indicates a place where it is not possible to find one’s bearings); cf. Peust 2010, 57–58. Perhaps the ‘three castles’ refer to the old precincts of Amun (with the attached one of Montu) and Mut in Karnak, and of Amun in Luxor. 11. As admitted also by Monneret de Villard (1953, 98). Other fortified Tetrarchic sites which were not military camps are, for example, Gamzigrad (Popović 2011) and Šarkamen (Popović 2005). The layout of all these complexes may indeed have been inspired from military architecture, but their main function was residential. 12. Speidel and Pavkovic (1989) suggested that the camp may have hosted the legio II Flavia Constantia and the legio I Maximiana, both raised by Galerius during his Egyptian campaign in 293. But, as already noted by El-Saghir et al. (1986, 24), the area of the complex, of ca. 3.72 ha, would have been able to accommodate a garrison of maximum 1500 soldiers, that is, only a detachment of a late 3rd-century legion, depending on its type and size. On the difficulty of calculating the size of the Diocletianic legions see Bowman 1978, 30–33 (who at note 47 suggests that the legio I Maximiana could have numbered about 6000 soldiers); Duncan-Jones 1978, 552–556. 13. See for instance the προσκύνημα of Ptollion, physician of a legionary cohort, and the dedication to Septimius Severus by the cohors II Thracum under the prefect Ulpius Primianus (195–196): El-Saghir et al. 1986, 115–116 and 121, nos. 37 and 52; cf. Smith 2017, 522 for the date of Ptollion’s inscription. 14. LSA-2255, 2257, 2258. 15. Monneret de Villard (1953, 100–101) also mentioned some evidence from Lambaesis to support his interpretation of Luxor as a military camp. In his opinion, the presence in Luxor of two statues of Constantine erected by the same official might find a parallel from the Numidian site, dated to the 2nd century, when Lambaesis was still just a military camp: close to the sacellum of the standards, the primipili of the legion erected two statues to Hadrian, two to Antoninus Pius and one to Commodus. The different rank and function of the dedicators with respect to Luxor, however, cannot be overlooked. 16. On the technique of the Luxor paintings, see De Cesaris, Sucato and Ricchi 2015, 90–94. 17. For detailed descriptions see Deckers 1973, 8–14 and 25–28; McFadden 2015b, 108–126. 18. Other Egyptian examples, dated to Hellenistic and Roman times, are mentioned by Monneret de Villard (1953, 91) and Whitehouse (2010, 1022–1028); cf. also some tomb paintings from Tuna el-Gebel, the necropolis of Hermopolis Magna, illustrated in Lembke et al. 2004, 59–62, figs 104–108. 19. The paintings of the funerary church, however, show a slightly different decoration of the rectangular panels: their closest parallel is provided by the so-called ‘hall 6’ at Bawit (just 30 km from Deir Abu Fana), which may be the product of the same workshop. 20. For an overview of the development of painted opus sectile imitations and their diffusion in the late antique period (with a specific focus on Egypt and dating issues), see Haeny and Leibundgut 1999, 53–57, with references to earlier literature.

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21. Embroidered tunics of this kind are attested all over the late Roman Empire and their use was not limited to the military: Monneret de Villard 1953, 92–93. 22. Kalavrezou-Maxeiner (1975, 238–243) proposed that the scene may have depicted a komasia, i.e. a procession of divine images brought out of their temples: papyrological documents suggest that such a ritual was celebrated on the occasion of important visits, such as those of high-ranking officials. This ceremony, however, was more focused on the epiphany of the local gods than on the arrival of the human visitor: and there are no clues in the Luxor frescoes that may hint at this interpretation. Another issue is represented by a horse featuring a reddish saddle with golden decorations, depicted in the centre of the east wall procession: according to Deckers (1979, 624–627 and note 49), because of its position and the colour of the saddle, the mount might be connected to an imperial figure. The colour which Wilkinson used to indicate purple, however, is much darker than the one he used for the saddle: therefore, unless one thinks that in that section of the wall the pigments were fainter than elsewhere (resulting in Wilkinson using a different colour), the presence of an imperial depiction on the east wall remains hypothetical. We may also note that the saddle appears empty: the horse was probably intended to be represented without rider. 23. Fringed mantels are also worn by the emperors in the newly found reliefs from Nicomedia (Şare Ağtürk 2018). 24. This iconography is attested, for instance, by a gold multiple of Valentinian and Valens: Deckers 1983, 269–271, referring to RIC IX, 116 no. 1 (mint of Rome). The presence of two emperors in the painting is suggested by the off-centre position of the surviving figure: Deckers 1979, 636–639. Kolb (2001, 181) rightly suggests that the two emperors may have been depicted with the same size, contrary to Deckers’s reconstruction. 25. The most important study on porphyry sculptures in general is still Delbrück 1932. Specifically on this early 4th-century Egyptian workshop see Bergmann 2010, 16 and 20–23; 2016; 2018, with references to earlier literature. 26. On these groups and their smaller counterparts in the Vatican Palace see Laubscher 1999, 207–239, especially 209–211 on their bejewelled garments. See also the entries in the LSA database: LSA-4 and 439 (Venice), LSA-840 and 841 (Vatican). 27. Alexandria, Graeco-Roman Museum, inv. 5954. Height: 279 cm (LSA-1003). A fragment of a replica of the same type was found in Edirne, the ancient Hadrianopolis: İstanbul, Arkeoloji Müzesi, inv. 1174 (LSA-455). The highly fragmentary enthroned emperor from Šarkamen (now preserved in Negotin, Muzej Krajine; LSA-1118) was probably based on a different statuary type: here, apparently, both the throne and the hem of the robe were decorated with one row of alternating rectangular, ovoid and lozenge gemstones. 28. On the hierarchisation of late Roman society and its effect on imperial depictions see Guidetti 2018. 29. The dish was found, together with two silver cups, near Almendralejo (province of Badajoz, Extremadura, Spain) in 1847. There is absolutely no need to challenge the canonical dating and interpretation, which are securely established by the inscription running along the edge of the plate. 30. Gabelmann (1984, 204–205) seems to imply that the decorated belts were intended as gifts for the emperors, while Kolb (2001, 186) suggested that they may have been bestowed to the officers, perhaps in connection to the celebrations for the renewal of the imperial college in 305 or 308; Marotta (1999, 87) proposed to interpret the scene as a largitio or a ritual of investiture. See also Monneret de Villard (1953, 105), who intended it as a scene of mutatio vestis, and Deckers (1973, 28 note 112), who did not settle for one conclusive interpretation. On the literary sources about the bestowal of gifts by and to the emperor see Millar 1977, 133–144.

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31. The early Christian depictions of offerings saints, like those in Sant’Apollinare Nuovo in Ravenna, mentioned by Moormann (2011, 146–147) as possible successors of the alleged ‘gift-bearers’ in Luxor, are most likely linked to the traditional offering of golden crowns (aurum coronarium) to the emperor. 32. See for instance Laubscher (1975), 127–131 on the panels of the arch of Galerius in Thessalonica (on which cf. also below). 33. Today only two columns stand in front of the niche. The appearance of the original setting is debated: Monneret de Villard (1953, 88–89 and 102–104) proposed a four-column canopy, under which a statue of the genius of the emperor was displayed; Kalavrezou-Maxeiner (1975, 230–231 and 249–250) accepted this architectural reconstruction, but put a throne under the ciborium, interpreting the room as an audience hall instead of a cultic space. Deckers (1973, 7 and 24–25) initially accepted de Villard’s architectural reconstruction, but excluded that any object was placed under the ciborium; later (1979, 614–617) he rejected the idea of a four-column structure, suggesting instead a gable supported by two columns. The idea of a canopy has been recently restated by Heidel and Johnson (2015, 41–43). 34. Kolb (2001, 184–185), followed by Moormann (2011, 146), suggested that the four emperors in the niche may be identified as the two Augusti of the so-called ‘second’ or ‘third’ Tetrarchy, together with the retired seniores Augusti Diocletian and Maximian; if this was the case, the frescoes should of course be dated after 305. This idea, however, depends on a questionable interpretation of the garments worn by the figures depicted in the niche (see below, note 36). 35. Monneret de Villard (1953, 101–102) had already suggested that the robes conferred a divine characterisation to the imperial figures. 36. Kalavrezou-Maxeiner (1975, 245) correctly differentiated the two costumes. Kolb (2001, 183–185) suggested that the himation could be interpreted as the ‘eastern version’ of the toga worn by the retired Augusti, as attested for instance in Pillar A from Gamzigrad: the decoration of this architectural piece (dated between 305 and 311) shows three clipei, each featuring a couple of busts, which have been interpreted as representing the four ruling emperors (in military costume) and the two seniores Augusti (dressed with the toga). However, the idea that the Greek himation could be intended as a local counterpart of the Roman toga would be completely unparalleled from both a juridical and an iconographic point of view. 37. For the literary sources on the imperial use of the Graeca vestis see Alföldi 1970, 268–270. Some himation statues traditionally seen as ‘philhellenic’ or ‘philosophical’ depictions of Roman emperors (especially Hadrian and Julian) have been correctly reinterpreted as private portraits (since they do not belong to a known imperial type) or recognised as modern pastiches: Borg 2004, 158–159, note 6; Fejfer 2008, 395–397. 38. Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Département des Monnaies, Médailles et Antiques, inv. AF 596: http://catalogue.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/cb458770956 (last accessed: 25/04/2020); cf. Gnecchi 1912, vol. 2, 124, no. 3, pl. 124.1; Alföldi 1970, 222 and note 3. 39. Gnecchi 1912, vol.  3, 78, no.  40, pl. 158.11 (unless the absence of the final letter in the word IOVIO is due to a flaw in either the medal or its photographic reproduction). 40. Balbinus: Athens, Archaeological Museum of Piraeus, inv. 278. Height: 202 cm. The fragments of the statue of Pupienus (inv. 125), consisting of the face (nose, mouth and beard) and the plinth (eagle, feet and part of the garment), were recognised by Cornelius Vermeule in the garden of the same museum and are still unpublished. See Maderna 1988, 55 and 195–196, nos. JV 3–4. 41. Cyrene, Sculptures Museum, inv. 14.136. Parian (?) marble. Height: 48 cm. From the sanctuary of the ‘Alexandrian gods’. See Paribeni 1959, 81, no. 191, pl. 109. Cf. also the figure of Jupiter,

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draped in a wide purple mantle, in the mosaic floor of the reception room of a late Roman villa at La Malena (Zaragoza, Spain): Arce 2008. The covering of a larger skin surface by the himation in all these examples may also have resulted from the influence of the iconography of other paternal deities like Asclepius. The mutual iconographic assimilation of the images of the senior gods was a widespread and long-standing phenomenon in Classical art: see Landwehr 1990. 42. Athens, National Archaeological Museum, inv. 1759. Pentelic marble. Height: 223 cm. Maderna 1988, 54–55 and 194–195, no. JV 2; Post 2004, 493–494, no. XVI.1. See also: a standing statue of Claudius (reworked from a portrait of Gaius) from Fanum (Fano, Museo Archeologico e Pinacoteca del Palazzo Malatestiano, inv. 20. Height: 235 cm); a torso from the Julian basilica in Corinth (Corinth, Archaeological Museum, inv. 1052); and a headless statue found close to the theatre of the same city (Corinth, Archaeological Museum, inv. 3732). Post 2004, 398–399, no. II.1; 455–456, no. VIII.7; 481–482, no. XII.2. 43. A similar phenomenon is attested by some imperial statues modelled after the enthroned Capitoline Jupiter, in which the divine scheme got ‘militarised’ through the replacement of the himation with a paludamentum and the addition of a sword: see for example the statue of a mid-1st century emperor from Veii (Maderna 1988, 44 and 187–188, no. JT 37) and a statue of Tiberius from Paestum, now unfortunately lacking the original attributes (Maderna 1988, 184–185, no. JT 35). 44. The round buckle, which may have originally featured in the Venice Tetrarchs, is preserved in the Vatican Tetrarchs and in a chalcedony cameo depicting Diocletian and Maximian now in Washington, Dumbarton Oaks Museum, acc. no. 47.14 (Richter 1956, 15–19, no. 11). The crossbow fibula, found in Luxor in the figures of dignitaries on the south wall of the chamber, is also attested in the porphyry bust of an emperor from Athribis now in Cairo, Egyptian Museum, inv. CG 7257 (LSA-836). 45. Only two of the four decorated pillars of the arch are preserved today. The reference publication is Laubscher (1975), to which one must add Pond Rothman 1977; Engemann 1979; Meyer 1980; Kolb 1987, 159–176. The following interpretation of the reliefs is based mainly on Raeck 1989. 46. Guidetti (2018, 15 and note 10) rightly pointed out that the personifications in this scene were probably conceived in Latin: for this reason I give their names in the Latin form. A comparable phenomenon is attested in the 1st-century reliefs of the Sebasteion in Aphrodisias: see Smith 2013, 110–121. While the mythological and allegorical scenes were mainly based on Greek models and local in their conception, the female personifications of subjugated peoples (most likely borrowed from an Augustan monument in Rome) had been originally conceived in Latin as (feminine) nationes: the gender difference with respect to the Greek neuter ἔθνος led to their odd labelling in genitive: e.g. ‘ἔθνους Δακῶν’, probably to be understood as ‘[image] of the people of the Dacians’. 47. Imperial images hold both attributes especially when modelled after standing and enthroned types of Jupiter: Maderna 1988, 25 and 43–44; cf. also the seated togate statue of Divus Hadrianus depicted in the adlocutio relief of the late antique frieze of the Arch of Constantine: L’Orange and von Gerkan 1939, 82–83. 48. The outline of the bent right arm may suggest that the emperor held something in his hand, while the left arm seems to be slightly lowered: there is a pointy brown shape close to the Caesar on the right which may be the only trace of a short sceptre. Nothing prevents from thinking that Maximian may also have had a globe, as suggested by Rees (1993, 186 and 193) and Kolb (2001, 183): for instance, he is depicted in this way, together with Diocletian, on a golden medallion minted in Ticinum showing the two emperors crowned by Jupiter and Hercules: Gnecchi 1912, vol. 1, 13 no. 6, pl. 5.7; Kolb 2001, 167–171.

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49. See e.g. the multiple of five aurei minted at Trier for the Augusti’s vicennalia in 303 (RIC VI, 166 no.  27), depicting the two emperors pouring a libation on a portable altar, while the figure of Felicitas emerges behind the sacrificial fire: both have a patera in their right hands and hold a rotulus in their left hands (Bastien and Metzger 1977, 113 no. 284). Several scenes with sacrificing figures holding a patera and a rotulus are collected by Scott Ryberg (1955): most of them are togate and depicted capite velato, i.e. performing the rite according to the traditional custom of Roman religion. These parallels suggest that the togate statues capite velato which nowaday are missing their attributes may have originally held in their hands a patera and a rotulus: the most famous example is the statue of Augustus from the via Labicana (Rome, Museo Nazionale Romano, Palazzo Massimo alle Terme, inv. 56230), often mistakenly labelled as ‘pontifex maximus’. 50. Nimbus and emperors: Bastien 1992–1994, 167–180, focusing on the numismatic evidence; Ahlqvist 2001, discussing much material already treated in 1990. It seems that this attribute was occasionally used in representations of the deceased in Egypt as early as the 1st century: Parlasca 1998; Rondot 2013, 349–352. 51. RIC III, 45 and 124, nos. 160 (aureus) and 765 (sesterce); Bastien (1992–1994, 169–171) notes the presence of the phoenix in connection to the idea of the saeculum aureum in the coinage of Hadrian. On the radiate nimbus and its meaning see also Bergmann 1998, 243–244, with references to earlier literature. 52. Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Département des Monnaies, Médailles et Antiques, inv. Bronze 849: http://medaillesetantiques.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/c33gb15bc4 (last accessed: 15/03/2020); Bastien 1973. 53. Deckers (1973, 20) first interpreted the bust as Jupiter or possibly Victoria, then (1983, 283 note 17) suggested that it might be Sol, Victoria or the Genius of the Roman people. Kolb (2001, 183) proposed to see Victoria crowning the Augusti, as shown in contemporary coinage. The arms of this alleged crowning Victory, however, cannot be discerned among the few remaining traces, although one would expect to see at least her left arm in the preserved painted surface next to Maximian’s halo. The presence of the eagle does not necessarily exclude that of Jupiter too, since the two are often represented together, e.g. on coinage. 54. Napoli, Museo Archeologico Nazionale, inv. 9551. From Pompeii, Casa dei Dioscuri (VI, 9, 6–7), atrio corinzio (37). Height: 96 cm, width: 70 cm. Dated 62–79. Cf. also the mosaic at La Malena mentioned above, note 41. 55. See also P. Oxy. LXIII 4352, a hexametric composition centred on Antinous, dated ca. 285: Fr. 5 II, ll. 18–35 refer to Capitoline Zeus having bestowed the rulership on earth and sea to Diocletian to restore order, a task achieved in Egypt thanks to the prefect Diogenes. 56. Deckers (1973, 20 note 68) rightly discarded the often-repeated hypothesis that the so-called ‘Porta Aurea’ in Spalato surely displayed four statues of the emperors accompanied by that of Jupiter. 57. However, Smith (2013, 129 note 9) interprets the wreath worn by Augustus on a marble relief from the Sebasteion of Aphrodisias, whose leaves are somewhat comparable to those in Luxor for their thick veinings and pointy endings, as a corona civica with undrilled or flatly worked oak leaves. 58. A similar motif is already attested on the reverse of the denarii minted by Quintus Pomponius Rufus in 73 BC, showing an eagle holding a crown with its right claw: Crawford 1974, vol. 1, 410 no. 398. The origin of this iconography seems to date back at least to the early Hellenistic period: two bronze coins of the Seleucid usurper Achaeus, minted in Sardis in 220–214 BC, show an eagle with a wreath in its claws (Houghton and Lorber 2002, nos. 956–957). The common Asian background of the Seleucid and Augustan coins may suggest a specific geographical origin of the motif.

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59. Like many other elements of imperial imagery, this iconography too found its way into Egyptian visual culture well before the Tetrarchic period. This is illustrated, for instance, by some reverse types of the 3rd-century Alexandrian coinage (e.g. a tetradrachm of Elagabalus, http://rpc. ashmus.ox.ac.uk/coins/6/10047 (last accessed: 15/03/2020)) and by a sandstone relief from Luxor itself (dating perhaps to the early 3rd century) depicting the gods Nephthys and Antaios (Cairo, Egyptian Museum, inv. CG 27572. Height: 281 cm. Tallet 2011, 252–259): the latter, laureate, nimbate and radiate, is accompanied by a small eagle carrying a laurel wreath at the level of his head. The motif was eventually appropriated by Christian iconography: it features, for instance, in a 6th-century relief, probably a keystone (Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Skulpturensammlung und Museum für Byzantinische Kunst, inv. 4699: von Falck 1996, 111, no. 56), a Coptic funerary stele of the 7th or 8th century (Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Skulpturensammlung und Museum für Byzantinische Kunst, inv. 4482: von Falck 1996, 128, no. 83) and the fragment of a painted panel from Karanis (Ann Arbor, Kelsey Museum of Archaeology, inv. 23976; discussed by Rondot 2013, 182–183 and 280–282). 60. The same motif was perhaps replicated on another battle scene from the same monument (Laubscher B III 24), facing the city: Laubscher 1975, 82–83; Pond Rothman 1977, 445; Meyer 1980, 427–428. Unfortunately, due to its very damaged state, the details cannot be accurately discerned. 61. See, for instance, the statuary groups of the emperors and their families from the Julio-Claudian period: Boschung 2002. 62. On the visual culture of Roman Egypt see the overview by Bergmann 2010 and the chapters on images and material culture in Riggs 2012, 597–697 (with references to the abundant earlier literature). 63. Hölbl (2000–2005) focuses especially on temple reliefs, but includes some stelae and statues; see also Klotz (2012, 225–302) on temple construction and decoration in Roman Thebes. The few statuary representations of Roman emperors as pharaohs in Egyptian temples are listed in Stanwick 2015, to which one must add the colossal granite statue of Amenhotep son of Hapu (Cairo, Egyptian Museum, inv. CG 1199) reused for Augustus, possibly erected in the temple of Amun at Karnak. 64. See also the 1st- and 2nd-century dedications from the forecourt of the temple of Isis and the gods of Coptos at Berenike, on the Red Sea coast, whose excavations and publication are still ongoing. 65. Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Antikensammlung, inv. 31329. Tempera on wood. Diameter: 30.5 cm. On the modern cutting of the board into a tondo, see Rondot 2013, 33: there is a hole left by the needle of a compass over Severus’ right shoulder. 66. See Pfeiffer 2010, 188–192 on both the date of the tondo and the issue of the representations of all Severans as Augusti in Egyptian evidence – for instance in a relief in the temple of Khnum at Esna, which depicts the imperial family according to the traditional Egyptian iconography and also attests to the erasure of Geta’s figure. Cf. Bergmann 2012, 287–290 on the emperors’ garments and attributes. 67. See for instance the base of a bronze statue of Antoninus Pius, erected by the city of Coptos in the temple of Min (Lyon, Musée des Beaux-Arts, inv. E 501–357: cf. SEG 34, 1595), later accompanied by another one, perhaps of Septimius Severus (Stanwick 2015, 622 and note 25). Bases for statues of Hadrian and members of his family were found in the area of Dendera (Bernand 1984, nos. 35 and 36; cf. Chausson 2012, 173–176; SEG 62, 1775) and in the temple of Amon in the oasis of Siwa (Alexandria, Graeco-Roman Museum, inv. 22159: cf. SEG 8, 791). Other statues were dedicated in or next to structures built in Graeco-Roman style within Egyptian sanctuaries: from the Corinthian temple in Philae comes a statue of Vespasian dedicated by the inhabitants of Philae and the Dodekaschoinos (Bernand and Bernand 1969, vol. 2, no. 161); the so-called

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‘chapel of the imperial cult’ in the temple of Amun at Karnak accommodated thirteen bases for imperial statues in both Egyptian and Graeco-Roman style, dated from Augustus to Titus (Pfeiffer 2017). 68. London, British Museum, inv. EA 1696. Sandstone. Height: 68 cm, width: 39 cm, depth: 11 cm. See Mond and Myers 1934, vol. 2, 18–19, 34 and 52; vol. 3, pl. XLVI, no. 19. In general on religion in late antique Thebes see Pfeiffer 2013; Smith 2017, 518–526. 69. Deckers (1983, 277) suggested the existence of a specialised group of artists who followed the emperor during his military campaigns and imperial visits, but see the objections by Moormann (2011, 147). 70. Indeed, although positioned in peripheral areas, the Egyptian oases were thriving and lively environments, constantly partaking of empire-wide political and cultural developments. This is reflected even in the quite conservative realm of traditional religion, for example in the emperors’ royal titularies: cf. Kaper 2012.

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McFadden, S. (2015a) Dating the Luxor camp and the politics of building in the Tetrarchic era. In Jones and McFadden (2015), 25–37. McFadden, S. (2015b) The Luxor temple paintings in context: Roman visual culture in Late Antiquity. In Jones and McFadden (2015), 105–133. McFadden, S. (2019) The House of Serenos and wall painting in the Western Oasis. In R.S. Bagnall and G. Tallet (eds) The Great Oasis of Egypt: The Kharga and Dakhla Oases in antiquity, 281–296. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Meyer, H. (1980) Die Frieszyklen am sogenannten Triumphbogen des Galerius in Thessaloniki: Kriegschronik und Ankündigung der zweiten Tetrarchie. Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 95, 374–444. Millar, F. (1977) The emperor in the Roman world (31 BC–AD 377). London, Duckworth. Mond, R.M. and Myers, O.H. (eds) (1934) The Bucheum. London, The Egypt Exploration Society (Memoirs of the Egypt Exploration Society, 41). Monneret de Villard, U. (1953) The temple of the imperial cult at Luxor. Archaeologia 95, 85–105. Montagno Leahy, L. (1980) Dakhleh Oasis Project: The Roman wall paintings from Amheida. Journal of the Society for the Study of Egyptian Antiquities 10, 331–378. Moormann, E.M. (2011) Divine interiors: Mural paintings in Greek and Roman sanctuaries. Amsterdam, Amsterdam University Press (Amsterdam Archaeological Studies, 16). Muth, S. (1999) Bildkomposition und Raumstruktur: Zum Mosaik der ‘Großen Jagd’ von Piazza Armerina in seinem raumfunktionalen Kontext. Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts. Römische Abteilung 106, 189–212. Nixon, C.E.V. and Saylor-Rodgers, B.S. (1994) In praise of later Roman emperors: The Panegyrici Latini. Introduction, translation, and historical commentary. Berkeley, University of California Press (The Transformation of the Classical Heritage, 21). Otto, E. (1952) Topographie des thebanischen Gaues. Berlin, Akademie Verlag (Untersuchungen zur Geschichte und Altertumskunde Ägyptens, 16). Paribeni, E. (1959) Catalogo delle sculture di Cirene: Statue e rilievi di carattere religioso. Roma, ‘L’Erma’ di Bretschneider (Monografie di archeologia libica, 5). Parlasca, K. (1998) Bildnisse mit Nimbus in der kaiserzeitlichen Kunst Ägyptens. Archeologia. Rocznik Instytutu archeologii i etnologii Polskiej akademii nauk 49, 7–10. Peust, C. (2010) Die Toponyme vorarabischen Ursprungs im modernen Ägypten: Ein Katalog. Göttingen, Alfa-Druck GmbH (Göttinger Miszellen. Beiheft, 8). Pfeiffer, S. (2010) Der römische Kaiser und das Land am Nil: Kaiserverehrung und Kaiserkult in Alexandria und Ägypten von Augustus bis Caracalla (30 v. Chr.–217 n. Chr.). Stuttgart, Steiner (Historia. Einzelschriften, 212). Pfeiffer, S. (2013) Die religiöse Praxis im thebanischen Raum zwischen hoher Kaiserzeit und Spätantike. In F. Feder and A. Lohwasser (eds) Ägypten und sein Umfeld in der Spätantike: Vom Regierungsantritt Diokletians 284/285 bis zur arabischen Eroberung des Vorderen Orients um 635–646 (Akten der Tagung vom 7.–9.7.2011 in Münster), 59–79. Wiesbaden, Harrassowitz (Philippika, 61). Pfeiffer, S. (2015) Griechische und lateinische Inschriften zum Ptolemäerreich und zur römischen Provinz Aegyptus. Berlin, LIT (Einführungen und Quellentexte zur Ägyptologie, 9). Pfeiffer, S. (2017) Die griechischen Inschriften im Podiumtempel von Karnak und der Kaiserkult in Ägypten. Cahiers de Karnak 16, 303–328. Pond Rothman, M.S. (1977) The thematic organization of the panel reliefs on the Arch of Galerius. American Journal of Archaeology 81, 427–454. Popović, I. (ed.) (2005) Šarkamen (Eastern Serbia), a Tetrarchic imperial palace: The memorial complex. Belgrade, Institute of Archaeology (Archaeological Institute Monographs, 45). Popović, I. (ed.) (2011) Felix Romuliana – Gamzigrad. Belgrade, Institute of Archaeology (Archaeological Institute Monographs, 49). Post, A. (2004). Römische Hüftmantelstatuen: Studien zur Kopistentätigkeit um die Zeitenwende. Münster, Scriptorium.

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Raeck, W. (1989) Tu fortiter, ille sapienter: Augusti und Caesares im Reliefschmuck des Galeriusbogens von Thessaloniki. In H.U. Cain, H. Gabelmann and D. Salzmann (eds) Beiträge zur Ikonographie und Hermeneutik. Festschrift für Nikolaus Himmelmann, 453–457. Mainz am Rhein, Philipp von Zabern (Beihefte der Bonner Jahrbücher, 47). Rees, R. (1993) Images and image: A re-examination of Tetrarchic iconography. Greece and Rome 40, 181–200. Richter, G.M.A. (1956) Catalogue of Greek and Roman antiquities in the Dumbarton Oaks collection. Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press. Riggs, C. (ed.) (2012) The Oxford handbook of Roman Egypt. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Rondot, V. (2013) Derniers visages des dieux d’Égypte. Iconographies, panthéons et cultes dans le Fayoum hellénisé des IIe-IIIe siècles de notre ère. Paris, Éditions du Louvre. Şare Ağtürk, T. (2018) A new Tetrarchic relief from Nicomedia: Embracing emperors. American Journal of Archaeology 122, 411–426. Schlachter, A. (1927) Der Globus, seine Entstehung und Verwendung in der Antike nach den literarischen Quellen und den Darstellungen in der Kunst. Leipzig, Teubner (Stoicheia, 8). Scott Ryberg, I. (1955) Rites of the state religion in Roman art. Rome, American Academy in Rome (Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome, 22). Serdiuk, E. (2013). Des martyrs tombés dans l’oubli. Hagiographie copte et musulmane à Louqsor: Fabrication de figures saintes et redéfinition de l’espace. In I. Dépret and G. Dye (eds) Partage du sacré: Transferts, dévotions mixtes, rivalités interconfessionnelles, 123–147. Bruxelles, EME. Smith, M. (2017) Following Osiris: Perspectives on the Osirian afterlife from four millennia. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Smith, R.R.R. (2013) The marble reliefs from the Julio-Claudian Sebasteion. Darmstadt, Philipp von Zabern (Aphrodisias, 6). Speidel, M.A. (2009) Die Thebäische Legion und das spätrömische Heer. In M.A. Speidel (ed.) Heer und Herrschaft im Römischen Reich der hohen Kaiserzeit, 667–677. Stuttgart, Steiner (Mavors, 16). Speidel, M.P. and Pavkovic, M.F. (1989) Legion II Flavia Constantia at Luxor. American Journal of Philology 110, 151–154. Stanwick, P.E. (2015) Caracalla and the History of Imperial Sculpture in Egypt. Bulletin of the Egyptological Seminar 19, 619–630. Tallet, G. (2011) Zeus Hélios Megas Sarapis, un dieu égyptien ‘pour les Romains’?. In N. Belayche and J.-D. Dubois (eds) L’oiseau et le poisson. Cohabitations religieuses dans les mondes grec et romain, 227–271. Paris, Presses Universitaires de la Sorbonne (Religions dans l’Histoire, 6). Török, L. (2005) Transfigurations of Hellenism: Aspects of late antique art in Egypt, AD 250–700. Leiden/ New York, Brill (Probleme der Ägyptologie, 23). Waitkus, W. (2008) Untersuchungen zu Kult und Funktion des Luxortempels. Gladbeck, PeWe-Verlag (Aegyptiaca Hamburgensia, 2). Waitkus, W. (2013) Das Opetfest nach dem Neuen Reich. In M. Bárta and H. Küllmer (eds) Diachronic trends in ancient Egyptian history: Studies dedicated to the memory of Eva Pardey, 136–146. Prague, Czech Institute of Egyptology. Whitehouse, H. (2010) Mosaics and painting in Graeco-Roman Egypt. In A.B. Lloyd (ed.) A companion to ancient Egypt, vol. 2, 1008–1031. Oxford, Wiley-Blackwell. Wilfong, T.G. (2002) Women of Jeme: Lives in a Coptic town in late antique Egypt. Ann Arbor, University of Michigan Press. Wilkinson, R.H. (2000) The complete temples of ancient Egypt. London, Thames & Hudson. Zanker, P. (1987) Augustus und die Macht der Bilder. München, Beck.

Part II Iconography- or genre-related case studies

Chapter 5 Images of the rider on horseback in the eastern Mediterranean in the 1st millennium AD

Renate Rosenthal-Heginbottom In the visual arts and material culture of the eastern Mediterranean equestrian images were popular, long-lived and wide-spread; they occur on variegated artefacts like jewellery and amulets, metal and clay flasks, clay figurines, plaques, tokens, coins and textiles, retrieved in domestic, cultic and funerary contexts. The objects were used by people of different ethnic origin and religious affiliation. This chapter focuses on five artefact categories, notably finds from archaeological excavations or with secure site provenance – lead plaques, jewellery, metal ampullae and jugs, clay figurines and textiles – in an attempt to contextualise them in a cross-cultural framework over a period of some thousand years, from the Hellenistic age to early Islamic times. The emphasis is on finds in the southern Levant, with references to objects in collections and from neighbouring countries. While the Danubian and Thracian horsemen constitute a large and well-known class, they are not discussed, as, although military units from Thrace are recorded in the Levant (Weiß and Speidel 2004, 258–259), to date none of the specific horsemen stelae have been recorded and the presence of the military does not seem to have played a primary role in the development of the Levantine tradition. The rider on horseback is a generic image with a repetitive composition; however, there is a great diversity in details like the pose of the rider, his costume and attributes. The horse is shown rearing (Figs 5.2–5.4) or in ambling gait1 (Plates 5.1–5.3, Fig. 5.5), seldom standing (Fig. 5.6) or galloping (Plate 5.4). It is generally accepted that in the Graeco-Roman urban sphere the popularity of the mounted rider started with Alexander the Great, while the indigenous population in the more remote rural areas adhered to pre-Hellenistic concepts in a locally generated Orientalising tradition.2 Whether there is a connection between the Graeco-Roman and Oriental artistic trends is an open question. The Alexander tradition sets in with the late 4th-century

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BC sarcophagus from Sidon, depicting Alexander about to throw a spear at a Persian warrior and Alexander or a prince in the poise of the lion hunter (Stewart 1993, figs 102, 106). These images represent the concept of the triumphant ruler, the victorious conqueror, the successful hunter and later in Byzantine contexts the venerated saint. Alexander provided the model for some Roman and Byzantine ceremonial practices, in particular the emperor’s adventus expressing the emperor’s might and virtue and the bond between the welcoming people and the arriving emperor (see Fig. 5.2 for Caracalla; Belting-Ihm 2015, 17, pl. 2f, g for Constantius Chlorus and Constantius II). In Christian iconography from the early 4th century onward the pose is transferred to Christ’s entry into Jerusalem. He is riding either a horse like on amuletic armbands (Vikan 1991/1992, figs 5c, 6d ) and finger rings (Rahmani 1985, 177, no. 14, pl. 43, 13; Israeli and Mevorah 2000, 161 lower row left; Amorai-Stark and Hershkovitz 2016, 391–393, cat. no. 413),3 or riding a donkey like on several clay pilgrim tokens (Stutzinger 1983, 284–307; Mathews 1993, 23–53; Vikan 1991, 85, pl. 10e; Vikan 2010, 62, fig. 41; Vikan 1994, pl. 197, 3–4; Belting-Ihm 2015, 17, 21, pl. 4c, d.). On clay pilgrim flasks of the Ephesos group the mount’s identification is not always clear (Metzger 1981, 41–43; Vikan 2010, 37, fig. 23 left). The pose is also characteristic of the so-called ‘Coptic, sacred or holy rider’, particularly prevalent on Egyptian textiles (Lewis 1973; Jones 1975; Stauffer 1992, 160–167, 257–260; Osharina 2013), including rare examples with Alexander the Great on horseback inscribed ‘Alexander the Macedon’ (Shepherd 1971, figs 1–2) and uninscribed (Stauffer 1992, 257, cat. no. 75). Hence, the image can be traced from the Hellenistic period well into the Islamic period, definitely into the 9th–10th century.

Lead plaques Lead plaques with a fair number of subjects are attested in the southern Levant during Roman imperial times. At Dora, a coastal town in southern Phoenicia, two singular plaques depicting a mounted horseman came to light, most likely of local manufacture. The first plaque (Fig.  5.1a, b) shows a bearded rider on a sturdy horse to the right with its gait impossible to define (Erlich 2010, 153–154, 208 no.  4; RosenthalHeginbottom 2017a, 149, fig. 10.1).4 Clad in a lamellar tunic and cuirass, the rider is looking in the direction of the horse. The protective leather strips (pteryges) at the lower end of the cuirass are visible. In his right hand, raised to the height of his head, the rider wields a spear, pointing diagonally downward across his body at the neck of the horse. The left arm, the bridle-hand, is broken. Some of the horse’s features, such as head, mane and tail as well as the saddletree which is tied by four straps below the horse’s belly, are clearly marked. The saddletree’s straps merge into a peg, probably broken at the bottom, which could have been used as a sort of stand. Other details like the hair and the laced boots (the foot broken off) are less well-defined. The overall static nature of the plaque is surely the result of the drawbacks working in lead. The second plaque displays similar features; the surface is blurred and it can

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Fig. 5.1a, b: Lead plaque from Dora. Size 7.5 cm × 6.8 cm (© Tel Dor Expedition, photo Z. Radovan).

no longer be ascertained whether the horseman held a spear (Erlich 2010, 153–154, 208 no. 5; Rosenthal-Heginbottom 2017a, 150, fig. 10.2). The head is missing; the peg below the horse’s belly is partly preserved. Two differences are noticeable. First, the rider’s right leg is angled and turned backwards; second, the person is not cuirassed, but instead the visible details suggest a short chiton. The imagery recalls depictions on the Alexander sarcophagus, in the battle scene with Alexander the Great and in the hunt scene with the Macedonian horseman, possibly also representing Alexander (Stewart 1993, 299–300, 304–305, figs 102, 106).5 The archaeological context, a dump in Area F at Dora, relates the first plaque to two sacred monumental complexes (Temple H and Building F) constructed under the Severan dynasty (Nitschke et al. 2011, 147). The second plaque was discovered leaning against the wall of a Roman sewer into which it had fallen by accident or may have been thrown deliberately; the water channel was part of the industrial complex Area D2, where a casting pit related to the casting of leaded bronze objects was identified (Nitschke et al. 2011, 151; Rosenthal-Heginbottom 2017a, 150–151). A coin minted in 210/211 at Dora under Caracalla shows his bust on the obverse and a rider (possibly the emperor) on a rearing horse to the right, wielding a spear, pointing diagonally downward, the upper part visible above the right arm (Fig. 5.2; Meshorer 1995, 465, pl. 8,4, 93; Motta 2015, 53–54, 98, pl. 4, 44).6 On the coin the rider’s paludamentum is fluttering behind his back, a detail lacking on the plaques and yet a characteristic feature of the ‘flying’ horsemen. A red jasper intaglio with Trajan on a rearing horse, jumping over fallen and vanquished barbarians, probably celebrates the victory over the Dacians (Zwierlein-Diehl 2007, 185, 446 no. 679, pl. 152); the position of the spear is the same as on the first plaque from Dora (Fig. 5.1a, b). Two commemorative gold medallions show respectively the head of Alexander on the obverse and the king on a

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Fig. 5.2: Coin of Caracalla, minted at Dora in AD 210/211 (© Tel Dor Expedition).

rearing horse to the right, identified by an inscription, hunting a lion with his spear on the reverse; the medallions are dated to the first half of the 3rd century AD (Stewart 1993, 50–51; 2003, 62; Dahmen 2008, 499, pl.  100, 101; 2009, 57–58, fig.  8, 255–256 no. 49, 51; Trofimova 2012, 56, 110). Found at Tarsus and Aboukir they are part of a series possibly commissioned by Caracalla (AD 212–217) or more likely by Alexander Severus (AD 222–235). It was under the Severan dynasty, particularly under Caracalla, that the ‘imitatio Alexandri’ by Roman emperors developed to an extent unknown in the previous period, whereas the emperors at large understood themselves as the legitimate successors of Alexander the Great (Stewart 1993, 40, 73; 2003, 61; Dahmen 2008, 522). The longevity of the Alexander veneration persisted into Christian times, as evidenced by Egyptian textiles on which ‘Alexander the Macedon’ is identified by the Greek inscription (Shepherd 1971, figs 1–2). He is the victorious horseman and ruler holding a sword and crowned by erotes holding a wreath above his head; at the same time the dog below the horse indicates the huntsman. The rider’s pose with the spear in the right hand, pointing diagonally downward across his body with the intention to vanquish an enemy not represented, is found on a clay figurine of the falcon-headed Horus, the raised left front leg indicating the horse in ambling gait (Philipp 1972, 9, 32, no. 46).

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The use of lead plaques is attested at Baalbek-Heliopolis where some 25 were recovered from basins and settling tanks of the aqueduct leading to the town from ‘Ain el-Djouj, situated 6 km north-east of Baalbek. It is general consent that the lead plaques were votives, thrown into the water as part of ritual beliefs and practices in which the sanctity and veneration of water and the concept as a living power essential to all life were vital. The subjects depicted are related to the Heliopolitan Triad, more than half represent Jupiter, others Mercury, Dionysos and Helios. Thus the majority reflects the prominent indigenous cult in one of the largest sanctuaries and pilgrimage sites of the Roman Empire, probably a ritual performed by local and visiting private people rather than part of the official temple cults. In analogy, it can be suggested that at Dora the inhabitants performed rituals in public and domestic shrines, possibly related to the emperor cult practiced by Roman legionaries stationed there.

Jewellery – rings and amuletic plaques Numerous rings, pendants, armbands and gems document the popularity of the rider motif. Generally made of bronze and rarely of silver such jewellery was acquired and worn by individuals of modest means. Two exemplary objects are discussed here. The copper alloy finger ring from Caesarea Maritima (Fig. 5.3a, b) is one of the many surface finds collected between the 1950s and early 1970s by Johanan Hendler, now forming the Hendler Collection (Amorai-Stark and Hershkovitz 2016, 10, 375–376 no. 404). Although lacking an archaeological context the assemblage represents the largest body of rings and gems from a single site in the Levant and is evidence for the impressive output of skilled artisans working for the local inhabitants. Dated to the late 1st and 2nd century AD on stylistic grounds the bezel depicts a rider on a rearing horse to the left, possibly wearing a short tunic (or skirt and naked chest?). The horizontal lines turning to wavy ones above the horse’s rear probably indicate the fluttering paludamentum (compare Fig. 5.2). With his right hand the rider holds the reins and with his left hand, his left arm bent in an angle, an object identified by Shua Amorai-Stark and Malka Hershkovitz (2016) as a short weapon (dagger or sword) with raised blade, its hilt touching the rider’s waist/hip. It is an awkward and uncommon position for this kind of weapon; hence the possibility cannot be excluded that the rider holds a spear.7 The motif of the rider on a rearing horse or on a horse in levade is prevalent on Roman period gem stones and on imperial coins.8 A cast bronze plaque was discovered in the dromos of a rock-cut tomb hewn in the northern cliff of Naḥal Aviv in the eastern Upper Galilee. It depicts the nimbate demon-impaling horseman to the right (Fig. 5.4), above the horse’s head is a crescent moon (Sabar 2019, 81, 84, fig. 8, 35). The demon here is a female, as is recorded by written sources, believed to harm children and pregnant women (Spier 1993, 33); other creatures like lions, serpents or anthropomorphic figures can also be impaled.9 Two inscriptions accompany the image; the first, only partially preserved, reads as follows in the transliterated and restored version: ‘Εἷς [Θεός ὁ νι]κ̣ῶν τὰ κακά – One

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Fig. 5.3a, b: Copper alloy ring from Caesarea Maritima (© Shai Hendler, Zichron Yaakov).

God who vanquishes evil’, the second carries the letters ‘ωAI – Iάω’ written in retrograde (Spier 1993, 60; Di Segni 1994a, 95; Benovitz 2019, 91–92).10 The amulet’s iconography11 tallies with that of closely related tin, copper and lead alloy pendants of oval shape with a height about 6.0–6.6  cm (Vikan 1991/1992), and while the Naḥal Aviv amulet is cast and decorated on one side only, the pendants are engraved and decorated on the obverse and reverse. Though secure archaeological contexts are few, Jeffrey Spier’s (1993, 61) conclusion that they do not appear before the 6th century AD is reasonable. Before discussing some parallels, it is imperative to clarify the second inscription with the magic name IAω. By comparing the Naḥal Aviv amulet with the pendant in the Walters Art Museum Fig. 5.4: Bronze amulet from Naḥal Aviv. in Baltimore (Vikan 2010, 66, 69, fig. 49), it can Size 3.4 cm × 2.4 cm (© Roi Sabar, photo Tal conclusively be determined that the inscripRogovski). tion below the horse is to be restored as ‘Iάω C[αβαώ]θ – Iao Sabaoth – Lord of Hosts’, tallying with the second reading considered by Nancy Benovitz (2019). A number of pendants depict the demon-impaling horseman with the Heis Theos inscription on the obverse and the formulas ‘IAω CABAωθ’ and ‘IAωθ CABAωθ’ with the evil eye and several animals on the reverse. Two of them were found in the loculus of a

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rock-cut tomb at Gush Ḥalav in the eastern Upper Galilee, note the crescent above the horse’s head (Makhouly 1939, 48, pl. 31,7, 32,1, h2; Spier 1993, 61; Di Segni 1994a, 95–96, 111 no. 1a–b; Israeli and Mevorah 2000, 161 upper row first and second from the right). The pendant in the collection of the Israel Museum, Jerusalem bears the same image as the finds from Naḥal Aviv and Gush Ḥalav on the obverse and a roaring lion walking with a five line beginning IAω (Gitler 1990, 371–373, fig.  3–3a; Israeli and Mevorah 2000, 161 upper row second left).12 Another in the Art Museum at Princeton University is said to be from the vicinity of Nazareth (Kalavrezou 2003, 286 no. 167). The location of the pendant formerly in the Schlumberger collection is not known, the rider vanquishes a lion below the horse (Engemann 1975, 37, fig. 6; Belting-Ihm 2015, 20–21, pl. 4a, b). Several close pendants with riders and inscriptions are in the collection of the Museum of the Flagellation in Jerusalem, one of them found at Bethany in 1903 (Bagatti 1971, 331, pl. 1, 1–8).13 Closely related in motif and style is a fairly homogeneous group of more than a dozen surviving silver and bronze armbands with figurative and inscribed medallions, produced in workshops in Syria-Palestine and/or Egypt, among them the horseman with cross-topped spear (Vikan 1984, 74–75, fig. 10; Vikan 1991/1992, 46, fig. 1–10; Fowden 1999, 37, fig. 6d; Israeli and Mevorah 2000, 162–163).14 A bronze armband, a 1957 surface find from Caesarea Maritima, shows the demon-impaling rider encircled by the ‘One God who vanquishes evil’ inscription on the obverse with a Samaritan formula on the reverse (Hamburger 1959, pl. 4a; Di Segni 1994a, 98 no. 7; Israeli and Mevorah 2000, 160). Two armbands display the same imagery on the obverse of the medallion, one is said to be from Bethlehem (Piccirillo 1979, pl. 25; Vikan 1991/1992, 35, fig. 1; Di Segni 1994a, 103–104 no. 29), the location of the other, formerly in a collection in Paris, is unknown (Vikan 1991/1992, 35, fig. 2). A singular armband with a large medallion shows the horseman to the right encircled by an inscription mentioning a cameleer in the service of St Sergios, most likely at the sanctuary in Sergiopolis–Resafah (Mondésert 1960, 123–125, fig. 4; Fowden 1999, 37, fig. 6b; Walter 2003, 153).15 The full inscription reads ‘Καμηλάρ(ιος) τοῦ ἁγίοῦ Σεργί[ου τ]οῦ Βαρβαρικοῦ – a cameleer of St Sergios, the Barbaric’, the latter term referring to the ‘Barbarian plain’, within which the city is located (Fowden 1999, 1–2, 65–66). A bronze attachment, said to have come from Palestine, bears the same image and inscription (Fowden 1999, 35–37, fig. 6a). Irfan Shahîd (1995, 507–508) concludes that the owner of the bracelet was an Arab, a Saracen engaged in transportation and that the inscription documents the existence of a caravan organisation in the service of the city and its saint, organising transportation, food and accommodation for the pilgrims visiting the sanctuary. Elizabeth Key Fowden (1999, 38) points out the status of the rider as guardian of the cameleers, but also of the pilgrims to the shrine on transit through the potentially hostile steppe. There are half a dozen formulas starting with ‘Εἷς Θεός’ (Di Segni 1994a, 111), and the acclamation used does not a priori indicate a specific religious affiliation to Jews, Christians and Samaritans, though by far the majority of inscriptions originates from areas with Samaritan population and from Samaritan contexts (see the discussions

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in Di Segni 1994a; 1994b; Horbury 1997; Chaniotis et al. 2002; Sivan 2008, 154, note 34; Roll and Tal 2009). The appropriate association must be based on contextual evidence. Naḥal Aviv is located in a region inhabited by a diverse population with different ethnic and religious affiliations. The amulet is attributed to the late Roman and Byzantine phase II of the tomb’s use. Based on the occurrence of a lamp with a Greek cross on the base (Sabar 2019, 82, fig. 7, 19) and on the parallels from Gush Ḥalav, the phase II burials may be assigned to Christians (Sabar 2019, 90–91). However, the nimbate rider lacks the ubiquitous feature of Christian riders, namely the cross-topped spear or staff (compare Plate 5.1). The motif of the equestrian figure as victorious mounted warrior subduing an enemy has Graeco-Roman predecessors and is transferred to the ‘holy rider’ and ‘warrior saint’, the victor for good over evil, frequently anonymous.16 The pendant in the Sackler Museum in Harvard pairs the Roman rider tradition with the Christian saint and a motif from pilgrim art; it depicts the legend of St Sisinnios impaling the demon Gylou on the reverse and Mary with the child, flanked by two figures in a gesture of adoration, on the obverse. Following written sources, it is considered a magical amulet for the protection of pregnant women and the newborn child, for safety during childbirth and for help to conceive (Spier 1993, 33–35; Kalavrezou 2003, 288, no.  169). Like the armband inscribed Hygieia mentioned above, the pendant’s function was medicinal and apotropaic.

Metal ampulla and jug Two metal vessels with depictions of riders are discussed here, a pilgrim flask (Plate 5.1) and a small jug with attached lid (Plate  5.2). The tin-lead alloy pilgrim flask in the Walters Art Gallery in Baltimore depicts, on both sides, a nimbate rider on a horse in ambling gait to the right; his upper body shown in front view, he appears to wear military dress with a coat fluttering behind his back and holds a cross-topped staff with a fluttering banner pointing diagonally downward with the hand of his angled right arm (Engemann 2002, 158–160, pl. 8a–b; Vikan 2010, 42, fig. 30). An unusual stylistic feature is the alignment of coat and banner in parallel waves. The inscription ‘+ Εὐλογία Κ(υρίο)υ τοῦ ἁγίου Σεργίου’ encircles the image; the literal translation ‘Eulogia of the Lord of Holy Sergios’ is expanded to ‘Eulogia of the Lord from [the sanctuary] of St Sergios’, as suggested by Josef Engemann on the basis of inscriptions with ‘the Lord of the holy places’ (Engemann 2002, 158, no.  1, 3–4). Most likely manufactured in Sergiopolis the flask is related to the more than fifty lead, tin and silvered ampullae in the style of the Monza-Bobbio class, produced in the Holy Land for pilgrims visiting from abroad and decorated with subjects related to the life of Jesus Christ and in particular to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem (Vikan 2003, 236–243; 2010, 36–40). The jug in the Metropolitan Museum of Art has a band around the neck decorated with three riders (Plate 5.2; Pitarakis 2005, 21, fig. 16; Ratliff 2012). The rider to the left is dressed in military costume with a flowing cape and holds a long staff with a

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fluttering banner (defined as a martyr’s staff in the catalogue entry). The horse is shown in ambling gait. Four additional jugs with the motif are known (Pitarakis 2005, 17–22, figs 11, 14–15, 17). Brigitte Pitarakis (2005, 26–27) suggests that because of its small size (only 12.5 cm high with lid) it was a pilgrim memento and relates the motif to the riders on the Christian amuletic armbands from Syria-Palaestina mentioned before.17 She underlines the protective association of the rider image and its appearance on other small-scale objects, with the rider sometimes identified as St Sergios (compare Plate 5.1; Pitarakis 2005, 90, note 4). The jug belongs to a widely distributed category of copper alloy jugs dated to the Late Byzantine–Early Islamic periods, many acquired on the antiquities market (see Pitarakis 2005, 12, fig. 1 for a distribution map). With a height of about 20–35 cm and production sites in the Aegean and eastern Mediterranean several jugs were recovered in excavations in the southern Levant: at the coastal site of Dora, in the monastery of St Martyrius at Ma’ale Adummim, in deposits related to the AD 749 earthquake at Nysa-Scythopolis and Pella (Pitarakis 2005, 14, 17, with references), in a bath of the Umayyad-period palatial buildings at Umm al-Walid and in a house to the south of the mosque on the citadel of Amman (Naghawy 2010; Schick 2012).

Clay figurines In antiquity, from earliest times onwards, hand-formed and mould-made terracotta figurines of horsemen were popular and wide-spread. At first sight they form a category of objects which lends itself to the study of the longue durée-development. However, I do not concur with this approach;18 there is the transference of images, yet for defining the objects’ contexts and understanding their agency (Versluys 2015, 165–166) it is essential to limit the geographical and chronological radius. Hence, the focus is on riders on horseback manufactured in three regional workshops at Gerasa, Petra and Beit Nattif during the Roman period.19 In Gerasa the rider on horseback (Plate 5.3) was retrieved in a deposit of figurines and lamps, discovered in 1933 in a cave on the road leading southward from the village, originally a burial cave and later a mill installation, into which the contents from a potter’s store had been dumped (Fisher 1934, 12–13; Brody and Hoffman 2014, 247, pl. 16). The rider is wearing a short chiton and a cloak hanging down his back, the lower section spread on the horse’s back. The head is covered either by a veil or a hood. The horse is in ambling gait to the right. Note the careful rendering of the horse’s head and mane. Two additional riders were most likely produced from the same mould (Iliffe 1945, 9, pl. 2, 17; Baratte 1987, 291–292, no. 282–283; Lichtenberger 2016, 89, fig. 23).20 Three figurines came to light in the fills of an oil press, destroyed by fire together with the House of the Carpenter in the late 3rd century AD (Rasson 1986, 67). The published figurine depicts the horseman to the left, made in a different mould; the top of the rider is missing, he wears a short chiton, his cloak hanging down his back; saddle bag, horse harness and phalerae are indicated. The oil press assemblage

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included amphoras and dolia as well as table and common ware ceramics. The question is thus whether the figurines were household objects (Rasson 1986, 69, fig. 18, 6). Besides the horsemen discussed here another similar rider to the left, wearing a Phrygian cap, was found in the deposit of the potter’s store (Iliffe 1945, 9, pl. 2, 18). The deposit is assigned to the 2nd century AD and some plaster and limestone moulds indicate the local production of terracotta figurines and lamps (Iliffe 1945, 3, 6). In the vicinity of Petra the Nabateans manufactured ceramics (El-Khouri 2002, 339), and with the exception of some tableware along the Levantine coastal trade routes, frequented by Nabatean merchants, no ceramic artefacts left the Nabatean realm. Terracotta figurines from sites in the Nabatean realm are quite fragmentary. The so far single intact rider on horseback was bought by the Horsfields at Petra (Fig. 5.5; Horsfield and Horsfield 1942, 161 no. 253, pl. 30; El-Khouri 2002, 23, 76 cat. no. 226). The rider, clad in a chlamys fastened over the chest, is seated on a horse in ambling gait moving to the right. The gait and the rider recall the clay figurines of the rider Harpokrates, common in Egypt from the 1st–4th century AD (Bayer-Niemeyer 1988, 107–113 no. 140–160). Eva Bayer-Niemeyer points out that the custom of riding a horse reached Egypt under Alexander the Great and the Macedonian army; the Egyptian figurines imitate the early Hellenistic prototype of the riding Macedonian youth (Bayer-Niemeyer 1988, 40–41, 223 no. 513, dated to the first half of the 4th century AD). There are certain variations in pose, dress and attributes; the figure without any attributes (BayerNiemeyer 1988, 107, 140) – the horse is shown with the left leg raised (see, for example, Bayer-Niemeyer 1988, pls.  28, 31) – is not necessarily a representation of Harpokrates. The figurines from the Decapolis and Nabataea were locally produced for use by the indigenous population and, considering the social and economic significance of the caravan trade for the region, it is tempting to relate the terracotta riders on horses and camels to the so-called Syrian rider/caravan gods, invoked to ensure the protection of caravans and desert dwellers (Iliffe 1945, 9, pl.  2, 19; Rasson 1986, 67; Weber 1995, 206, 210; El-Khouri 2002, 28, 82–83 no. 273–276; Belting-Ihm 2015, Fig. 5.5: Clay figurine from Petra. Height 13 cm; 19, pl.  3h–j).21 Although the term rider width 10 cm (from Horsfield and Horsfield 1942, god is established in scholarly research, pl. 30, 253).

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it should be remembered that already Ernest Will (1955, 124) argued that it is more appropriate to speak of gods who in a specific function are depicted as riders. In the present chapter it is not possible to discuss the iconographic differences of the Syrian rider gods and the clay figurines. The fact that caravan gods are represented on monumental stone reliefs, often accompanied by inscriptions and displayed in public, prevents the transference of contextual evidence. In addition, the difference between public and private expressions of devoutness should be taken into account. Hardly anything can be said with certainty about the function of the figurines in Gerasa and Petra, therefore the interpretations are tentative and based on external evidence. Laurent Gorgerat (2012, 284) suggests a function as divine protectors of caravans, emphasising the importance of trade for the livelihood of the Nabateans. Based on the information in the Sabaean inscription from Puteoli, mentioning the dedication of two ‘golden’ camels to the god Dushara, Ingemarie Parlasca (1986, 210) concludes that the clay figurines were probably votives for Dushara. Thomas Weber (1995, 210) noted the presence of sculpture fragments in the ruins of a Nabatean temple at Saḥr al-Leğğā on the Via Traiana Nova, depicting riders and horses, and assumes that the sanctuary was dedicated to patron gods of caravans. Christopher A. Tuttle (2017, 239, 262) considers entirely different functions. He points out that the horse riders do not carry any weapons and therefore prefers to connect the figurines to horse and camel racing, probably public sporting events. Yet, Tuttle stresses that it cannot be ruled out that the figurines were children’s toys, as both were placed besides a double burial of mother and child at Petra (Horsfield and Horsfield 1939, 113; 1942, 151 no.  189, pl. 24; El-Khouri 2002, 76 cat. no.  224),22 and that they could also have had magical or votive intent for winning the race or cursing a competitive rival in a competition, depicting a general type of person rather than specific individuals. The third regional workshop was located in the Beit Nattif area, situated to the south-west of Jerusalem at the fringe of the Judean Mountains. The figurine (Fig. 5.6) shows a rider seated on a standing horse to the right, his upper body in frontal view, the left outstretched arm probably holding the reins (Baramki 1936, pl. 4, 1; Dussaud 1937, fig. 4 left; Lichtenberger 2016, 97 cat. no. 15). The rider wears a short, girdled tunic with a wide collar at the top or necklace, probably also trousers and an anklet on his right leg. A constant facial feature of the Beit Nattif horsemen and the standing naked females (see, for example, Lichtenberger 2016, 20–24 no.  1–5, 210–217 no. 364–369) is the large pinched nose, extending into marked arched eyebrows. It is also characteristic for the faces adorning a few late Roman–early Byzantine lamp fillers, juglets and jugs (see, for example, Rosenthal and Sivan 1978, 168 no. 694; Israeli and Mevorah 2000, 208), and is considered one of the features of a revival of the indigenous Orientalising tendencies in the late 3rd century AD (Avi-Yonah 1944, 121–126; Avi-Yonah 1967).23 The Beit Nattif workshop produced several variants of rider figurines, among them a rider on a harnessed horse with a large bossed round shield held by the rider or suspended from the saddle (Lichtenberger 2016, 91 no. 139, 242–243

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no.  402–403, the latter two figurines from the antiquities market). Beit Nattif is identified with ancient Betholetepha, the headquarters of a Judean toparchy. In 1934 Dimitri Baramki (1936) excavated two cisterns, discovered already in 1917, which contained clay figurines, lamps and several moulds for lamps of the late Roman period, produced locally in the Beit Nattif region. The first comprehensive monograph of the clay figurines has recently been published by Achim Lichtenberger (2016) who pointed out that the rider was the most common type of figurine, with fragments of 48 riders, 34 from cistern I and 13 from cistern II.24 Archaeologists and historians agree that until the Bar-Kokhba Revolt (AD 132–135) the region was predominantly settled by Jews. To date, Fig. 5.6: Clay figurine from Beit Nattif (IAA 1938there is no unequivocal answer to the 201). Height 12.5 cm; width 11.4 cm; depth 4 cm question whether the Roman victory (Photo Clara Amit, courtesy of Israel Antiquities resulted in the extensive annihilation Authority, http://www.antiquities.org.il/t/ and expulsion of the Jewish popu- item_en.aspx?CurrentPageKey=1&q=Beit+Nattif [last accessed: 01/07/2019]). lation, although the archaeological evidence from nearby Bet Guvrin-Eleutheropolis indicates a Roman urban centre with Jewish dwellers during the 2nd and 3rd century AD, most likely newcomers from the Jerusalem area who were expulsed after AD 135 (Belayche 2001, 62–65; Rosenthal-Heginbottom 2013, 106). However, to date no Beit Nattif-style figurines came to light in the city and in the necropolises. A crucial parameter for determining the role of the figurines in the daily life of the local inhabitants is the difficulty in providing evidence for their ethno-religious affiliation. As a number of oil lamps are decorated with the menorah and the figurines were primarily distributed in Judea, Achim Lichtenberger (2016, 265–266, 281–282) concludes, albeit expressed with great caution, that the output of the Beit Nattif workshop(s) was intended for a Jewish clientele; in addition he stresses the fact that during the Iron Age horsemen were popular figurines with the Jewish inhabitants in the region. I challenge this conclusion for lack of unequivocal contextual evidence (Rosenthal-Heginbottom 2018). With regard to interpretation and function Lichtenberger (2016, 257, with references in note 2, 268–270 for Jewish iconography) defines the Beit Nattif horsemen as divine

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figures or at least related to the divine and/or religious realm; they might represent demon-impaling deities and/or holy riders with an apotropaic function, popular in the eastern Mediterranean among people of different ethnic and religious affiliation. The three regional groups of rider figurines are evidence for the transfer of a generic motif to localities with different ethnic and religious affiliation, and it must be assumed that the motif was adapted to the local beliefs and practices. The meagre contextual evidence permits solely hypothetical and tentative conclusions. Besides the motif two consistent features can be noted: first, the figurines are intended to be viewed from one side only, as their flat back remained unmodelled; second, the horsemen are depicted with head and body in front view, legs and horse in profile. These features suggest that a direct eye contact with the spectator was intended.

Textiles In Egypt depictions of horsemen were predominant on different categories of textiles (Osharina 2013). The fragmentary ornamental band in the Katoen Natie textile collection in Antwerp comprises two friezes: an upper wider frieze with horsemen and vases and a lower frieze with hares (Plate 5.4; Rosenthal-Heginbottom 2017b). Preserved are three riders, two moving to the right and another moving to the left. The change in the riders’ direction suggests an originally antithetic composition in the upper frieze. The two riders are each holding a long spear horizontally in their right hand and the reins in their left hand; the pose is reversed in the case of the rider moving in the opposite direction. The spears are longer than the horses’ bodies, their points projecting beyond the horses’ necks. The horses’ harness gears are only schematically indicated: on each side of the riders, the horses are girdled with strips decorated with three phalerae, metal discs used for equestrian gear, fixed to military standards and awarded to soldiers for distinguished service. The horses’ long tails are curled. Between each horse’s legs two semi-circles are placed one on top of the other. The spear attribute and its position define the horsemen as mounted hunters advancing in gallop and thrusting spears, in spite of the static, repetitive style in which they are rendered, which is far removed from the virtual reality and common visual depiction of hunting practices. Two examples illustrate the differences, the mosaic carpets with hunters on horseback and on foot in the villa at Daphne (Antioch-onthe-Orontes), dated to the first half of the 4th century AD (Cimok 2000, 202–203) and in the old diakonikon-baptistery at Mount Nebo, dated by an inscription to AD 530 (Piccirillo 1997, fig. 16, 182). On the textile the simplification of body proportions, the unwieldy horses with their massive front halves and long curled tails, the harness gear decorated with four to six phalerae and the semi-circles between the legs of the horses are all stylistic features shared with several similar textiles in the collections of the Louvre. These include the single-rider fragment (Du Bourguet 1964, 520, H 66, inv. no.  E 26459)25 and an ornamental band with alternating hunters on horse and on foot with a row of hares below from Deir el-Bersheh (Du Bourguet 1964, 518, H

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61, inv. no. E 26456), as well as fragments from Bawit (Du Bourguet 1964, 520–521, H 67, inv. no. E 26460) and Antinoupolis (Du Bourguet 1964, 527, H 82, inv. no. E 26473). Together with another parallel in the Cluny Museum (Lorquin 1992, 154–156 no. 47), they are dated to the 11th century AD, although for the Cluny Museum textile Sabine Schrenk (2004, 218) already proposed a somewhat earlier date. Similar hunters adorn two fragments from Abu Tig in Berlin, dated to the 6th–8th century (Cat. Hamm 1996, 283–284 no.  322). With stylistic criteria serving as the only and all-too-often disputable tool in dating textiles, it is obvious that only a broad time frame can be given for the ornamental band discussed here. Thus a tentative range within the 8th–10th century AD is suggested. On the whole, themes and decorative motifs that were already common in earlier textile production continued to be handed down over the course of generations and centuries. By Islamic times the hunters had become anonymous and their depiction was most likely decorative or might have had an apotropaic function (Osharina 2013, 218, 225). To sum up, the equestrian figure in its variants is a generic topic in the late antique visual koiné, representing a culture shared in different regions and among different ethnic and religious groups. It occurs on votive lead plaques thrown into water and used in public and domestic shrines, on various forms of jewellery, rings, pendants, armbands and plaques with demon-impaling intent, on metal vessels acquired as Christian pilgrim mementoes and on clay figurines and textiles with apotropaic function; however, on textiles the horsemen can be merely decorative. On the one hand, the riders on horseback exemplify cross-cultural traditions and create a visual koiné; on the other hand, the difficulty and uncertainty in identifying the frequently anonymous rider, in understanding the objects’ function and intent, the owners’ or bearers’ expectations, the sensory experiences they evoke and the spectators’ associations prevent a universal interpretation. The fact that motifs look the same does not imply that the objects had the same meaning and function, which may differ in domestic, cultic and magic or funerary contexts. The small number of artefacts from secure archaeological contexts versus the large number in museums and private collections underlines the restrictions when trying to contextualise the finds. Furthermore, ethnic and religious groups and individuals can have different connotations with the same object. Take the amulet placed in the Naḥal Aviv burial. It is a grave offering deposited with the deceased. However, the conclusions that the amulet was the deceased’s personal object during lifetime, that it was placed with the deceased to ensure protection in the netherworld and that the burial cave was used by the Christian population are all interpretations based on external evidence, representing the combination of the ‘particular’, the contextual evidence of the single artefacts, and the ‘general’, the wider cultural context. The image and the inscriptions connect the pendant to the group of amuletic jewels like the armbands and finger rings of the late Roman–early Byzantine periods. The ultimate goal in interpreting material culture was adequately summarised by Miguel John Versluys (2015, 165): ‘It has long been realized that objects are not just passive carriers of meaning but

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constitute people (and history) as well. If we want to understand (visual) material culture from the Roman world we should go beyond representation and not solely focus on what something meant in a certain context and for a certain viewer but also what it did’. While the question of what certain objects ‘did’ to their owners and viewers is of great relevance for the understanding of beliefs and practices in society, the answer is tentative, based on contextual evidence in combination with written sources on ceremonial and magical practices. For the owners and viewers, objects with the rider motif connote the transference of might, victory and virtue on the one hand and ensure protection and safety during lifetime and eternity on the other hand. This chapter exemplifies that there are still many unanswered questions with regard to the meaning and understanding of the rider motif in the late antique period, hence the chapter is work in progress.

Notes

1. The horse is shown with three of the four legs on ground and the left front leg raised, the gait is slightly faster than walking. The definition of the gait follows Bergemann 1990, 169. 2. For details see Avi-Yonah 1944; 1961. 3. On the latter the rider holds a cross and a globe. Both rings were found in Caesarea Maritima. 4. In previous publications I described a galloping horse. However, with the legs broken off and the back of the horse modelled horizontally the horse was in ambling gait with the left front leg raised, similar to the pose of the riders from Gerasa and Nabatea (Plate 5.3 and Fig. 5.5). 5. On the second lead plaque the rider is seated like Alexander in the battle scene and like Commodus on a coin showing the emperor spearing a lion or boar (Bergemann 1990, 181, M169, pl. 93h). 6. See also the coins from Aelia Capitolina minted in the reign of Elagabalus (Meshorer 1989, no. 128, 128a, 140) and the coin of Trajan (Bergemann 1990, 176, M100, pl. 92f). 7. See the coins of Domitian (Bergemann 1990, 175, M76–79, pl. 91m, 92a, b). 8. Gemstones: rider holding spear and shield, from Caesarea Maritima (Hamburger 1968, no. 145); from Aelia Capitolina (Peleg-Barkat 2011, 265–268, no.  5); horse in levade, amethyst gem (Zwierlein-Diehl 2007, 107, 402 no.  423, pl.  93). Coins: for the rearing horse, see the coins of Vespasian (Bergemann 1990, 174, M62, pl. 91g) and Trajan (Bergemann 1990, 176, M100, pl. 92f); for horse in levade, see the coins of Vespasian, AD 72/73 (Bergemann 1990, 174, M61, pl. 91f) and Domitian, AD 72 (Bergemann 1990, 175, M76, pl. 91m). 9. See Rahmani (1985, 177, no. 13, pl. 43, 13 = Israeli and Mevorah 2000, 161 lower row right) for a finger ring depicting a horseman spearing the head of a serpent, found in a tomb at Abu Shusha, the site probably to be identified with Gaba Hippeon, the Roman town founded in 61 BC. The unpublished tomb contained glass vessels ranging in date from mid-4th–5th century AD, with a few finds as late as 6th–early 7th century (Rahmani 1985, 177, note 112). The find underlines the difficulty in dating objects with anonymous riders to the Roman or Byzantine period without contextual evidence. 10. The inscription ‘One God who vanquishes evil’ is Di Segni’s (1994a, 111) formula E. 11. It is the iconography that permits to define the Naḥal Aviv plaque as an amulet. Amulets (περιάμματα, φυλακτήρια) were worn for the apotropaic, protective and medicinal powers attributed to them (Walter 2003, 33–38). 12. For another closely related pendant see Vikan (1991/1992, 39, fig. 15). 13. Additional amulets in collections, see Di Segni 1994a, 106 no.  37 (from the Sinai) and no.  38 (several purchased in Egypt, Palestine and Syria).

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14. One amulet (Vikan 1991/1992, 46, fig.  5; Fowden 1999, 37, fig.  6d; Israeli and Mevorah 2000, 162–163) is inscribed VΓIA – Hygieia, an invocation emphasising the medicinal and apotropaic intent. 15. On the popular cult of St Sergius in Syria see Walter 2003, 151–152. 16. For Roman predecessors see, for example, the coin of Titus, minted in Rome: the emperor on a rearing horse is about to spear an enemy, fallen on the ground (Bergemann 1990, 174, M69, pl. 91k). Gary Vikan (1984, 7; 1991/1992, 37–39) introduced the term ‘holy rider’; see also Spier 1993, 33–38; Walter 2003, 22. 17. For the armbands see the references under Pitarakis 2005, fig. 4. 18. See below on the hypothesis that the Beit Nattif horsemen are derivatives of a Judean Iron Age tradition. Achim Lichtenberger (2016, 266) speaks of ‘a phenomenon of a “popular” Jewish longue durée’ (‘ein Phänomen einer “volkstümlichen” jüdischen longue durée’). For a hand-formed Judean Iron Age rider see Lichtenberger 2016, 19, fig. 24. 19. In the Hellenistic period riders on horseback were the predominant figurines at Maresha, mostly of local production (Erlich and Kloner 2008, 46–52, 121, pl. 25–30). For references to isolated finds in the southern Levant, see Lichtenberger 2016, 89. 20. Height of both figurines 21.8 cm; width 18.5 cm. 21. Among the few examples published by Lamia El-Khouri (2002, 82 no. 273) is a partly restored camel rider with weapons from a private collection. The figure is singular and it is tempting to relate it to the cameleer in the service of St Sergios, mentioned above in the discussion of Plate 5.1. Could the Nabatean figurine depict a local engaged in caravan protection? 22. From Tomb E2. 23. Michael Avi-Yonah’s survey is still the most comprehensive treatment of the subject for the area and the period under discussion. 24. Lichtenberger 2016, 89 no. 141 could be restored from fragments recovered in both cisterns. 25. In order to locate the textiles, the inventory numbers given after Du Bourguet’s publication are imperative, hence they are listed.

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Chapter 6 The ‘child with grapes’ from Britain to Bahrain: Shared iconography, meaning and mobility on funerary monuments, AD 100–500 Lindsay R. Morehouse In September 2016 a Roman period sculpture – nicknamed the ‘Romani Bambino’ – was repatriated from Adana, Turkey to its original place of discovery, Zeugma. This particular monument made the news because of its repatriation, but it has a wider significance as one example of a growing database of objects from the Roman to late antique period that show figures holding grapes in one hand and a bird in the other. Most of the depictions are of children – often boys – and because of the associations with children, I have nicknamed these monuments ‘boy with grapes’ or ‘child with grapes’ for simplicity. The image is also found on an important group of monuments from late antique Egypt (Plate 6.1), but they, as well as the monument from Zeugma, are not discrete anomalies; indeed, examples of this iconography may be found throughout Europe and the Mediterranean from Britain to Bahrain. When taken together these monuments have inspired me to question the meaning of the symbols, the possible ways in which this iconography may have spread and the identities of those depicted. This contribution will begin by looking at the ways in which the image of the ‘child with grapes’ and a bird was adopted and adapted in different regional contexts throughout the late Roman/late antique world based on a sample of eight objects from a larger dataset. The eight objects have been selected to represent the various locations in which monuments with this type of imagery can be found – Britain, Hungary, Greece, North Africa, Syria, Turkey, Egypt and Bahrain. My aim is to draw attention to the ‘global nature’ of this iconographic phenomenon. Applying theories of connectivity, mobility and globalisation this contribution will undertake an initial investigation into this monument type, with the goal of sparking further discussion and analysis into the global use of images in the late Roman and late antique world. There has been some previous research on this imagery of a child holding grapes and/or a bird. In particular, Jason Mander’s (2012) book about depictions of children

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on the funerary monuments of the Western Roman Empire discusses the use of attributes including both animals and fruit. Mander’s study includes a valuable catalogue and analysis of a large corpus of monuments, but it does not come to strong conclusions about the meaning of these specific attributes, due to the fact that the discussion is part of a larger chapter about the iconography of childhood. Crucially Mander’s study also only addresses the western provinces of the Roman Empire. From the two examples that opened this paper – the monuments from Zeugma and Egypt – it is clear that the eastern part of the empire provides equally valuable information about the application of this image. Much research has also been done on the use of birds on Classical Athenian funerary monuments. Ada Cohen’s (2007, 15–20) introduction to Constructions of Childhood in Ancient Greece and Italy, for instance, examines the meaning of the bird with reference to rites of passage and sexuality. Cohen’s study does a valuable job of unpacking the image in multiple types of monuments, however, her work (which focuses on the Classical period) is outside of the time period of this contribution and crucially lacks a discussion of the grapes attribute. Both Mander’s and Cohen’s studies can, however, help us to decode the monuments of the Roman and late antique period, along with individual publications about singular pieces. A small note on terminology is warranted here. Firstly, periodisation for this period is difficult. The Roman period overlaps with what is considered ‘Late Antiquity’, defined by Peter Brown (1971) as the 3rd through 8th century. This chapter will largely discuss the years AD 100–500: a broad period which covers the Roman, late Roman and late antique periods. For clarity I will specify the sub-period in question in the following discussion. Additionally, for the sake of clarity, modern names for locations will be used as primary identifiers. Finally, it is out of the scope of this chapter to explore every instance in which this image is found. Indeed, figures holding grapes and a bird can be seen in many other locations, as well as in different media. For instance, children holding these attributes on sarcophagi – like those from Dokimeion and the Prometheus Sarcophagus in the Capitoline Museum (MC 329) – inspire further and different questions since they are part of a more complex, articulate system (Waelkens 1982; Strocka 2017; Elsner 2018, 556). The present discussion will be limited to the examples chosen here, which feature one or a small group of figures on stone funerary monuments. For now, these individual examples serve as case studies to explore adaptation, appropriation and use within different geographical regions. I have chosen to consider the objects within the framework of globalisation (compare Pitts and Versluys 2015); in my view, this framework offers a useful way to explore their distribution in different contexts. I will begin by exploring the concept of globalisation and the ways in which it can be examined in the study of the ancient world. Following this, I will describe the eight examples that I have chosen to present. These examples will form the basis for my comparative analysis and a discussion about the meaning of the imagery in context and about how we may understand their widespread use.

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Globalisation and the Roman world In recent years there has been increased interest in cross-cultural examinations and what they can tell us about art, history and art history. ‘Histoires croisées, Entangled or Connected Histories, Global History, Transnational History, New World History’ and ‘Circulations’ are all terms used to describe a broad-perspective approach that looks at the world as a whole, based on interactions, combinations and cross-cultural exchange rather than national-based approaches (DaCosta Kaufmann et al. 2015, 15). This approach has a longer history in art-historical scholarship, but has recently begun to be explored within archaeology through the framework of ‘globalisation’ (DaCosta Kaufmann et al. 2015, 3–15). Within archaeology questions regarding the suitability of ‘globalisation’ for ancient histories, its (perceived) replacement of problematic concepts – for instance, ‘Romanisation’ – and the ways in which it may be seen in the archaeological record have all been thoroughly discussed (compare Hingley 2005; Orser 2014; Pitts and Versluys 2015). What is now clear is the fact that globalisation theory (and its associated theories like post-colonial theory and world systems theory) is not an answer in and of itself, but rather a set of tools to be used in order to further understand events, phenomena and trends. It is clear from these studies that the ‘study of globalisation, therefore, can be about many things’ since it is, at its basis, a ‘set of theoretical paradigms’ (Pitts and Versluys 2015, 15). As a set of paradigms globalisation can refer to political, economic and cultural changes wherein the world appears to become smaller. Some aspects of cultural globalisation can be seen in what is referred to as ‘time-space compression’, which occurs with the increase in connectivity of people through innovations in transportation, communication, technology and infrastructure (Morley 2015, 53–56). As a result of this connectivity, people ‘came to think of themselves as part of a wider world’ (Morley 2015, 57). Some discussion has surrounded the applicability of this theoretical framework to pre-capitalist societies, due to the strong associative links that globalisation has with economic systems and trade networks. However, in his examination of 16th-century trade, Charles E. Orser Jr. (2014) successfully demonstrates that these paradigms can apply to pre-industrial societies: emphasising also that globalisation does not necessarily have to describe phenomena that span the entire globe (see also Morley 2015, 50–51). Other scholars have worked to expand the applicability of this framework to more ancient societies including, importantly, the Graeco-Roman world (Pitts and Versluys 2015). It is clear that the Roman world is particularly appropriate for this framework due to several instrumental qualities, including the fact that this period exhibited characteristics of time-space compression. The expansion of the empire during the principate brought new groups of people into the Roman world, while also increasing the geographic size and transportation (in particular the increased infrastructure for travel due to the army is often discussed). The army was certainly a vector for change in many areas, and previous studies have linked this to funerary monuments and their art: specific discussions have surrounded Roman cavalry tombstones (the

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‘Danubian’ and ‘Thracian riders’) and Totenmahl reliefs (Hope 1997; 2001; Dimitrova 2002; Stewart 2009; 2010; Kramer 2014). An integral aspect of time-space compression is a ‘growing consciousness of the world as a whole’, which may help us assess the movement of artistic expressions as well as the movement of people (Morley 2015, 59). This growing consciousness, indeed, may have come into play especially after AD 212 following the Constitutio Antoniniana in which Roman citizenship was expanded to all free men (and women), perhaps allowing them to ‘think of themselves as part of a wider world’ (Morley 2015, 57). While at the same time broadening the view helps to situate art within global contexts, attention must still be paid to the local context in which art emerges. For with rapid globalisation also comes an increased awareness of the local (Whitmarsh 2010, 2). The intersection of these concepts is key, for local identity is not fixed: it responds to global forces (Whitmarsh 2010, 3). Tim Whitmarsh (2010, 10) notes that in response to the Constitutio Antoniniana ‘centralization fostered an increased sense of regional diversity’, with an increase in the global comes also an emphasis on the local. It is tempting, in discussions of identity and art, to attempt to trace certain elements from particular cultures. Indeed, in the following sections it will become apparent that a number of authors have described these monuments with the ‘boy with grapes’ imagery as having Greek, Parthian or Roman origins. But even though the question of how and when these objects spread is obviously of interest, dwelling on this too much runs the risk of tilting the conversation back in the direction of rather simplistic discussions of ‘Romanisation’ and ‘Hellenisation’ which, as has been established, are at best problematic and ultimately somewhat unproductive (compare Hingley 2005; Pitts and Versluys 2015). Instead, it is interesting to examine what various artistic expressions have in common and how they have been adopted and adapted in the various local milieus in which they are found. In this way globalisation may help us understand this image on a deeper level.

Case studies Turning now to the objects themselves, my catalogue will follow a broadly geographic pattern, beginning in north-west Europe (with Britain) and ending in the Arabian Peninsula (with Bahrain). However, the precise order of examples has been chosen less based on geography than on theme, as the case studies will shortly demonstrate. It should be noted that there was not much of a tradition of stone sculpture in Roman Britain, and what is there is often tied to places associated with the army (Mattingly 2007, 205). The largest collections of sculpture are found on the eastern and western ends of Hadrian’s wall and are ‘almost entirely attributable to the military community’ (Mattingly 2007, 205). That said, even in such a landscape the ‘child with grapes’ can be found; as a matter of fact the bird attribute appears to be more prevalent in Britannia than the grapes. From Jason Mander’s (2012, cat.  386, 389, 392, 395, 396) database of children’s monuments, five monuments feature a bird, and one monument features grapes. None of the monuments listed by Mander feature

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Fig. 6.1: Funerary monument of Julia Brica. York, Yorkshire Museum, inv. 2007.6201 (from An Inventory of the Historical Monuments in the City of York, vol. 1: Eburacum: Roman York, London 1962, pl. 54, no. 80).

both attributes, although a monument of an adult woman found in Bownesson-Solway does (Phillips 1976, 103). Excluding monuments that depict deities or Erotes, thus far monuments depicting female children (or in a few cases adult women, compare Mander 2012, cat. 395; Roman Inscriptions of Britain 688) carrying either attribute have been found in Britain (Phillips 1976, 103; Mander 2012, cat. 379–408). A particularly interesting piece for this study is the monument dedicated to Julia Brica and her daughter Sempronia Martina (Roman Inscriptions of Britain 686) which was set up by Julia’s husband Sempronius Martinus. This monument was discovered along with other funerary monuments under the Mount Hotel in York in 1892 and dates to the Roman period, between AD 43 and AD 410 (Royal Commission on Historical Monuments 1962, 125). The figural field shows an adult woman holding a basket and a young child holding a bird (Fig. 6.1). Sempronia, the smaller figure, is identified by the inscription as a six-year-old child. Previous studies have examined the clothing depicted on the monument and how this information may reflect the community of Roman York (Hope 1997, 252; Wild 2004, 305). From such studies, it has been concluded that the materiality of the monument was the product of a well-off community, but one that had not attracted first-class masons, as the quality is much poorer than what can be found at other Roman military sites in Britain such as Caerleon and Chester (Royal Commission on Historical Monuments 1962, 125). In Pannonia, in modern day Hungary, both boys and girls hold the attributes, although grapes are, as in Britain, less common. A good example for this study is

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Lindsay R. Morehouse Fig. 6.2: Funerary monument of Claudia Maximilla. Budapest, Magyar Nemzeti Múzeum, inv. 62.70.1 (© Magyar Nemzeti Múzeum).

monument 62.70.1 in the Hungarian National Museum in Budapest (otherwise known as the ‘family monument of Claudia Maximilla’) (Fig. 6.2). This piece has gone through (at least) two cycles of use as a funerary monument, with the secondary use dating to the 4th century AD.1 Unfortunately the exact origins of this monument are uncertain. The original use of the monument is indicated by the figural scene which shows two adults and a child holding a bird in his hands. The Latin inscription states: ‘To the good memory of Claudia Maximilla who lived 25 years and Domatius Domnio, her husband who died in Raetia and lived 37 years, erected by Aurelia Urbana and Ingenua to their much esteemed sister’ (Nagy 2012, 171). Interestingly the inscription does not appear to correspond directly to the image (it does not mention a child), which may suggest that this was a ready-made design or that the child survived his parents and therefore was depicted, but not commemorated in the inscription. An additional Greek inscription, scratched lightly in the field behind the adults’ heads, indicates its secondary use: it identifies Anestasius and Decusane and their deceased son Beniamin. The inscription includes the phrase ‘There is one God’, which, along with two incised menorahs – one in the tympanum and the other on the child’s chest above the bird – indicates that the second family to use this monument was Jewish (Kovács 2010, 163; Nagy 2012, 170). Péter Kovács (2010, 162) connects this family with a period of Jewish immigration into Pannonia between the Severan period and the 4th century. Because of this, however, Kovács (2010, 163) identified the original use as having memorialised a

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‘pagan family’ whereas the secondary use commemorates a Jewish family, noting that ‘the later inscription has nothing to do with the pagan family and the relief cannot portray the Jewish family’. Kovács (2010, 162) argues that it was a deliberate choice to reuse this particular monument, for ‘it cannot be accidental that the portrait corresponds to the second text’. In both cases the imagery of the bird was appropriate to the intended meaning/use of the monument (or at least was not offensive). Therefore we may make the following assumptions: first, that, in this case, the bird is not directly related to a religious meaning, or at least it may have had more than one meaning that allowed it to be used in this setting; secondly, the applicability of the bird in the child’s hands was relevant and understandable (or was multivalent enough to take on a different meaning) in the years after its original use. The possibility of multivalence is underscored by a monument from North Africa. This monument comes from Khenchela, Algeria (Mascula, Numidia) and is currently in the Allard Pierson in Amsterdam (inv. no. 10.643) (Fig. 6.3). It has been dated to the second half of the 2nd century, specifically AD 175–225 (van Oppen de Ruiter 2016, 22). The monument is made up of two niches: one Fig. 6.3: Monument of girl with grapes and bird. takes up the main part of the monument Amsterdam, Allard Pierson Museum, inv. 10643 with the other, smaller niche, located (from van Oppen de Ruiter 2016, 22). above between the acroteria. In the upper niche, there is a male figure that has been identified as Saturn. In the lower niche, there is a girl holding a bird to her chest with her right hand. The bird appears to be biting the grapes that the girl holds in her bent left hand (Moormann 2000, 117). This monument is anepigraphic and as a result has been interpreted in two different ways: in one case as a votive stele to the god Saturn and alternatively as a grave

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stele (Moormann 2000, 117; van Oppen de Ruiter 2016, 21–23). Indeed, the same iconography can be found elsewhere in the region on both votive and funerary monuments. Marcel Leglay’s (1966) catalogue which lists votive stelai dedicated to Saturn from North Africa features some useful examples: for instance a 2nd-century example from Hippo (Leglay 1966, 445 no. 36) shows a figure with both grapes and a bird. Others like a 1st-century BC to 1st-century AD example (Hippone no.  16), several 2nd-century examples (Hippone no. 28, 31, 34), and a 2nd–3rd-century example (Hippone no.  43) only feature grapes (Leglay 1966, 440–446). Stelai from other sites like Guelma (Leglay 1966, 393–398) and Ain-Nechma (Leglay 1966, 404–415) – dating largely to the 2nd–3rd century – also feature figures holding grapes. Like the example in Amsterdam, there may be some uncertainty about how to accurately identify the use of these monuments. Andrew Wilson (2005, 406) notes that at places like Lambaesis ‘there may be some cross-over with funerary art, the same workshops perhaps being involved in the production of votive stelai to Saturn and of grave markers’, Fig. 6.4: Funerary monument of Tychike. Athens, which may cause some confusion for National Archaeological Museum, inv. 1240 (from anepigraphic stelai like the one in McClelland 2013, 174 cat. 4). Amsterdam. This is especially true with respect to monuments that have been taken out of context, either for secondary use – like those installed in the theatre at Guelma – or for sale on the art market. Without context or an inscription the monument could be fit for either use. Further clues regarding the meaning and use of this imagery can be seen in an example from Roman Athens. The monument in question originally comes from Piraeus and is now held in the National Archaeological Museum in Athens (inv. no.  1240; McClelland 2013, 174) (Fig.  6.4). It dates to the 2nd century AD, perhaps more specifically the Hadrianic period (McClelland 2013, 72). This stele features a girl standing in the centre of a columned niche. In her right hand she holds a

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bird – ‘unambiguously a goose’ – and in her left hand she holds a bunch of grapes (McClelland 2013, 72). An inscription identifies the memorialised figure as Tychike, the daughter of Theopompos, and also describes her as Milesian (McClelland 2013, 71). In the Roman period there was a large amount of Milesian immigration into Attica, resulting in a large Milesian population in Athens and its environs (Gray 2002 as cited in McClelland 2013, 7). It is unclear whether Tychike herself was an immigrant from Miletus or whether that was simply her heritage, but clearly it was important enough to list on her funerary memorial. Like on other such ‘Milesian monuments,’ while the epigraphy notes the deceased as Milesian, the iconography on such monuments is often Attic (McClelland 2013, 7). For, as Grizelda McClelland notes, the bird and grapes iconography has precursors in Classical Athenian funerary monuments (McClelland 2013, 57–58, 64). In the adoption of this iconography for her funerary monument it may demonstrate an annexation of Attic culture or, in other words, ‘a conscientious appropriation of Athenian civic imagery in the construction of Milesian self-identity’ (McClelland 2013, 7). The ‘Romani Bambino’, outlined at the beginning of this chapter, comes from Zeugma, Turkey (in ancient Commagene) although it has been housed in Adana for the past 85 years. This monument can be placed in the 2nd century, at least after AD 18, but most likely in the late 2nd century AD due to the fact that the ‘style of relief … is much later’ (Mussche 1959, 546, 548).2 This monument depicts a male child standing in a niche surrounded by Corinthian columns. The boy holds a bird in his left hand (which is missing its head), although the attribute in his right hand requires more scrutiny. The press release issued at the time of the return of the monument to Zeugma described the cluster of items as pistachio nuts.3 Herman Mussche (1959, 547), however, identified the items as ‘fruits’, not grapes, but rather ‘dates’. There is an inscription on the bottom of the monument that identifies the deceased.4 There is some discussion by Mussche (1959, 546) regarding the inscription, due to the fact that the first word is unclear.5 However, it is likely that the first two words of the inscription are the figure’s name, possibly a transliteration from Latin ‘Brutius Cosconius’.6 The word following the name – ἄωρε – is also the topic of some discussion, but is generally thought to indicate an untimely death. Often this indicates someone who has died young (a child), but can also indicate someone who has died before their time (e.g. a young woman) (Klaver 2019, 225). Therefore, in all likelihood, this is a monument to a child called Brutius Cosconius who died prematurely. His name may indicate Latin onomastics, written in Greek, which may support Mussche’s (1959, 546) interpretation that the child came from a ‘Roman family’. However, caution must be taken when making such assumptions based solely on name, especially given the many and varied ways ‘Latin names’ were adopted in Roman Syria (Yon 2015, 14). According to Mussche (1959, 546), the fact that he wears a bulla also supports the identification as ‘Roman’ and further suggests that he would have been at least six years old, the age at which Roman children typically began wearing such amulets. However, children much younger are often depicted wearing this amulet in Roman

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Fig. 6.5: Funerary relief depicting Zabdibol and his family. New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, inv. 02.29.1 (© Metropolitan Museum of Art, https://images.metmuseum.org/CRDImages/an/original/ DP-13078-001.jpg [last accessed: 24/03/2020]).

commemorative art (Larsson Lovén 2013, 308). Therefore questions remain regarding the precise age of the child depicted. Many monuments featuring the grapes/bird formula also come to us from Palmyra and the surrounding environs (see, for example, Colledge 1976 cat. 73, 83, 86, 88). In contrast to some of the previous regional areas – like Britain for instance – it is often a boy who is holding a bird and grapes. This is the case for a relief currently located in the Metropolitan Museum in New York (inv. no. 02.29.1; Fig. 6.5). This monument has been dated to AD 100–300 and depicts an entire family: an adult reclining in the foreground, a child (a daughter) in the back left, another child (a son) in the middle and another child (a daughter) on the right. There is an inscription in the

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background that identifies the father, Zabdibol, as the deceased and outlines his genealogy back five generations. The scene is a banqueting scene, with Zabdibol as the central reclining figure, in which all of the figures hold characteristic attributes. Zabdibol holds in one hand a cup and in the other a palm leaf or a bunch of dates (The Metropolitan Museum of Art 2010; Arnold 1905, 106). The two daughters hold folds of their clothing, while the son, Mokimu, holds a bird (identified as a ‘fowl’ by William Arnold) in his left and some grapes in his right (The Metropolitan Museum of Art 2010; Arnold 1905, 106). From the inscription it is clear that the deceased who is being commemorated is not the figure with the grapes/bird. Instead this figure may be considered in a supporting role (Krag and Raja 2016, 144–145). This appears to be characteristic for Palmyrene depictions: many examples exist that show a ‘boy with grapes’ behind the main figure of the relief. A connection between the Palmyrene ‘boy with grapes’ and Egyptian versions has long been known and was already established by John D. Cooney (Cooney 1966, 37 note 4). The Egyptian monuments come in two forms: one in which a child sits within a niche holding grapes and a bird and another in which a child stands within a niche holding grapes and a scroll/funerary garland. One example (of the seated version) is in the Bode Museum in Berlin (inv. no. 3/59) (Plate 6.1). It has been dated to the 4th century AD – with modern reworking7 – and is identified as coming from Oxyrhynchos (Severin 1995, 292–293; Fluck 2004, 19; 2017). The boy sits within what was possibly a niche, although the top no longer exists. In his right hand he holds a bunch of grapes and in his left hand a bird. He sits with his right leg tucked in and his left knee up, and he may in fact be sitting on a cushion (Effenberger 2008, 72). The monument is uninscribed – indeed, there are no examples of inscribed monuments with this image from Egypt – which leads to questions regarding the precise usage and meaning of the stele. Prior to the 1970s the main interpretation of these Egyptian monuments related them to the cult of Isis through the iconography, perhaps, as some have suggested, it depicts a follower of the cult (Cooney 1960–1962, 37). More recent studies, however, interpret these pieces more generally as burial reliefs, as the Berlin museum, for example, identifies the piece as a ‘grave relief with seated boy’. The last piece that will be examined here comes from Bahrain and was discovered in the excavations of the Al-Maqsha necropolis (Potts 2008, 109–110). The piece has been generally dated between the 2nd century BC and the Islamic period and is carved in the shape of a doorway or niche framed by columns with undecorated capitals. The figure (standing, but with only three-quarters of the body depicted) has curly hair, but no beard. From this we may infer a younger age due to the fact that the other monuments with which it was found sported beards. In his right hand, he holds grapes by the stem, and in his left he holds a bird – identified as a dove, although ‘a definitive ornithological definition is impossible’ – between his thumb and forefinger (Potts 2008, 110–111). In a 1989 exhibition catalogue from the National Museum of Bahrain, this stele is one of three that are identified as ‘Coptic, probably Christian’ (Potts 2008, 109). It is unlikely that this reference indicates its origins in Egypt, instead it is likely that the use of ‘Coptic’ is employed with general reference to eastern Christianity (Potts

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2008, 116). It is unclear why this imagery was linked to Christianity, and even early literature on these stelai question the Christian interpretation, noting that there is no explicitly Christian imagery (Potts 2008, 109). Furthermore, Daniel T. Potts’ (2008, 110–112) systematic discussion of the possibilities behind the symbols of grapes and birds demonstrates that a Christian reading is theoretically possible (based on biblical references to birds and grapes). Given the fact that this iconography has a much longer history than that associated with the Christian religion, it is equally possible that the monument is not of Christian origin. Potts adds that if it were solely a Christian motif, ‘their co-occurrence is not a phenomenon that has been commented upon in the literature’ (Potts 2008, 112).

What does it mean? The above conclusion by Potts is an important jumping off point for the discussion of the meaning of the imagery in these select contexts. In his article Daniel T. Potts (2008, 110–112) takes special care to assess the imagery in all possible contexts and readings. He makes connections between doves in Sumerian, Old Babylonian, Jewish and Christian contexts in textual and visual imagery. Grapes are associated with the Sumerian goddess Gestianna, but during the Iron Age in Bahrain grapes on funerary reliefs were used as a symbol of life and were also offered at temples. In the Hebrew Bible, grapes (and the grape vine) are associated with prosperity (Potts 2008, 111–112; Hosea 14:7). And, of course, it is impossible to ignore the Dionysian associations of grapes and grapevines and the associated allusions to prosperity (McClelland 2013, 64, 74, 84). In Christianity the grapevine is associated with Jesus as the ‘true vine’ (Potts 2008, 112; John 15:1). Despite (or perhaps because of) all of these interpretations, grapes are ubiquitous in Mediterranean, Near Eastern and Classical imagery (Colledge 1987 figs D–E; Potts 2008, 112). The bird is equally an old motif, one that has examples as early as the 4th century BC with votive offerings from Cyprus and depictions on funerary monuments in Classical Greece (Hadzisteliou-Price 1969; Oakley 2003; Margariti 2018). Regarding biblical literature, the dove is notable from the story of Noah’s ark and later became a symbol of peace (Potts 2008, 111). As Potts (2008, 117) points out, the confluence of the bird and grapes is one that is unlikely to belong to only one cultural or religious milieu. The fact that it emerges with such popularity during the 2nd–4th century (Table 6.1) suggests that it may have had a specific meaning at the time. In the case of the eight monuments explored in this contribution, scholars have put forth various theories in isolation. The bird held by Sempronia on the monument from York, for instance, has been identified as a pet bird or simply a bird (Royal Commission on Historical Monuments 1962, 124; Hope 1997, 252; compare also Mander 2012, 36–64). E. John Phillips (1976, 102) similarly suggests this, adding that this could be the reason why the bird is not found in the hands of adult male figures (suggesting that otherwise it would be a symbolic attribute). Herman Mussche (1959, 547) suggests in his discussion of the ‘Romani Bambino’

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6. The ‘child with grapes’ from Britain to Bahrain Table 6.1: Summary of pieces examined in this study and their primary interpretations. Site

Object ID

York

York Museum, Inv. no. Female YORYM: 2007.6201 child (6 years old) Hungarian National Male Museum, inv. child no. 62.70.1 Athens, National Female Archaeological child Museum, inv. no. 1240

Budapest Athens

Figure

Featured Attribute Bird

Bird

Date

Interpretation

AD 43–410

Bird/pet bird

Reuse in 4th century AD

No discussion of symbol

Bird (goose) 2nd century AD and grapes (possibly Hadrianic)

Symbols of age; connection to Aphrodite (bird) and prospective marriage (grapes) Associated with children; symbol of life Dove of Atargatis; pet; grapes (symbolic?)

Khenchela

The Allard Pierson, inv. no. 10.643

Female child

Bird and grapes

AD 175–225

Palmyra

The Metropolitan Museum, inv. no. 02.29.1

Male child

Bird and grapes

AD 100–300

Zeugma

Zeugma Mosaic Museum, inv. no. (n/a).

Bird and grapes (or dates?)

Second half of Dates, child’s the 2nd century favourite fruit and AD animal

Oxyrhynchos

Bode Museum, inv. no. 3/59

Male child (6–9 years?) Male child

Bird and grapes

4th century AD

al-Maqsha

Bahrain National Museum, inv. no. (n/a)

Male

Bird and grapes

2nd century BC to Early Islamic Period

Connected to cult of Isis. Dove = Aphrodite, grapes = Dionysos Not related to Christianity (?), multiple readings possible

that the bird and fruit were simply the child’s favourite. This hypothesis is taken slightly further by the suggestion that the inclusion of a pet or favourite animal would have reminded the viewer of happier times or that the inclusion of a pet was a status symbol, indicating the privilege of the family that created the monument (McClelland 2013, 65). Malcolm Colledge (1976, 158, 211) also highlights the possibility of it being a pet in the Palmyrene reliefs, although he is also open to other possibilities, asking ‘are [grapes] symbolic?’. One possible explanation is that these objects may have some association with a deity, perhaps out of protection. As already stated, an obvious interpretation for the grapes is to link them to the cult of Dionysos. This is also an apt association given that Dionysos, due to his untimely death, was considered to be forever a child (Mathieux 2015, 245). This connection can be seen on the art of choes pottery from

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Classical Greece – objects associated with the cult of Dionysos and often found in the burials of children (Neils 2003, 145–146). In Palmyra the dove could be echoing the ‘protective dove of Atargatis’ (Colledge 1976, 158). A more common explanation links these attributes to Aphrodite, as the dove is a known attribute of this goddess (Potts 2008, 111). In fact the conversation regarding the connection between the Egyptian examples and Isis comes through the syncretised Isis-Aphrodite and the bird as her attribute (Cooney 1960–1962, 40). Grizelda McClelland (2013, 74) links grapes to the age of the deceased – citing wedding scenes on Greek vases where the grapes are ‘direct allusions to fertility’. Together – and in the case of other iconographic elements on the Tychike monument examined here such as a poppy – these attributes all allude to Aphrodite and in particular suggest her age as a mature woman, as well as a nuptial event that would never happen – the objects together symbolise ‘an eternal bride in death’ (McClelland 2013, 74). Or, in other words, it is a prospective memorial looking forward to what might have been (Huskinson 1996, 1). Other theories regarding the symbolic nature of these attributes are more broadly applicable. For instance regarding the monument from North Africa, Branko van Oppen de Ruiter (2016, 23) notes that the attributes on the gravestone most likely symbolise new life and that there has been a long history of associating them in funerary contexts, particularly with reference to deceased girls. More broadly, Arne Effenberger notes that the dove and grapes may represent a symbol of life (Effenberger 2008, 72). Birds, given their ability to fly, were like the human soul and were appropriate companions for the deceased (McClelland 2013, 64). This hypothesis is supported by the discovery of bird bones in some burials dating to the Classical period (Oakley 2003, 180; McClelland 2013, 64), although the question of whether this association was still active in the Roman period remains. It is clear that no single theory has gained a consensus in literature, but that many of these theories circle around the same ideas: reminders of childhood, allusions to missed opportunities/futures and the idea that life continues after death, protected perhaps by a sympathetic god and/or goddess. In The Art of Palmyra, Malcolm Colledge (1976, 156) asks a question which in his text is a passing mention, but here summarises the crux of the issue at hand; he notes: ‘Children and adolescents have two attributes of their own: the bird, and the bunch of grapes. Both have Greek antecedents, and both were widespread in the Roman Empire, as symbols of childhood: it is not clear whether they meant more than this, nor whether they held the same meanings at Palmyra as they did elsewhere.’ It is here where using a conceptual framework of globalisation can help us create some order from the chaos. By and large these pieces all take the same form: a figure in a niche holding grapes and/or a bird (see Table 6.1). Some monuments include other figures – such as parents (the Budapest, York, Palmyra examples) or gods (Khenchela). Many of the figures are set within a frame, although only some monuments include specific architectural elements – akroteria, tympanum or columns. Some monuments (Budapest and

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al-Maqsha) show busts or partial figures within a niche. Other monuments (Athens and York) show someone standing. In Oxyrhynchos the figures sit, in Palmyra they stand behind other figures (who sometimes recline). The focus of the monument is not always the figure with the grapes/bird. The examples from Budapest, York and Palmyra show multiple figures. In the latter two cases – Budapest (in its original use) and Palmyra – the person with the grapes is not in fact the deceased, but rather a supporting figure. In anepigraphic cases like those from Khenchela and Oxyrhynchos it is difficult to know for certain that these pieces are funerary in nature. There is always the possibility that the monuments could have had more than one purpose. We see this in the reuse of the Pannonian monument (although the reuse was also funerary). The monument from North Africa is an object that can be seen in more than one light; according to one scholar it is identifiable as a votive stele, according to another it is a gravestone. Indeed, some monuments from North Africa have sometimes had a history of both votive and funerary usage (Moormann 2000, 117). This is an issue not limited to this specific iconography. The purpose of the Thracian rider motif on inscribed monuments, for instance, is clear. However, on uninscribed monuments, it could be either votive or funerary (Dimitrova 2002, 213). This confusion is compounded by a lack of context that can occur with an object in secondary usage. In addition, flexible iconography may have meant that workshops were producing objects that could either be purposed as votive or funerary reliefs, depending on the added inscription (Dimitrova 2002, 117, 225–226). The fact that there is uncertainty surrounding the use of this (and similar) monument(s) points to the fact that, although these pieces share similar form and subject matter, each may have had a different use in different locations. Additionally it may show that the imagery could be applied in different situations: the child with grapes/bird could be a relevant image in funerary or votive contexts. This may seem superficial, but it helps to underscore the diversity of employments of this image. There are many explanations for the meaning of the bird and grapes which I have outlined, and it is impossible to say which is correct in large part due to the fact that visual language is complex and meaning depends on context. In some Greek monuments there is a connection with the age and gender of the commemorated figure. Whereas the bird and grapes is representative of a toddler (age 2–4) for boys, it is representative of a maiden (age 13–14) in girls (McClelland 2013, 40–41). Grizelda McClelland (2013, 44, 65, 94) suggests that for boys these attributes were used to distinguish them as younger than their ephebe or adolescent counterparts, thus invoking a more ‘feminine’ age. McClelland (2013, 50) furthers this to conclude that for girls the symbolism used was meant to ‘celebrate and mourn the loss of future brides with reproductive potential and, among non-citizens, the loss of a living social currency by which foreign families could forge alliances’. Either way, the bird and grapes cannot be read in isolation, for they are ‘part of a larger iconographic narrative’, one that is based on context, age, gender and desired meaning (McClelland 2013, 65). It is clear, in this case, that when the grapes and bird are employed on Roman-Athenian

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monuments of boys it creates a wholly different effect for the viewer than when it has been deployed on the monuments of girls. Therefore the whole picture of object, form, function, content and culture must be examined to fully understand the narrative that the monument is communicating. The fact that such symbols could have such disparate meanings within the same culture suggests that they are flexible and likely would have been adapted to different situations in different locations. This is not unheard of. In fact Jaś Elsner (2003, 117) urges caution when assigning the label ‘Christian’ or ‘Jewish’ to specific imagery, since anyone was free to use any image they wished. In the case of the bird and grape imagery Daniel T. Potts (2008, 118) notes specifically the ambiguity of the grapes and bird: ‘each of these symbols is and was susceptible to multiple usages and readings, both in antiquity and today’. That there is no consensus about the imagery suggests that these pieces have multiple and shifting meanings. This would make sense in a world in which infrastructure, trade and the military supported contact between different people and in which old symbols were taken up and imbued with new meaning in new contexts. Here we may see the ‘globalisation paradox’: the idea that globalisation produces ‘problems that manifest themselves in intensely local forms but have contexts that are anything but local’ (Pitts and Versluys 2015, 7 after Appadurai 2001, 6). In this case the problem is the imagery; the objects share an image that has a different meaning in each location. In other words, the bird and the grapes are ‘homogenizing elements […] adapted differently in different locations’ versus the straightforward adoption of a symbol that means the same thing in every location (Pitts and Versluys 2015, 14). This latter possibility, although potentially also an example of globalisation, lacks the local interpretation that has come to be characteristic of known globalised phenomena. Here we can think of McDonald’s and the way that the brand has been universally adopted, and yet the menu is different in different locations around the world (Hodos 2015, 245). In other words, the grapes and the bird are universal, but their adoption is particular. ‘Glocalisation’ – a term which describes the effect of globalising processes on local populations – succinctly summarises this phenomenon (Pitts 2008, 494). The variety in size, composition, purpose, featured person and symbolic meaning in these monuments illustrates this point, but also makes it difficult to say anything for certain about the precise meaning and the reasons for employment. As previously demonstrated, scholars have investigated the possible meanings of these symbols, and in cases where systematic analysis of an object has occurred, conclusions are still unclear. For instance, Daniel T. Potts (2008, 118) states about the monuments from Bahrain, ‘we may be dealing with Christian grave stelai, but we cannot be sure’. Nevertheless, this makes sense if we are looking at symbols that are context dependent. For instance Valerie Hope’s (1997, 257) assessment of the Julia Brica monument concludes that these types of monuments ‘do not indicate an automatic high level of Romanisation but instead an ongoing cultural dialogue about status and identity as those commemorated are often in a state of transition’. Grizelda

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McClelland’s (2013, 168–169) work on Roman Athens adds support to this point. She specifically highlights the influence of Rome on the Attic monuments and the desire for people to express their newfound identities through the commemoration of children, whilst also maintaining an allegiance with the Classical past. In short, memberships of social groups are elective, and globalisation ‘makes self-fashioning and self-examination possible’ (Morley 2015, 59). In these monuments we may see the expression of (local?) self-identity that is in line with expanding entrance into a new social sphere, in combination with the growth of the empire in terms of size and in terms of citizenship. Interestingly two of the monuments examined here have links to periods of immigration. The monument of Tychike identified her as a Milesian living in Attica, whereas the secondary use of the Claudia Maximilla monument has been linked to a movement of Jewish immigration into Pannonia between the Severan period and the 4th century. From these pieces we may also get further information about connectivity and the fluidity of people through the ‘network’ (Hingley 2005, 107). Richard Hingley (2005, 108) notes that ‘material culture served both to create and to symbolize the relationships between peoples’ and that people created ‘new forms of identity with a relevance that extended beyond the local community’. In the case of these two monuments an identity is literally inscribed onto the monument. On the monument of Tychike, the inscription notes her origins. In Beniamin’s case (on the Claudia Maximilla monument) the iconography (and inscription) references a Jewish heritage which, according to Péter Kovács (2010), makes most sense through the lens of immigration. These (putative) immigrant’s monuments may tell us about the changing identities – and indeed populations – of this period. In this sense they may tell us more about cultural hybridity. The concept of hybridity is one whose value has been the subject of recent discussion and debate (Stockhammer 2012, 2). However, the concept still has utility, especially within a framework like globalisation, because it allows further understanding of ‘mixing cultural phenomena, regardless of their origins, and refers to the transformation of objects, values and cultural institutions, but also to the unequal power relations in many cultural contacts’ (Hahn 2012, 27). Further to this point Martin Pitts and Miguel John Versluys (2015, 15) note that ‘hybridity is relational and context dependent’, and therefore hybridity places the focus on local actors (Hahn 2012, 28). In this light we may consider the funerary monuments of Tychike and Beniamin. In them we see not only a mixing of global and local – the iconography is global whilst the form of the monument is local – but also even further mixing of localities/identities. In ‘globalised societies’, although people identify themselves through material practices, they are ‘never…a simple matter of abandoning one identity for another… but rather of evaluating one set of possibilities in light of other sets’ (Morley 2015, 60). This may be true of the Greek and Pannonian monuments which show a mixing of possible (‘translocal’) identities, as Tim Whitmarsh (2010, 13) calls it, ‘a shuttering between different locales, mediating between the global and the local’.

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Returning to the question of employment and meaning, however, it is worth keeping in mind the fact that the reading and interpretation of monuments is an act that is based on knowledge, experience and context. So far the one thing that all of these monuments have in common is their funerary context. Importantly, ambiguous symbolism is a common trait of funerary art. In fact in some cases the ambiguity of the symbolism ensures the longevity of its use. Carl Lindahl (1986, 172–185) demonstrated this phenomenon in a study on early 20th-century tombstones in Washington Cemetery. In his study he asked two separate groups of people – one younger, one older – about the imagery included on grave markers. Whereas the older group saw such iconographic scenes as holding hands, trees, flowers and animals as hopeful, the younger group saw them as sad. The dual meaning (or ambivalence) of iconography is essential to its success because they mean different things to different people (Lindahl 1986, 185). Lindahl’s (1986, 167) study showed that some symbols have gone out of fashion between 1920 and 1980 and that ‘the symbols that have disappeared are precisely those which younger Americans cannot interpret two ways. An image seems to change only when mourners can no longer find a dual meaning behind it’. The flexibility of a symbol is therefore important to its lasting power. It is important to note that mapping 20th-century iconographic practices onto the ancient world is somewhat problematic. Furthermore, the question of ambiguity in images is significantly more complex (compare Alloa 2011 regarding Wittgenstein’s ambiguity in images) – an interesting area for further exploration. Within the scope of this contribution it is important to note that the meaning of images is multivalent and, importantly, dependent on context and individual experience and ways of creating meaning. For this reason this specific case study may help to frame the multiple meanings that have been proposed. Take, for example, the funerary monuments from Roman Athens. Many symbols employed as attributes speak about the loss of what might have been while also celebrating what was (McClelland 2013, 50). The monument of Tychike, for instance, ‘at once celebrated and mourned the beautiful maiden daughter’ (McClelland 2013, 73). We can see that the monuments from Roman Athens did in fact include multiple potentially contrasting meanings. From Grizelda McClelland’s study (2013, 50) we can see the many and various ways that this was employed. However, it is clear that each image cannot be examined in isolation. They are part of a larger iconographic narrative that changes based on who is depicted; the age, gender, depiction and inscription all impact the meaning (McClelland 2013, 65). Thus it is in some ways to be expected that the symbols in this study – the grapes and bird – would not have one singular interpretation. Because of the importance of context and individual experience, it is nearly impossible to assess whether everyone in antiquity would have viewed the symbols in the same way(s) or not. Furthermore, even the question of whether the symbols were used in the same way remains. Here we can again think about Jaś Elsner’s (2003, 117, 119) observation that people use symbols in unpredictable ways or at least in ways that may not conform to our desire for strict, contained use. These symbols could have been ambiguous enough

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to suit different purposes in different situations, despite the fact that, as previously discussed, these monuments may have been designed in such a way to present an identity or message or to perform a certain function. Nevertheless, it is clear that the same imagery was adopted in each monument. Depending on the context, however, the imagery was adopted in a different manner, adapting it to the context in which it was appropriated. Therefore a good question to apply to these monuments is: do people see themselves in relation to the global or the local (Morley 2012, 59)? In the case of the ‘boy/child with grapes’ it is possible to say: both. The symbolism is global – it appears to come from the reservoir of symbols from the koiné – or perhaps originally stemming from an even older heritage (Hadzisteliou-Price 1969; Versluys 2015, 154). The form, meaning and even function of each monument, however, was determined locally. Thus when we look at this corpus of monuments with the lens of globalisation, we can see a ‘glocalised’ impulse – making a larger phenomenon more locally specific (Hingley 2005, 111; Pitts 2008, 494). The monuments here represent a discrete set of objects separated by region, culture and, in some cases, time. Yet they employ the same imagery and demonstrate iconographic connectivity.

Conclusion Ultimately the symbolism seen in these monuments is a common visual motif used to express a general message, but the way in which it is expressed may mean different things in different contexts. In other words, the ‘boy with grapes’ is a concrete example of what may be considered the ‘universal’ and the ‘particular’. In this way, the framework of globalisation – and more specifically the concept of ‘(g)localisation’ – offers a useful way to study these monuments and their distribution in (Late) Antiquity. The image was widely adopted into funerary (and other) contexts, often those that depict children. That is clear. However, it is obviously not adopted in the same way in each place. This supports the ‘globalisation paradox’: as things are adopted universally, they also change according to local contexts. Through this we may be able to understand that there is a (late) antique koiné as it (in many cases) concerns the memorialisation of youth. A particularly illustrative example is the same that introduced this study – the ‘Romani Bambino’ from Turkey. In some of the earliest scholarship on this piece Herman Mussche (1959, 548) wrote: ‘the Sultan hen and the dates are local attributes, but they do not affect the profound significance’. Indeed, this somewhat off-hand comment summarises the use of these symbols (and their ‘globalised’ nature) well. Nevertheless, what these symbols mean – and specifically what they mean in relation to each other – remains unclear. Likewise it is uncertain which monuments might be a more direct result of immigration (timespace compression) or standardisation and/or prefabrication (market changes) of monuments. Further research on these monuments will help us to understand more fully how each group/user/maker employed the symbol(s) and also how this group of discrete monuments is actually connected. Looking at the pieces through the lens of

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globalisation helped to take them from discrete, separate monuments featuring the same attribute to an exercise in understanding how and in what ways cultures selectively (or unconsciously) adopted and changed images to suit their own local needs.

Acknowledgements The motif of the ‘boy with grapes’ or ‘child with grapes’ is the topic of my ongoing PhD research at the University of Amsterdam which explores the meaning of this imagery with particular reference to a group of monuments from late antique Egypt. I would like to thank James Symonds, Hanneke Ronnes, the editors of this volume and the peer reviewers for their helpful comments on this article.

Notes

1. The date of its first use is unspecified. Kovács (2010) notes the date as AD 300–400, and Nagy (2012) notes the secondary use as 4th century. However, this type of stele is largely used between the 2nd–4th century, and so it is possible to hypothesise a primary usage from the 2nd–3rd century and a secondary use in the 4th (compare Boatwright 2005, 294). 2. I have translated all quotations from Mussche 1959 from the original French. 3. Daily Sabah (24/09/2016), ‘Romani Bambino’ statue brought home to Gaziantep after 85 years: https://www.dailysabah.com/history/2016/09/24/romani-bambino-statue-brought-backhome-to-gaziantep-after-85-years (last accessed: 21/03/2019). 4. The Packard Humanities Institute transcribes it as: Βρούτ(τιος) Κοσκώνιος ἄωρε | χαῖρε (SEG 26:1566): https://epigraphy.packhum.org/text/321630 (last accessed: 28/03/2019). 5. The first word of the original inscription – now identified as Βρούτ(τιος) – was initially interpreted as ‘βίου Γ’ thought to signify the age (βίου) of the deceased (as Γ – age 3). However, this construction is found only on one other monument and therefore is unlikely to signify age (Mussche 1959, 546). The reading may thus be the name of the figure (Yon 2015, 14). 6. Mussche (1959, 546) identifies the figure only as ‘Cosconius’. 7. Some of the detailing on the monument may have been added in modernity (Fluck 2017). The lack of inscription, in addition to evidence for modern reworking, has raised questions regarding the corpus of such objects in Egypt. Recent research has demonstrated the antiquity of several examples, which allows their consideration here (Krumeich 2005; Bott 2019).

Bibliography

Alloa, E. (2011) Seeing-as, seeing-in, seeing-with. Looking through images. In R. Heinrich, E. Nemeth, W. Pichler and D. Wagner (eds) Image and Imaging in Philosophy, Science, and the Arts I. Proceedings of the 33rd International Wittgenstein Symposium, 179–190. Frankfurt, Ontos. Appadurai, A. (2001) Grassroots globalization and the research imagination. In A. Appadurai (ed.) Globalization, 1–21. Durham, NC, Duke University Press. Arnold, W.R. (1905) Additional Palmyrene inscriptions in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Journal of the American Oriental Society 26, 105–112. Boatwright, M.T. (2005) Children and parents on the tombstones of Pannonia. In M. George (ed.) The Roman family in the empire, 287–318. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Bott, R.A. (2019) Distorting the corpus. Scholarly interaction and the erroneous authentication of the Sheikh Ibada fakes. http://hdl.handle.net/1959.14/1270034 (last accessed: 31/10/2019). Master’s Thesis, Sydney, Macquarie University.

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Brown, P. (1971) The World of Late Antiquity. London, Thames and Hudson. Cohen, A. (2007) Introduction. In A. Cohen and J. Rutter (eds) Construction of childhood in ancient Greece and Italy, 1–24. Princeton, NJ, American School of Classical Studies at Athens. Colledge, M.A.R. (1976) The art of Palmyra. Boulder, CO, Westview Press. Colledge, M.A.R. (1987) Parthian cultural elements at Roman Palmyra. Mesopotamia 22, 19–28. Cooney, J.D. (1960–1962) An early Christian sculpture from Egypt. The Brooklyn Museum Annual 2, 36–47. Cooney, J.D. (1966) A funerary relief from Palmyra. The Bulletin of the Cleveland Museum of Art 53(2), 34–37. DaCosta Kaufmann, T., Dossin, C. and Joyeux-Prunel, B. (2015) Introduction. Reintroducing circulations. Historiography and the project of global art history. In T. DaCosta Kaufmann, C. Dossin and B. Joyeux-Prunel (eds) Circulations in the global history of art, 1–22. London, Ashgate Publishing. Dimitrova, N. (2002) Inscriptions and iconography in the monuments of the Thracian rider. Hesperia 71(2), 209–229. Effenberger, A. (2008) Grave relief with seated boy. In G. Mietke (ed.) The Museum of Byzantine Art in the Bode Museum. English, 72. Munich, Prestel Publishing. Elsner, J. (2003) Archaeologies and agendas. Reflections on late ancient Jewish art and early Christian art. The Journal of Roman Studies 93, 114–128. Elsner, J. (2018) The embodied object. Recensions of the dead on Roman sarcophagi. Art History 41(3), 546–565. Fluck, C. (2004) Puppen – Tiere – Bälle. Kinderspielzeug aus dem spätantiken bis frühislamzeitlichen Ägypten. In H. Forchauer and H. Harrauer (eds) Spiel am Nil. Unterhaltung im Alten Ägypten, 1–21. Vienna, Phoibos. Fluck, C. (2017) SMB-Digital. Grabstele eines Knaben. http://www.smb-digital.de/useumPlus?service=ExternalInterface&module=collection&objectId=1414420&viewType=detailView (last accessed: 21/03/2019). Gray, C. (2002) Self-representation of ‘Milesioi’ on the sculpted gravestones of Roman Attica. PhD Dissertation, Berkeley, CA, University of California at Berkeley. Hadzisteliou-Price, T. (1969) The type of the crouching child and the ‘temple boys’. Annual of the British School at Athens 64, 95–111. Hahn, H.P. (2012) Circulating objects and the power of hybridization as a localizing strategy. In P. Stockhammer (ed.) Conceptualizing cultural hybridization. A transdisciplinary approach, 27–42. Heidelberg, Springer. Hingley, R. (2005) Globalizing Roman culture. Unity, diversity and Empire. London, Psychology Press. Hodos, T. (2015) Global, local and in between. Connectivity and the Mediterranean. In M. Pitts and M.J. Versluys (eds) Globalisation and the Roman world. World history, connectivity and material culture, 240–254. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Hope, V. (1997) Words and pictures. The interpretation of Romano-British tombstones. Britannia 28, 245–258. Hope, V. (2001) Constructing identity. The Roman funerary monuments of Aquileia, Mainz and Nimes. Oxford, Archaeopress (British Archaeological Reports. International Series, 960). Huskinson, J. (1996) Roman children’s sarcophagi. Oxford, Clarendon Press. Klaver, S.F. (2019) Women in Roman Syria. The cases of Dura-Europos, Palmyra, and Seleucia on the Euphrates. PhD dissertation, Amsterdam, University of Amsterdam. Kovács, P. (2010) Notes on the ‘Jewish’ inscriptions in Pannonia. Journal of Ancient Judaism 1(2), 159–180. Krag, S. and Raja, R. (2016) Representations of women and children in Palmyrene funerary loculus reliefs, loculus stelae, and wall paintings. Zeitschrift für Orient-Archäologie 9, 134–178.

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Kramer, J. (2014) The Roman riders. Ethnicity and iconography on Roman cavalrymen tombstones. https:// scholarsarchive.byu.edu/etd/4343/ (last accessed: 24/04/2019) MA thesis, Provo, UT, Brigham Young University. Krumeich, K. (2005) Der Knabe mit Goldener Bulla. Ein ägyptisches Nischengrabrelief aus der Zeit nach der constitutio Antoniniana in der Abegg-Stiftung, Riggisberg. Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum 48, 128–153. Larsson Lovén, L. (2013) Children and childhood in Roman commemorative art. In J. Evans Grubbs and T. Parkin (eds) The Oxford handbook of childhood and education in the Classical world, 302–321. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Leglay, G.M. (1966) Saturne africain 2. Paris, Arts et Métiers Graphiques. Lindahl, C. (1986) Transition symbolism on tombstones. Western folklore 45(3), 165–185. Mander, J. (2012) Portraits of children on Roman funerary monuments. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Margariti, K. (2018) Lament and death instead of marriage. The iconography of deceased maidens on Attic grave reliefs of the Classical period. Hesperia 87(1), 91–176. Mathieux, N. (2015) Jouet, attribute, ou symbole? Le motif du raisin dans les figurines des tombes de Myrina. In S. Huysecom-Haxhi and A. Muller (eds) Figurines grecques en contexts. Présence muette dans le sanctuaire, la tombe et la maison, 245–263. Lille, Presses Universitaires Septentrion. Mattingly, D. (2007) An Imperial possession. Britain in the Roman Empire, 54 BC–AD 409. London, Penguin Books. McClelland, G. (2013) Constructions of childhood on the funerary monuments of Roman Athens. http:// openscholarship.wustl.edu/etd/1150 (last accessed: 24/04/2019). PhD dissertation, Saint Louis, MO, Washington University in Saint Louis. The Metropolitan Museum of Art (2010) Gravestone with funerary banquet. Work of art. Heilbrunn timeline of art history. https://www.metmuseum.org/toah/works-of-art/02.29.1/ (last accessed: 21/03/2019). Moormann, E. (2000) Ancient sculpture in the Allard Pierson Museum Amsterdam. Amsterdam, Allard Pierson Museum (Collections of the Allard Pierson Museum, 1). Morley, N. (2015) Globalisation and the Roman economy. In M. Pitts and M.J. Versluys (eds) Globalisation and the Roman world. World history, connectivity and material culture, 49–68. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Mussche, H.F. (1959) Relief funéraire de Gaziantep. Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique 83(2), 543–548. Nagy, M. (2012) Lapidarium. Guide to the archaeological exhibitions in the Hungarian National Museum. Budapest, Hungarian National Museum. Neils, J. (2003) Children and Greek religion. Mother and daughters. In J. Neils and J.H. Oakley (eds) Coming of age in ancient Greece. Images of childhood from the Classical past, 139–162. New Haven, CT, Yale University Press. Oakley, J.H. (2003) Death and the child. In J. Neils and J. Oakley (eds) Coming of age in ancient Greece. Images of childhood from the Classical past, 163–194. New Haven, CT, Yale University Press. Orser, C. (2014) A primer on modern-world archaeology. Clinton Corners, NY, Eliot Werner Publications. Phillips, E.J. (1976) A workshop of Roman sculptors at Carlisle. Britannia 7, 101–108. Pitts, M. (2008) Globalizing the local in Roman Britain. An anthropological approach to social change. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 27, 493–506. Pitts, M. and Versluys, M.J. (2015) Globalisation and the Roman world. Perspectives and opportunities. In M. Pitts and M.J. Versluys (eds) Globalisation and the Roman world. World history, connectivity and material culture, 3–31. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Potts, D.T. (2008) The deacon and the dove. On some early Christian (?) grave stelae from al‐Maqsha and Shakhura (Bahrain). Arabian archaeology and epigraphy 19(1), 109–119.

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Royal Commission on Historical Monuments (England) (1962) An inventory of the historical monuments of the city of York I. Eburacum Roman York. London, H.M.S.O. Severin, H.-G. (1995) Pseudoprotokoptika. In L. Langener, S. Richter, S. Schaten and G. Wurst (eds) Divitiae Aegypti. Koptologische und verwandte Studien zu Ehren von Martin Krause, 289–299. Wiesbaden, Reichert Verlag. Stewart, P. (2009) Totenmahl reliefs in the northern provinces. A case-study in imperial sculpture. Journal of Roman Archaeology 22, 253–274. Stewart, P. (2010) Geographies of provincialism in Roman sculpture. RIHA Journal 5, http:// www.riha-journal.org/articles/2010/stewart-geographies-of-provincialism (last accessed: 21/04/2020). Stockhammer, P. (2012) Questioning hybridity. In P. Stockhammer (ed.) Conceptualizing cultural hybridization. A transdisciplinary approach, 1–3. Heidelberg, Springer. Strocka, V. (2017) Dokimenische Säulensarkophage. Datierung und Deutung. Bonn, Dr. Rudolf Habelt. van Oppen de Ruiter, B.F. (2016). Grafmonumenten op de Romeinse Afdeling. Allard Pierson Mededelingen 113, 21–23. Versluys, M.J. (2015) Roman visual material culture as globalising koine. In M. Pitts and M.J. Versluys (eds) Globalisation and the Roman world. World history, connectivity and material culture, 141–174. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Waelkens, M. (1982) Dokimeion. Die Werkstatt der repräsentativen kleinasiatischen Sarkophage. Chronologie und Typologie ihrer Produktion. Berlin, Mann. Whitmarsh, T. (2010) Thinking local. In T. Whitmarsh (ed.) Local knowledge and microidentities in the imperial Greek world, 1–16. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Wild, J.P. (2004) Textiles and Dress. In M. Todd (ed.) A companion to Roman Britain, 299–308. Oxford, Blackwell Publishing. Wilson, A.I. (2005) Romanizing Baal. The art of Saturn worship in North Africa. In M. Sanader and A. Rendić-Miočević (eds) Religion and myth as an impetus for the Roman provincial sculpture. The proceedings of the 8th International Colloquium on Problems of Roman Provincial Art, 403–408. Zagreb, Golden Marketing Technika Knija. Yon, J.-B. (2015) L’onomastique en Syrie orientale et en Mésopotamie à l’époque romaine. In C. Abadie-Reynal and J.-B. Yon (eds) Zeugma VI. La Syrie romaine. Permanences et transferts culturels, 11–18. Lyon, Publications de la Maison de l’Orient et de la Méditerranée.

Chapter 7 Baptism and Roman gold-glasses: Salvation and social dynamics

Monica Hellström The object of this chapter is to explore the significance of the baptism for the iconography, production and use of Roman gold-glass bowls with Christian motifs. I analyse these objects in relation to contemporary social and religious transformations, and suggest that many pictorial elements on them were informed by baptism, both generally as a reference to salvation, and specifically as the baptism of the owner of the glass. Three types of aspiration inform these references: for the souls of the goldglass owners to attain salvation, for their status in society to be confirmed, and for the growing Church to establish a dominant role in contemporary society. The period when the types of gold-glasses investigated here were produced – the second half of the 4th century – is the era of mass conversion, following upon the religious policies of the Constantinian dynasty. The gold-glasses can shed some much-needed light on how these transformations affected sub-elite Christian lives. Drawing on contemporary history, literature and architecture, I suggest that many gold-glasses with Christian motifs were commissioned in conjunction with the grand baptismal rites in Rome, and that they were reused at the tomb to support the owner’s passage into the afterlife (and were produced with this further purpose in mind).1 As such, they testified to the entitlement to eternal life, combining the point at which it was bestowed (the baptism) with the one at which it was realised (death); points, moreover, not too distant at a time when Christians were still made rather than born. Furthermore, the vessels served social ends as well as religious, testifying to affluence and special standing, and marking the owner’s transfer into a new community. After introducing the material category and the debates associated with it, I will discuss the links between baptism and death in Christian discourse and practice, and how the iconography of baptism relates to gold-glass vessels and funerary arts. I will then focus on the baptismal rites themselves, and how they were conducted, presented

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and received. Lastly, I will discuss some iconographic elements on the glasses that, in analogy with the baptismal rites, are drawn from both the public and spiritual spheres. These, I argue, were meant to flatter the baptisands as well as guarantee the validity of the sacrament, which was of paramount concern at the time to both neophytes and Church leaders. In the conclusion I will touch briefly upon how changing Church practices and dogma affected gold-glasses and their Christian iconographies. Roman gold-glasses are a striking but enigmatic material category.2 They consist of motifs incised in a gold leaf sandwiched between two layers of clear glass: a sheet of gold leaf was placed upon a pre-produced base, a motif was scratched into it, then the base was fused to the body of the vessel. Several types of vessels are known, but in the case which interests us here – mass-produced glasses with Christian motifs – all extant items come from shallow bowls. The bowls themselves have not generally survived: the bases have been broken off and, insofar as their context is known, lodged into the cement that sealed catacomb loculi. Few are preserved in situ, while most have come down to us through collections (notably of cardinals with an antiquarian bent) (Walker 2017, 19–47): their collection history, together with the find contexts, has determined what has survived. Other categories of gold-glasses may not have passed these filters, and the extant corpus should not be assumed to accurately reflect original production. It is nonetheless clear that glasses with Christian motifs were very plentiful, being preserved in the hundreds. Technical analyses in recent years have clarified aspects of production, and it is now generally agreed that all gold-glasses were produced in Rome, perhaps in a single workshop (Howells 2015, 54–60; Walker 2017, 97).3 They are also limited chronologically: mass-produced glasses with Christian (or indeed any) motifs are only evidenced during the mid- to late 4th century, at best stretching into the early 5th. Their heyday may have lasted for as little as thirty years, as suggested by Daniel Howells (2015, 60).4 They are, in other words, a highly localised phenomenon, in space as well as time. Gold-glasses sometimes travelled but rarely very far: most non-Roman finds come from Italy, with the exception of a handful of items on the limes, in Cologne and Trier (Howells 2015, 54–55 with a map of their distribution). These used to be explained with the frequent presence in these cities of the imperial court, in the assumption that gold-glasses were associated with the uppermost elite.5 This notion is rejected today, based on their relatively cheap materials (compared to silver and ivory) as well as their socially non-exclusive find context. Even so, gold-glasses represented considerable investments, and it is generally agreed that their owners, although subelite, were comfortable (and no doubt wished to view themselves as such) (Howells 2015, 52, 119).6 The products they commissioned were surely not first-class from an artistic point of view, having little in common with the minutely crafted gold-glass portrait medallions of the 3rd century. Around a hundred years later mass-productions emerged, churning out quickly executed motifs composed from stock elements. They betray no great precision and errors are frequent (such as spelling Petrus ‘Retrus’), but no two of

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them are identical: in most cases they appear customised to the wishes of individual clients.7 Although the technique was essentially the same, they required less time and expertise compared to the 3rd-century examples (which were incised, not brushed as is often assumed).8 Many such serially produced glasses feature couples in idealised, high-status trappings and have been associated with weddings, but others feature Christian motifs. These include biblical scenes with salvific content (e.g. Abraham sacrificing or Jesus healing the paralytic), saints and apostles (especially St Peter and St Paul) and symbols such as Christograms, often appearing together with images of lay individuals and families. Gold-glasses with Christian themes bear similar legends to those with non-religious motifs, such as pie zeses (‘drink! may you live’) or vivas (‘may you live’), but often qualify them with specifications such as in pace or in deo; some other legends are peculiar to them, notably the expression dignitas amicorum. Central to the analysis is the allusive character of Christian art and literature, which allowed for an image or legend to carry multiple meanings (see e.g. Ferguson 2017, 158).9 Texts and images also drew on each other, adding further layers to both. A convivial scene could represent an actual feast, the Christian community engaging in agape meals, and the afterlife, all at the same time. Men who strike rocks to produce water deliberately conflate Moses in the desert and St Peter in the Mamertine prison. The small format of gold-glasses encouraged polysemy and shorthand in both images and legends, as in the word vivas, ‘may you live’, which was conflated with bibas, ‘may you drink’, capturing in one word the Greek pie zeses. Such allusions should not be viewed as ‘hidden’; as Margaret Mitchell has argued for the famously ambiguous Abercius inscription, its purpose was to flaunt both Christian and civic identity, without conflict or secrecy (Mitchell 2011, 1761–1762, 1774 and passim).10 Some elements on gold-glasses performed a similar double duty, charging these objects with accumulated messages which, I would argue, carried both public and spiritual meanings. To untangle these poses methodological challenges (as Mitchell states, ‘scholarly precision and symbolic slipperiness are an awkward match’) (Mitchell 2011, 1751)11 but also unlocks potential.

Gold-glasses and the tomb We have no contemporary literary evidence mentioning gold-glasses, and theories regarding their uses are by default speculative. The most heated debates concern their relation to the tombs in which they have been found: some (notably Thümmel 1994, 262–264, followed by Meredith 2015 and Walker 2017, 76; 2019) view them as produced directly for funerary purposes, while many others (such as Smith 2000 and Howells 2015, 61) treat them as domestic implements or gift items, reused at the tomb. Ideas about their function there also diverge, ranging from the practical (identifying the deceased) or sentimental (mementoes) to the spiritual (aids to salvation or apotropaics). It is not my purpose here to refute these theories; indeed, I find all of them to some extent correct. Opposition tends to arise from the assumption

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that one model of production and use covers all gold-glasses, regardless of genre and date: any theory can thus be (and has been) refuted based on a few examples to the contrary. Looking at gold-glasses through the prism of baptism can help reconcile some of these divergent positions. To begin with the question of primary or secondary use in the tomb: some goldglasses certainly have legends that point to the latter, while others are executed in ways that would seem to exclude domestic use. These, however, tend to be a century older than the earliest glasses treated here and are not of the same type.12 For the later ones, a primary funerary use is unlikely, including at funerary feasts. This idea was first introduced by Thümmel, who suggested that the bowls were broken after the feast and the bases lodged by the loculi. However, several glasses with Christian motifs (and exclusively these) had been grozed – that is, carefully pared down to a medallion – before deposition. This action may have required professional tools (if not skills), and in any case could not easily have been performed at the event of the burial (Howells 2013, 117). Grozed glasses were obviously not meant for funerary meals, whether once or repeatedly. Furthermore, several vessels had demonstrably travelled between production and deposition, which makes commission at death unlikely. One of Thümmel’s arguments for a primary funerary use was that no gold-glass vessel has been found intact aboveground; however, this is the case for any glass vessel from antiquity: it is only in tombs that they have been preserved. In fact, had gold-glass bowls been produced for the tomb one would expect perhaps at least some vessels to have been deposited inside the loculus rather than broken. Moreover, the complete lack of convivial motifs from gold-glasses speaks against feasting as their primary purpose. Convivial scenes are known from secular gift items but are especially common in Christian funerary art: had gold-glasses with convivial motifs existed, they would have been well suited for the tomb. But, apparently, goldglasses were different from artworks that were produced directly with a funerary purpose, such as wall paintings or sarcophagi: despite the undeniable similarities, these categories do not feature the same motifs, and they are too plentiful to allow for divergences to be dismissed as coincidental. For instance, representations of the life and passion of Christ, which had been common in funerary art for generations, are quite rare on gold-glasses. Conversely, saints and bishops do not appear nearly as often on sarcophagi or catacomb walls, and when they do the selections differ (see below). Although portraits are common on both glasses and sarcophagi, the categories are again not quite the same: certain groupings of individuals on glasses do not fit well with a funerary context, such as whole families (all named, including the children) or pairs of (seemingly) unrelated men.13 Infants on their own, by contrast, are absent from gold-glasses dating to the relevant period, even though infant burials were not uncommon.14 It seems evident that most, if not all gold-glass bowls had had a previous life. What that life may have been is not, however, so easy to establish. It is surely correct that many vessels represented gifts at birthdays or other life events, and their legends

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are often interpreted simply as toasts (St Clair Harvey and Smith 2017, 601 and many others). However, this again sits ill with the complete absence of convivial motifs. Moreover, in the case of Christian gold-glass vessels, a context of life events would make for some rather odd juxtapositions of legends and images: most of the latter were concerned with salvation and martyrdom – that is, with death. The idea that glasses portraying martyrs were devotional is problematic too, due to the constellation of martyrs involved. Most glasses portray groups of saints rather than single ones, and in several cases do not even name them. The iconography of saints was so underdeveloped at this time as to exclude their identification without legends: these motifs seem to denote generic ‘saints’ rather than indicate a close personal connection between one saint and the devotee. There is no evidence for ad martyrem practices: for instance, there is no glass with St Agnes among those found in the catacomb of St Agnes.15 How far the notion of intercession had developed at the time is uncertain (see e.g. Grig 2004): according to Umberto Utro, the main role of saints in relation to lay Christians was, as yet, to usher them into the afterlife rather than guide them through life (Utro 2001–2002, 209–210), and there are representations in tombs of saints performing this task (e.g. a plaque with a saint conducting a woman: Cumbo 2019, 57–58). After all, as Dennis Trout pointed out, the basis for intercession was the notion that saints dwelled simultaneously in heaven and their tombs (Trout 2015, 46). All in all, the suggestion that accords best with most glasses with Christian motifs is that they functioned as commendatio animae, and Susan Walker has noted a strong coincidence between the roster of salvific motifs on the glasses and the Proficiscere prayer (Walker 2017, 104, 113–114). Prayers written around some loculi, such as ‘Pauli Pauli Pauli Pauli Pauli’ and ‘Spes in deo’ (repeated several times), testify to the anxieties that surrounded this crucial passage.16 This takes us back to the tomb and the function of the glasses when deposited. The idea that the glasses were primarily commemorative (e.g. Smith 2000; Howells 2015; St Clair Harvey and Smith 2017) strikes me as too informed by modern burial practices focused on memory and the mourners. On the contrary, we must, I think, accept the beliefs and fears tied to death in antiquity as sincere. This is vividly attested to by amulets found in tombs, not least the glass pendants treated by Chris Entwistle and Paul Corby Finney (2013, including a comprehensive catalogue). Although humbler compared to gold-glass bowls, they share some of their characteristics, such as a resemblance to coins or seals (which no doubt strengthened their function as guarantees), as well as mass-production concentrated in one location, this time in the Levant (from where they were exported empire-wide) and possibly in conjunction to a mint. Guyon suggested a prophylactic function for glasses and other small objects found in and by loculi in the catacomb of Ss. Pietro e Marcellino (Guyon 1987, 337–338),17 some of which (such as animal teeth and leaves) make little sense as mementoes of the deceased. That the primary purpose of the gold-glasses was also prophylactic is, however, unlikely, not least seeing the lack of iconographic overlap with the amulets: the most common motifs on the

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pendants – lions, stars and astrological signs – do not appear on gold-glasses; 18 amulets featuring the Good Shepherd, Daniel, and the menorah exist, but are not plentiful. If some gold-glasses served as apotropaic charms, this may be a late development: Guyon’s finds came from the latest galleries of the complex. This may reflect a shift in the formation of Christian identity, from a deliberate choice to a cultural system born into, and gradually influenced by, other practices and beliefs, rather than obliterating them. I initially hypothesised that (at least) glasses with St Peter and St Paul were pilgrimage souvenirs, produced en masse and lodged by the tombs as testimonies to piety performed. But this does not fit with the personalised legends, or the fact that no two glasses are entirely identical. The appeals to live and drink also seem out of place for such a context. No pilgrimage souvenirs from other locations have been found by Roman catacomb loculi that may suggest such a practice. Furthermore, glass was patently unsuitable for a material category that was by default meant to travel. Glass was also less than ideal for repeated use outside the home, for instance as vessels brought to martyrs’ feasts, especially seeing that there were alternatives (at both lower and higher prices). Moreover, even if they were used in this manner, we still have to account for the original occasion for presenting them as gifts, as many of them clearly were: the gold-glass vessels were uniquely expensive items for the class involved, reflecting unique events. Identifying this occasion as the baptism can accommodate several of the theories above. As I will show, the baptism was associated with both death and drinking. Testimonies to baptism would have aided the commendatio animae, demonstrating that the deceased was truly entitled to eternal life. As such, they made for powerful apotropaics, not least seeing the real and pervasive concern with pollution: the baptism was seen as the ultimate, perhaps only, guarantee of purity.19 This hypothesis would support the idea that the glasses were possessions of the deceased and also that they were gifts, presented to the neophytes.20 Glasses commissioned at the baptism would explain the absence of infants, who were only baptised in emergencies (see Ferguson 2014, 82–83 for Origen’s defence of infant baptism),21 and would conform to the practice of commemorating life stages at the tomb:22 the most transformative life event for a mid- to late 4th-century Christian adult was the baptism, which signified the reception of both a new life on earth and an eternal life post mortem, as well as the initiation into a new, ascendant community.

Baptism and death To understand how the baptism was linked to the tomb, one must take into account the centrality of death in early Christianity. Christian art of the 3rd century is almost exclusively funerary, and remains so in large measure through the 4th. This is not just the product of political necessity (i.e. the danger attached to demonstrations of Christian faith) or the better survival of funerary arts: even if social factors also

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played a role, the promise of salvation remained the paramount reason to convert well into the post-Constantinian period. This promise would have been vividly alive to those undergoing the rite: life expectancy was brief, and most converts were adults, not too distant from the moment of truth. The preoccupation with death is nowhere more evident than in the practices and ideas surrounding the baptism. Christ called his own death a baptism (Luke 12:50), while Paul speaks of being ‘buried with Christ’ at baptism (Romans 6:4, Colossians 2:12) as the key to salvation. At the very core of Christian belief, baptism represented – quite literally – death. These themes were picked up enthusiastically by 3rd- and 4th-century Christian writers, to whom baptism was a favourite subject (Betz 2011; Hartman 2011; Markschies 2011, lii–lv; Ferguson 2014). The baptism was the foundation of the Christian community and the absolute prerequisite for salvation, and as such a frequent arena for schism, competition and invention. The identification with death is a commonplace; for instance, Origen in his Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans claimed that ‘the one who has died to sin and is truly baptized into the death of Christ and is buried with him through baptism into death, he is the one who is truly baptized in the Holy Spirit and with the water from above’ (Or. comm. in Rom. 5.8.3 (transl. Scheck); see also Ferguson 2014, 78–80). The analogy was common also in 4th-century West: Ambrose of Milan, in his homilies On Sacraments, likened the baptism to death and rebirth while still living, the baptismal font to a burial, and the waters to earth (Ambr. sacr. 2.6.19). Similar descriptions can be found in almost all Christian writers of the period (Ferguson 2014, 94–95, with references to similar statements by the Cappadocian Fathers). The overlapping between baptism and death carries over into the material record. The frescoes on the walls of the oldest known baptismal space, the so-called ‘house church’ at Dura Europos, feature the sarcophagus of Christ next to the font (Plate  7.1), with the sun and the moon as acroteria which, I would suggest, allude to the recurring of time cycles (i.e. eternity). The women at the tomb are depicted as though in procession, co-ordinated with figures proceeding on the adjacent wall. While often interpreted as the wise maidens of Matthew 25, 23 these also replicate the movement of the baptisands, who pass with them through the tomb of Christ to receive eternal life at the font. The scene thus conflates the death and resurrection of Christ at Easter (when baptism was administered) with the direct experience of the neophytes, in ways that echo common themes in contemporary Christian thought. How baptisteries developed from the time of this unique space to the late 4th century is unknown, but the concern with salvation is as prominently featured in Dura Europos as in later baptisteries. The starry night sky represented in the ceiling of the room is found again, for instance, in the 4th-century baptistery of San Giovanni in Fonte in Naples, strewn with lambs and shepherds. A starry night sky also adorns the ceiling in the mausoleum of Galla Placidia in Ravenna. Besides their ornamentation, it has long been recognised that baptisteries and mausolea drew on the same architectural forms, with central

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plans and internal and/or external ambulatories, sometimes leading to disputes as to the function of some edifices (see e.g. Mackie 1997 regarding Santa Costanza in Rome).24 The current consensus is that baptisteries borrowed their plan from baths, and there are both liturgical and doctrinal reasons why this should be the case.25 Even so, the similarities between baptisteries and mausolea are undeniable, and a round colonnaded edifice depicted on a gold-glass fragment with the legend in deo could represent either (Plate 7.2) (London, British Museum, Department of Britain, Europe and Prehistory, inv. 1854.0722.6; Morey 1959, cat. no. 348; Howells 2015, cat. no. 44) – although, to my mind, the vessel seen between the columns points rather to a font: vessels are not rare in funerary arts, but not commonly used to mark an edifice as a tomb. References to the baptism abound in 3rd- and 4th-century Christian funerary arts in Rome. Everett Ferguson provides a long list, which underscores the links between initiation, death and rebirth (Ferguson 2017, 158–159). The wide employment of some of these motifs makes it unlikely that they referred to the baptism specifically or exclusively, but they were certainly relevant for it as symbols of the eternal life that baptism was seen to bestow. Among these are salvific scenes common on catacomb walls, several of which – such as the Good Shepherd, the sacrifice of Isaac, the Jonah cycle, Daniel in the lions’ den, Jesus healing the paralytic, Jesus and Lazarus – also appear on gold-glasses. The passage from Psalm 23 about the Good Shepherd was used liturgically at the baptismal rites, and the motif adorned the lunette above the font in Dura Europos (while the healing of the paralytic was represented on one of its walls). Moreover, this salvific image repertoire corresponds strikingly well to the content of the catechetical teachings (Ferguson 2014, 6, with reference to Martimont 1949),26 which had been adapted to allow for the larger numbers of converts: postpeace baptism was far more centralised and organised than before, and also much more didactic (see below). As a mandatory procedure for all baptised Christians, the catechesis should not be underestimated as transmitter of a shared visual and narrative culture, especially since most converts would have been unfamiliar with Jewish heritage. For these reasons, images of teaching have also been associated with the baptism. I am somewhat sceptical, both regarding this association and the identification of some figures as ‘teachers’: while learning was one of the boons conveyed through catechesis and baptism, the most important gift – especially in the context of the tomb – was surely eternal life, after which arguably followed the entry into the Christian community. The scenes in question are of two kinds: same-status individuals (always saints when identified) seated in conversation, or (usually larger) figures bestowing something (learning, grace, salvation or all of the above) on subordinated others, usually by imposition of hands (cf. Tert. bapt. 8.1). The latter images are well established as baptismal references, and may have a parallel on a gold-glass which displays Christ bestowing grace on two male figures, labelled Electus and Iulius, through the imposition of hands (Morey 1959, cat. no. 102; Claridge and Osborne 1998, 213–214,

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cat. no. 255).27 Electus may represent one of the electi enrolled for baptism rather than a personal name, while Iulius could potentially be understood as the officiating pope Julius (337–352).28 Another version of the so-called ‘teacher glasses’ combines both the ‘same-status’ and the subordination motifs, arranging the figures in two (or three) registers. The uppermost shows Christ with Peter and Paul, in a manner similar to the iconography known as traditio legis; below them is a group of later saints in conversation, possibly positioned on two levels (as indicated by the ground lines below them) (see Morey 1959, cat. no. 364; Walker 2017, cat. no. 22).29 The traditio legis itself appears on two gold-glasses, and these have figured prominently in the interpretations of the motif; remarkably, an example now in the Vatican (Morey 1959, cat. no. 78) also includes a phoenix, symbol of death and regeneration, as well as a procession of lambs towards the river Jordan and the streams of paradise (Fig. 7.1). This iconography emerged at the same time as the mass production of gold-glasses, and shows a similar concentration in the city of Rome (Arbeiter and Rausch 2007, 124–126 and 144–147; Bergmeier 2017, 29–31; Couzin 2015, 13–15). Again, the label is a misnomer (as several scholars have pointed out), seeing that what is passed on to Peter is not actually handed over but shared or revealed.30 Among the many suggestions as to what, exactly, was shared (for a summary of the many interpretations of the motif see Arbeiter and Rausch 2007, 126–138 and 144–146) is the command to baptise; be that as it may (the motif is a veritable tour de force of polysemy) (on the multivalence of the motif see, among others, Foletti and Quadri 2013, 22), this theme was certainly relevant for both baptism

Fig. 7.1: Gold-glass vessel base depicting the traditio legis. Città del Vaticano, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, inv. 60771 (photo © Vatican Museums (all rights reserved); drawing from Garrucci 1858, pl. 10.8).

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and death: all known examples come from baptisteries or tombs, including the apse of San Giovanni in Fonte, the mausoleum of Santa Costanza, as well as several sarcophagi (see Arbeiter and Rausch 2007, 126 and Couzin 2015, 5–10 for lists of known finds). Armin Bergmeier has suggested that this iconography was based on Isaiah 2.2–4, which prophesies that ‘the Lord’s house shall be established in the top of the mountains … and all nations shall flow unto it … for out of Zion shall go forth the law, and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem’ – a passage which was read as part of the baptismal liturgy (Bergmeier 2017, 38–39 and 41).31 The procession of lambs in connection with this scene, then, would represent both paradise and the Christian community. The baptism sanctioned the formation of this community, and the lambs may simultaneously allude to the baptisands (as the lamb of the Good Shepherd surely did when the motif was employed in baptismal contexts) and the collective of saints and apostles. Umberto Utro points out that the baptisands, thanks to the sacrament, would associate with the saints, according to the Apostolic Creed which was pronounced during the baptismal liturgy (although the phrase on the sanctorum communio may be a later addition) (Utro 2001–2002, 210). Among other baptismal motifs Ferguson lists martyrs (Ferguson 2014, 85), whose images, like the salvific scenes, were not exclusive to baptism but certainly relevant for it. Associating baptism with martyrs – whose blood opened the gates to heaven – was a commonplace in the late 4th century, and at least according to some surviving contemporary accounts martyrs’ tombs were visited as regular part of the catechesis (Brändle 2011, 1239–1240, drawing on texts by John Chrysostom and others). Martyrs are very common on gold-glasses, but the roster is selective, limited as it seems to saints who were martyred in Rome and/or 3rd-century bishops (for a thorough examination of the saints appearing on gold-glasses, see Utro 2001–2002, 208–209). By far the most frequent are St Peter and St Paul, who are so common that depictions of objects in pairs (such as trees, stars or scrolls) have plausibly been taken to symbolise them.32 Their role, in these and many other cases, is as the formally appointed guardians of the all-important compact between humans and God – that is, salvation – rather than as aids and models for life on earth.33 The blood of the martyrs was likened to the purifying waters of baptism, which are represented in Christian art in numerous ways. The river Jordan on the traditio legis glass (Fig. 7.1) references the baptism of Christ, but also Christ descending to Earth as the water of life, an image that in turn refers to the baptism (Spieser 2015, 272–275, drawing on texts explicitly linking this image to the baptism).34 A scene on a gold-glass portraying an orant couple flanked by a rock from which two streams flow (Plate 7.3) has been interpreted as referring to their two baptisms (Oxford, Ashmolean Museum, inv. AN 20017.26; Morey 1959, cat. no. 379):35 the association is made easier by the fact that, in contemporary baptismal liturgy, water should preferably be live (Ferguson 2017, 158–159).36 Another common baptismal reference is the image of St Peter in the Mamertine prison striking a rock to produce water (Fig.  7.2), with

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which he baptised his jailors (Morey 1959, cat. no. 312).37 When space allows, the jailors/baptisands are represented as drinking from the water. The baptism is often likened to drinking, as in this poem by pope Damasus from a baptismal font (Damas. carm. 60A, with Trout 2015, 184–185): Whoever thirsts, let him come desiring to drink from these streams: he will find waters that contain sweet honey; With filth removed, those made ready to serve Christ cleanse the depths of their hearts when they renew their bodies.

What is imbibed is Christ himself, as St Ambrose argued in his Commentary on Psalms (Ambr. in Psalm. 1.33, my own translation; for further examples, see Spieser 2015, 278–279):

Fig. 7.2: Gold-glass vessel base depicting Moses or St Peter striking the rock (drawing from Garrucci 1858, pl. 2.10).

Drink Christ because He is the vine; drink Christ because He is the rock that spews water; drink Christ because He is the fountain of life; drink Christ because He is the river, whose flow makes blessed the city of God; drink Christ because He is peace; drink Christ because the rivers that flow from His belly are the waters of life; drink Christ, that you may drink the blood by which you have been saved; drink Christ, that you may drink His words.

Finally, it must not be forgotten that the baptism also involved the first communion. This forms part of the Fig. 7.3: Gold-glass vessel base depicting the symbolic message of the miracles of multiplication of loaves. Città del Vaticano, Cana and the multiplication of loaves Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, inv. 60750 (photo (Fig. 7.3),38 which are the only biblical © Vatican Museums (all rights reserved)). scenes to appear on gold-glasses that are not explicitly salvific. These scenes are well-established as references to the baptism, combining allusions to the Eucharist with notions of the triumphant growth of the Christian community.39

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Fig. 7.4: Gold-glass vessel base depicting St Lawrence and St Cyprian, with the legend ‘Hilaris vivas cum tuis feliciter, semper refrigeris im pace Dei’. Città del Vaticano, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, inv. 60766 (photo © Vatican Museums (all rights reserved)).

Therefore, appeals to drinking on vessels commissioned for the baptism make perfect sense. This association would make the most of the legend pie zeses and its potential for polysemy. While clearly generic and crossing platforms, this formula gained new meanings in Christian contexts, and also began appearing on Christian tombs.40 Pie zeses can refer to both the baptism and the eternal life to be received – underscored by qualifications such as in deo or in pace41 as well as deliberate misspellings that conjoin drinking and life with Christ (e.g. pie Zesus and Zesus Cristus: Morey 1959, cat. nos. 29 and 31) – and also to the Eucharist, henceforth to be enjoyed. An example of a legend that would be best explained as baptismal is found on a gold-glass

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portraying St Lawrence and St Cyprian, which exhorts the recipient: ‘May you live joyful with your people, may you be always refreshed in the peace of God’ (Fig. 7.4).42 This can be understood as inviting the recipient to enjoy the baptism, the Eucharist, and the waters of paradise. Importantly, the event of the rites themselves allows for the phrase to retain also a celebratory meaning linked to a specific occasion.

Baptism and life The baptism in the latter half of the 4th century was a very public, elaborately staged event, at a time when much Christian ritual still took place in the home (Bowes 2008, 48, 54–56). It answered to a particular historical situation, when the religious changes at the top of the political pyramid began to trickle down to ordinary Romans (Bowes 2008, 70, with reference to Geertman 1986–1987). It is commonly agreed that Christians represented but a minority of the empire’s population in the early 4th century, but that conversion rates increased dramatically under Constantine’s dynasty and their successors (for a summary of available data see Hopkins 1998). The numbers provided by Palladius for John Chrysostom’s baptismal services in Constantinople (as many as 3,000 people at a time) are probably exaggerated (Pall. v. Chrys. 58,14–15 ColemanNorton; see Brändle 2011, 1234–1238; Markschies 2011, lviii–lix), but we should envision hundreds, if not thousands, of baptisands every Easter in the more populous sees. This put considerable strain on the bishops who were to accommodate the exponentially growing flock. The preparations for becoming Christian changed profoundly in response (see Staats 2011, 1569 and Strecker 2011 for a comprehensive account of the development of baptismal liturgies):43 while the catechumenate had previously stretched over years, its final stage had now become concentrated to a few months, occupying the liturgical year from Epiphany (on 6 January) to Easter. The baptism was the sacrament par excellence, compounded with the first Eucharist, and was only performed at the Easter vigil (and to a lesser extent at Pentecost).44 It was exclusively administered by the bishops, which in Rome in the relevant period meant Liberius (352–364), Damasus (364–384) and Siricius (384–399). We have no first-hand account of how Damasus or Siricius administered the baptism, but we have descriptions by several of their contemporaries, including Ambrose of Milan who also followed the Roman rite (adding the washing of feet).45 After initial purifications (the precatechumenate), those who came forward for Easter baptism were tested by the bishop on Epiphany, after which they were formally enrolled for the preparatory regimen during Lent, the quadragesima. This included confessions, mourning, fasting, prayers, instruction in doctrine and repeated exorcisms to ensure the purity of mind and body. At Easter followed the reception of the Creed and the rites themselves: the bishop touched the ears and nose of the baptisands, the waters were consecrated, the whole bodies of the (probably) nude baptisands were anointed, then followed apotaxis (turning to the west to disavow Satan) and syntaxis (turning to the east to confirm allegiance to Christ), immersion, anointment of the head, clothing of the baptisands in white robes, and a ‘spiritual seal’ whose exact character is unknown,

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but to which much importance was attached (I will return to it below).46 The neophytes in their white robes were then received with embraces, kisses and prayers by the community, and ushered into their first Eucharist. The procedure also involved rituals and teachings during Holy Week, marking the entry of the neophytes into the community. In short, baptism in the late 4th century was a big deal. This is reflected in the architecture that accommodated the rites: the monumental baptisteries that were erected adjacent to cathedrals. These were lavishly decorated showpieces, designed to accommodate large numbers of adults.47 Ambulatories facilitated movement around the fonts, which tended to be as large as 2–3 m in diameter, in imitation of the river Jordan. The earliest and grandest was the baptistery at the Lateran in Rome, whose font was an extraordinary 10 m wide (Brandt 2011, 1590; 2017, 162).48 It was erected at the end of the Constantinian period, around the same time as the mass production of gold-glasses arose. These magnificent rites were a passing phenomenon, dissolving with the rise of infant baptism in the 5th century and the decentralisation of the rites in terms of by whom, when and where they were administered (on decentralisation of baptism see below), but in the period treated here the majority of baptised Christians in Rome would have been baptised at the Lateran. The gold-glass depicting a round edifice mentioned above (Plate 7.2) may thus possibly represent the Lateran baptistery. This strikes me as the most convincing context for mass-produced gift-items with Christian motifs. The baptism was by far the biggest ritual event in the life of a 4th-century Christian, and the only one that was unique.49 The concentration of the rites on one day would have put pressure on both artisans and commissioners, explaining both the sloppy execution of some pieces and how this could be acceptable to the owners of such high-valued items.50 Such a context fits well with the presence of motifs featuring families with children (Plate 7.4) (London, British Museum, Department of Britain, Europe and Prehistory, inv. 1863,0727.7: Morey 1959, cat. nos. 308–309; Howells 2015, cat. no. 39),51 not least since the children are often named and cannot thus represent generic wishes for a productive marriage.52 It is assumed that whole households enrolled for the baptism together. This would no doubt have included many wedded couples, and it is by no means certain that all gold-glasses with portraits of couples were wedding gifts, as is usually assumed. Indeed, these are often strewn with Christian symbols and would fit the context of baptism just as well – or even better, as in the case of the orant couple mentioned above (Plate 7.3). The reasons to mark the event – and to post a testimony to it on the tomb – were perhaps tied to social distinction as much as faith. In a context of relatively humble peers, gold-glasses that referenced the baptism demonstrated not only that the deceased and their families could afford luxuries, but also that they had passed the procedure of initiation (and had had their noses touched by a bishop). These objects connected the deceased to a spectacular event and flaunted their community membership. Christian Strecker and Everett Ferguson both liken baptism to a drama, contrasting light and darkness, nudity and clothing, stillness and movement (Strecker

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2011, 1396–1397; Ferguson 2014, 41). The white garment was the mark of a new status, and would have had a considerable impact on the predawn city as the neophytes processed through it.53 Baptism was characterised by a great deal of outward show, and deliberately so: the baptisteries were grander than the rites strictly required in ways designed to attract, and Olof Brandt calls them ‘propagandistic’ (Brandt 2011, 1588). It may also have been costly to those enrolled: Gregory of Nazianzus twits those who delayed their baptism with both cheapness and vanity, as not being able to pay for robes, performers, donations and the baptisms for all their family – sentiments that, he claims, betray a concern with outward appearance rather than spiritual commitment.54 The public aspects of the baptism were underscored also by John Chrysostom, who compared it to imperial largesses and public spectacles (Chrys. catech. 2.4: Brändle 2011, 1240–1242). These passages served a particular purpose, as did their references to wealth and public life: together with the baptisteries and the extended rites, they formed part of a conscious effort to promote Easter baptism, evident not least from the many protreptic texts by the bishops of the age (on protreptics to baptism see Markschies 2011, liv; Ferguson 2014, ch. 5–8).55 Their aim was not to attract pagans, but to counter the common practice of delaying the sacrament to the deathbed (Ferguson 2014, 50, 101): this, the bishops complained, allowed the catechumens the status of Christians without taking on the duties involved.56 Ironically, it also betrays sincerity on the part of the baptisands, as their goal was to die as pure from sin as possible. With the emperors as negative models, countering this practice may not have been an easy task. Besides this, another concern for the bishops was likely workload: the great number of converts during these decades would have been difficult to accommodate, and steering them toward Easter baptism would have made the task more manageable. Siricius, in a letter responding to a query posed to Damasus, insisted that baptism be performed exclusively on the Easter and Pentecost vigils, which shows both that decentralisation was underway and that it was pushed back against (Siricius, Letter to Himerius of Tarragona (PL 13,1131–1148)). Sermons that promoted baptism were delivered at the beginning of the preparation on Epiphany, and it is worth considering to whom they were directed. We should probably not envision the elite: attitudes to baptism reflect class, in ways that remind of the differing attitudes to work. The aristocrat and philosopher Marius Victorinus found it embarrassing to submit to baptism publicly and had private arrangements made for him by the Church.57 The same was no doubt the case for members of other elite families, who were able to dictate their own terms. For the less elevated social group buried in the catacombs, however, the public aspects of the rites would have played to their aspirations. The baptised were framed as a better sort of people: among boons conferred by Jesus through baptism, John Chrysostom listed parrhesia, henceforth to be enjoyed with the friends among whom the baptisand is now to be received (which reminds of the images of conversant saints) (e.g. Chrys. catech. 3.2.29–30; Brändle 2011, 1241); Augustine likened the baptised to sons in the house, the

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catechumens to servants (Aug. in evang. Ioh. 11.4). Both bishops drew on terms from elite political society, before an audience who would be flattered by the comparison. The transfer of the neophyte – wholly and fully – into a new community through baptism was much emphasised in texts (Strecker 2011, 1383 and Ferguson 2014, 49 provide numerous examples), as well as in ritual. The electi were set apart during the preparatory period, constituting a special group bound together by their shared experience in ways that remind of mystery cult initiations.58 The baptisands were clearly distinguished from the non-baptised by dress and spatial separation.59 This aspect of the baptism may provide the key to the enigmatic phrase dignitas amicorum, which appears frequently on Christian gold-glasses but is unknown in other genres.60 It may be combined with images of St Peter and St Paul (Plate  7.5) (Claridge and Osborne 1998, cat. no. 253; see also Morey 1959, cat. nos. 37, 314, 450), orant figures (Plate 7.3) and other motifs which feature fairly unambiguous references to baptism, such as the miracle of Cana (Morey 1959, cat. no. 285).61 Dignitas, I would suggest, denotes rank and/or entitlement, while the ‘friends’ can be understood as the cohort of electi, the Christian community, and the glorious martyrs, conflating life and afterlife in ways typical of 4th-century Christian discourse. This may also be the way to interpret the deliberate ambiguity of phrases such as ‘live happily with your people’, which often appear together with dignitas amicorum and which play on who exactly these people are. The expression is usually taken to mean the family, but it may also refer to the Christian community as a whole. Importantly, the two interpretations are not mutually exclusive.

Salvation in a scroll The Romans were well accustomed to formal demarcations of status, such as guilds, ranks, alimentary tesserae, and clothes regulations. Pseudo-official aspects of the baptismal rites played with these experiences; for instance, the test and enrolment at Epiphany involved the formal registration of names,62 and the Creed was compared to a tessera by which to recognise friends in God. Declaratory baptismal confessions were added in the post-Constantinian period and spread very quickly (Markschies 2011, lix; Staats 2011, 1551–1583). The most strikingly formal element was the all-important seal, which in a Russian-doll manner became a metonym for baptism and, in extension, Christian identity.63 The baptismal seal is described as an invisible but indelible mark, a sign by which ‘God recognised his own’, and, in analogy with seals in the political sphere (from where the concept was borrowed), it conferred power onto its recipients.64 These additions enhanced the status of the rites (and the baptisands) but also underpinned their validity: formal elements like these helped make eternal life believable. We should not read the extended baptismal rites solely as a testimony to episcopal ambition, but also as answering to the desires and fears of their growing flock. These concerns are, I would argue, reflected in the relation between gold-glasses and the sources of their iconographies. In a way gold-glasses functioned as seals,

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demonstrating that the deceased was by right one of God’s own. The motifs even looked like the seals used to guarantee imperial goods, which often showed two or four imperial busts arranged antithetically and, in some cases, crowned by victories.65 The figure of Christ in this position on gold-glasses is usually thought to have derived from coins (which are often mentioned as an inspiration for gold-glass motifs in general) (e.g. Croci 2013, 50, but the assumption is common), but there are actually more examples of this arrangement on seals, especially from the Tetrarchic period. In a similar way, imperial busts within medallions were stamped on metal ingots to guarantee their weight and origin. This validating sense is, I would argue, active also in the portrayal of saints (particularly St Peter and St Paul), transferring notions of assurance along with the iconography. Another source suggested for Christian gold-glass imagery is church decoration,66 which is plausible, for instance, for the motif of the traditio legis (Fig. 7.1), commonly thought to have been conceived for the apse of St Peter’s (e.g. Finney 2017b),67 and for images of saints in radial arrangements (on which see below) (as suggested by Utro 2001–2002, 205). In the case of the facing busts, however, the influence was more probably the other way round, from the smaller arts to the monumental: the motif appears earlier on seals than in church decoration.68 Originality is not, however, the point: the imagery on gold-glasses absorbed elements from several sources, none of which were in themselves new. What is interesting is the selection, which differs from other genres of 4th-century Christian art. Elements borrowed from the public sphere are particularly notable in the iconography of saints, and, like the ‘official’ additions to the baptismal rites, played with both social and spiritual concerns. As mentioned above, saints were not individualised, apart from St Peter and St Paul (who are sometimes confused) and some rather late images of St Agnes (more on this below) (Utro 2001–2002, 200; Croci 2013, 46–50).69 However, certain elements signpost a figure as ‘saint’, which go some way to reveal the ways in which sainthood mattered to the gold-glass owners. These elements are drawn from the visual vocabulary of public recognition and are comparable to how Damasus hailed saints in terms known from public honours, praising them for the praemia (Damas. carm. 17.8 (praemia vitae) and 39.5 (praemia Christi); see also 16.4, likening the deacons of Sixtus II to comites earning trophies) obtained ob meritum (Damas. carm. 20.4; cf. meruit (1.6)). For instance, gammadia on robes seem to be exclusive to saints (Fig. 7.4), as are names inscribed on tabulae (Cumbo 2019). The latter are actually more emphasised than the names themselves, and many scenes featuring saints do not disclose their names at all. Importantly, tabulae recall the public realm – in particular honours and appointments – as do the columns on which they are mounted. These, in turn, fulfil an iconographic double duty: while surely an abstraction for God, columns also represented the highest public honour, carrying emperors and gods who, perched on them, served as protectors of the empire. These pictorial elements emphasise rights and honours earned, but also duties bestowed.

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There was no need, as yet, for a specific iconography of saints: their role from the point of view of lay Christians was not personal, but rather as recipients and transmitters of eternal life, which ultimately emanated from Christ. As Umberto Utro points out, the link to Christ is emphasised in almost every image: this is probably how to understand glasses depicting saints in radial arrangement around a central medallion with Christ (Plate 7.6) (Morey 1959, cat. no. 104).70 Such motifs are sometimes interpreted as celebrations of hierarchy, imitating images of the emperor in majesty. I would rather suggest that their message was ‘authority’, in the sense of guaranteeing validity, and that the same connotations are active in the most common saintly attribute: the scroll. This object is often held with both hands in a manner particular (if not unique) to Christian iconography. Scrolls had a long history in funerary art, but they multiplied in 4th-century Christian contexts and particularly on gold-glasses (Birt 1907, 77). They appear on all the examples mentioned above: in the hands of lay individuals (Plate  7.4), saints and apostles (Fig.  7.4, Plate  7.5), as the law handed down by Christ (Fig.  7.1) and as floating elements in fields (Plate  7.3, Figs 7.2, 7.3, 7.4, 7.5). Their older connotations were still alive (which warrants some caution), but clearly the scroll had attained new meanings in Christian art. Among these is a meaning as tokens of office, familiar from ideal representations of adult males. Stine Birk recognises that this was their usual meaning in funerary art through the 2nd century, and that they still represented status and power in the 3rd and 4th century (as can be seen in how scrolls are used to determine the hierarchy between figures) (Birk 2013, 75–76; see also 61, where the scroll identifies a personification on a sarcophagus as Honos). In public art it was common to represent officials with scrolls, such as a governor ‘by his papers’ denoting his role.71 Theodor Birt favoured a spiritual interpretation, seeing the scroll as representing the book of life – or death, as it were – completing the story of the deceased and preparing them for the afterlife (Birt 1907, 70–71, 78–79, 107–108).72 Most influential has been the work of Henri-Irénée Marrou, who took the scroll to denote an intellectual, a ‘Christian philosopher’ (Marrou 1964, 270–287).73 His interpretation has been widely embraced, including by Stine Birk (to the point of treating ‘magistrates’ as a subcategory of ‘learned figures’) (2013, 73–93, esp. 76 on magistrates as ‘learned’).74 While this might fit a St Cyprian, it is less obviously suited to a St Lawrence or St Agnes, or to the stamp-like manner in which scrolls are strewn in fields (Figs 7.3, 7.5, Plate 7.6). This appears unique to Christian art and cannot be dismissed as simply ornamental: scrolls are emphasised, often crammed in awkwardly and at times almost as large as the saints themselves. They could potentially represent scripture, especially the Gospels75 – but, if so, this is not expressed in unambiguous terms: they rarely appear in fours, but for the most part singly (usually with Christograms) or very often in pairs flanking saints. Radial motifs often feature three scrolls, accompanied by pairs of saints who point at them. They are clearly signposted as important and as being particularly relevant to Christians.

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Fig. 7.5: Details of scrolls, columns and tabulae from gold-glass vessel bases (drawings from Garrucci 1858).

The allusive, multi-valent language of Christian art allows for drawing on all the associations above: the scroll can denote scripture and the authority to disseminate it, a distinction and duty bestowed on saints and apostles, and the promise of salvation encoded in heavenly law. It can serve as shorthand for God, Christ, St Peter and St Paul, law and salvation, all rolled into one transferrable bundle. While not the baptism as such, the scroll represents what baptism conferred – God’s compact with humans and the promise of eternal life that lay therein – but importantly also the chain through which it was validated. It is this chain that is captured in the traditio legis motif, in which the scroll has a central role. In the mausoleum of Santa Costanza it is stamped with a Christogram, which reminds of the seal that symbolised

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this compact. The gold-glass version (Fig. 7.1) presents a uniquely majestic image of Christ76, probably reflecting its architectural origin. This may go some way to explain the attraction of the motif to patrons, such as the urban prefects Junius Bassus and Valerius Severus Eutropius, or the members of the Constantinian dynasty, for whom it provided an opportunity to align earthly and heavenly hierarchy by which to underpin their own positions.77 However, this motif has probably less to do with expressing might than with validation. It has received a great number of different interpretations (for a summary, Arbeiter and Rausch 2007, 126–138; Couzin 2015, 19–20, 56–61 and passim),78 including as an expression of Petrine primacy and the triumphant Church. However, in recent scholarly discourse spiritual and eschatological readings that emphasise salvation, ascension and the apocalypse have won out over those of ecclesiastical geography, and to my mind rightly so. This iconography can embrace several meanings (Couzin 2015, 61), but all in one way or another concern salvation and its ultimate source in Christ. The motif charts a sort of salvific genealogy, validating the apostles as legitimate guardians and transmitters of eternal life. The theme is replicated in abbreviated form in several gold-glasses, featuring Christ with St Peter and St Paul above a host of saints. Of two near-identical glasses (Morey 1959, cat. nos.  254 and 287) one has Christ accompanied by St Peter and St Paul in the upper register, while on the other the two apostles are abstracted as two scrolls. I suggest that a similar function is performed by the double scrolls that flank so many saints, confirming their sainthood and the mandate it entailed, integrating them into the chain that descends from Christ to mankind, through which God’s grace is transmitted. Images of St Peter and St Paul, or their symbols, can thus in themselves encapsulate salvation.

Bishops and agency The last link in this chain was the bishop who conferred God’s grace to the baptisands: this may explain the appearance of bishops on gold-glasses. Some feature Damasus himself (Morey 1959, cat. nos. 106–107), which has raised questions regarding agency and Church propaganda (see for instance Huskinson 1982 and Grig 2004, 217–218). To my mind, Damasus may more plausibly be represented as the bishop who administered the owners’ baptism, and it is notable that he appears together with a string of predecessors connecting him to the apostles. This does not mean that gold-glass vessels were immune to episcopal ambition. Aspects of their motifs do remind of Damasian policies, and it is probably no coincidence that most gold-glasses date to his tenure. Some bishop martyrs depicted on gold-glasses correspond to those he singled out for epigraphic commemoration, notably Sixtus II and Hippolytus.79 Damasus himself appears on a glass together with St Peter, St Paul and Sixtus II – named Pastor, as he is also called in Damasus’ poem in his honour (Damas. carm. 17.9) – in an ecclesiastic version of salvific genealogy. Damasus manipulated the stories of bishop martyrs to

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fit his own agenda, for instance restyling both Sixtus II and his adversary St Cyprian (Fig. 7.4) as ecclesiastical heroes who defended the unity of the Church, the primacy of the Roman see, and episcopal authority.80 Admittedly, these issues were probably more relevant to bishops than to lay Romans. The bishop martyrs had also been embroiled in conflicts over the purity, validity and ownership of baptism which remained burning issues in the late 4th century, but again in ways perhaps more familiar to clergy than to fresh converts, to whom such disputes might seem remote. They could not have missed, however, the drama that surrounded Damasus’ own accession, and it may have been prudent on his part to establish, and link himself to, a chain of worthy predecessors. This does not mean, however, that he himself commissioned the gold-glasses depicting them. At first look this does not seem implausible. One could imagine Damasus having glasses made to entice catechumens, for instance: this would have represented an opportunity to promote his views of the Church and its leadership. This might fit with the suggestion by Penelope Filacchione that gold-glass production arose as a by-product of church construction, which prompted the emergence of glass mosaic workshops in Rome and drew skilled artisans to the city (Filacchione 2019, 555–563).81 She connects this to Damasus’ devotional policies, noting the chronological coincidence of these productions with his tenure. However, these cannot be viewed as exclusively ‘church’ workshops, seeing that they also produced gold-glasses for non-Christian clients. Furthermore, there is no evidence to suggest large-scale production of identical items, which would have been a plausible result of central commission: although composed from stock motifs, no two gold-glasses are entirely alike. The legends also pose problems. Had the glasses served propagandistic purposes we might expect at least some to carry a slogan such as concordia apostolorum, which has been argued to dominate Roman ecclesiastical politics at the time (Huskinson 1982). On the contrary, most goldglasses were personalised items, and their iconography was more likely shaped by the practices and beliefs of the laity, in conjunction with the artisans, than by the bishops. We should likely view these references to Rome’s saints and bishops as responding to local elements rather than as deliberate attempts to promote the city and its church. Gold-glass motifs no doubt answered in some measure to the Roman liturgy, which allowed for an indirect influence of church politics on the glasses. This applies in particular to Damasus’ interventions in Rome’s ritual topography. Glasses portraying Damasus could feasibly have been associated with the consecration of the titular church that he dedicated to St Lawrence, in competition with private foundations. If so, the obscure Florus who appears on some glasses would likely represent the Florus who dedicated an edifice to St Liberalis, a feat for which he hoped to receive the ‘lawful reward’, praemia iusta (ICUR 10, 27256; on suggestions regarding the identity of Florus see Grig 2004, 211). Even if not tied to the baptism, such gold-glass vessels may have been deposited in tombs in accordance with (by

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then) established practice. There were edifices also on several other bishop-martyr sites, including that of St Sixtus. We might also envision baptisms performed there: the rites began to be decentralised by the turn of the 5th century and henceforth baptisms were performed also at titular churches (and, according to the Liber Pontificalis, also funerary basilicas). This may account for the frequent appearance of St Lawrence and St Agnes, whose funerary basilicas were the largest (and latest) to be built and were designed to receive large crowds (Brandt 2017 provides an overview, with further bibliography; for large crowds at the funerary basilicas see Hellström 2015). The exact chronology for baptisms at these locations is not well known, but one may note that Damasus himself is credited with installing a baptistery at the Vatican, although there is some dispute as to whether his installation there represented a font or a fountain.82 Damasus claimed in a poem to have discovered ‘the spring that furnishes the gift of salvation’ (Damas. carm. 3), and another poem was perhaps inscribed ad fontem (Damas. carm. 4, with Trout 2015, 86): Not by human effort, not with artifice guiding […] But with Peter as surety, to whom heaven’s door was entrusted, Damasus, bishop of Christ, arranged these things. There is one see of Peter, and one true baptism; no chains hold [one whom this water washes]

The poem recalls several themes touched on above, including the importance of guardianship and guarantees, the uniqueness of baptism and its association with eternal life. Perhaps the original iconography of the traditio legis should be attributed to this baptistery – a context in which we know the motif to have been relevant – rather than the basilica of St. Peter’s (see above and note 67).83 If so, it might have provided the spark for other architectural uses of the motif. But even when competition started, the baptismal rites at the Lateran performed by the bishop himself retained their primacy in Rome and beyond. This may explain the trickle of glasses retrieved from locations around Italy: if one could afford it, one may well have travelled to Rome to be baptised. No other location could offer such prestigious rites or so elevated (and famous) a bishop. This would at the same time have bolstered the baptisands’ position in their home communities and provided the surest guarantees for their salvation.

Concluding remarks The decentralised rites nonetheless heralded changes to come, and not long thereafter the trail of gold-glasses ends. This could, of course, be tied to the discontinuation of the catacombs in the early 5th century. However, Christian ritual life also changed, and although the internal chronology of the gold-glass vessels is uncertain, it is likely that they changed, too. Interesting in this context are the images of St Agnes, which

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straddle two stages in the development of martyr cult. From depicting her as a stereotypical female martyr, for the most part flanked by St Peter and St Paul (at times by Christ) or by their substituting scrolls, her images increasingly took on the aspect of a specific saintly iconography (Utro 2001–2002, 200–201; Grig 2004, 221; Croci 2013, 51–53). As beliefs and practices changed, the apostles receded from her images, and their symbols were transformed into birds and other iconographic elements that, as Lucy Grig (2004, 221) has shown, are traceable also in her literary tradition.84 Rather than one of several martyrs whose power over death was confirmed through a chain of transmission from Christ, Agnes emerges as an individual with her own story, denoting a different relation between saint and devotee. Other motifs (including the traditio legis) received new meanings at the same time. Even if gold-glasses were still produced in the 5th century, they would probably have played different roles. The emphasis on baptism was by then gone, for reasons to do with both doctrine and practice. Augustine, for one, sought to bypass the concern with validity by arguing that baptisands who were themselves pure of body and mind could receive salvation directly from Christ, regardless of the lawfulness of the administrator (van de Beek 2009). Such reasoning eventually severed the Gordian knot that had plagued Christian discourse for a century and a half, if not more. The deciding factor for lay people, however, was likely infant baptism. With it, the distinction between baptised and non-baptised disappeared, as did the grand baptisteries and their associated mass rites. The fonts assumed the proportions that they have today, while baptismal imagery left the tombs and became less abstract. As an example one can mention the images of Christ nude and immersed that are familiar from Ravenna (as noted by Ferguson 2017). Baptismal imagery became more top-down in its conception compared to the iconographic cross-roads that the goldglasses represented, borrowing from secular gift culture, funerary arts, public honours, seals, coins and architecture. The imagery on Christian gold-glasses, with its distinct choices and omissions that set it apart from other brands of Christian art, answered to a particular historical situation. It was uniquely defined by location, social context(s), religious beliefs and ritual practices, coinciding with a formative but brief period in the history of Christianity. During this period, the nature of Christianity changed almost by year, transforming what it meant to be, and to become, Christian. The centrality of the baptism to Christian liturgy in late 4th-century Rome cannot be overstated, but is easy to forget in light of later practices. With infant baptism the receipt of God’s seal and the realisation of its inherent promise became further apart, in life and, perhaps, mind. I do not propose that the baptism was the occasion for all gold-glasses with Christian motifs, but that it influenced them more than has been recognised; using the baptism to interpret them provides a window to the experiences of contemporary Christians, both lay and clergy. It allows us to confront lofty theological discourse and church politics with the material and spiritual aims of ordinary Christians, as well as the practical realities of an ascendant faith.

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1. The connection between gold-glasses and baptism was suggested by Edith B. Thomas (1986, 536) but to my knowledge has never been explored further. 2. Among the catalogues used in this chapter are Morey (1959) for the Vatican Library; Howells (2015) for the British Museum; Walker (2017) for the Wilshere Collection in the Ashmolean Museum. Garrucci’s drawings (Garrucci 1858) and the ‘paper museum’ of Cassiano dal Pozzo (Claridge and Osborne 1998) are useful for glasses that have since become abraded or lost. 3. The earlier association with Alexandria has been abandoned. 4. The end terminus is problematic since catacombs then disappear. Pillinger (1979, 14) accepts dates into the 5th and even the 6th century. 5. For instance, Thomas (1986, 536) regarded them as exclusive items for the Roman nobility, bearing portraits of specific individuals. 6. The glasses were expensive but not out of reach for prosperous tradesmen and craftsmen, i.e. the social horizon of the catacomb areas where they are found. 7. Before fusing the base to the bowl, part of the design could be adapted after moistening it, which I would suggest was the case for many names added to the outer ring of the motifs: e.g. Morey 1959, cat. nos. 37 and 41. 8. As per experiment by Yasuko Fujii together with the glass artist Hidetoshi Namiki (Fujii and Namiki 2019 and personal communication). 9. The tendency is common also in literature, particularly concerning the baptism, as explored in several chapters of Hellholm et al. 2011. For reliefs on sarcophagi as vehicles for both confessional and polemical messages, see Elsner 2014, 317 and passim. 10. The multivalence of the text is openly admitted. 11. Ambiguity, she proposes (1747), can be exploited for its own analytical potential. 12. Thümmel’s examples of gold-glasses with primary funerary function are gem-cut, 3rd-century medallions rather than 4th-century vessel bases. Walker cites more convincing evidence for glasses produced by the tomb, but none of them belong to the categories treated here. 13. As stated above (note 12), glasses that clearly betray a funerary function date to the mid-3rd century and belong to the fine category of gem-cut medallions: see e.g. Lega 2012, 265, 276. 14. On a child’s loculus in the catacomb of St Agnes a gold-glass was found portraying a bust of an adult male (Morey 1959, cat. no. 41; cf. Smith 2000, 339). If made to fit the context, one would have to assume that images of children were not available. The legend, ‘Serbule, pi[e zeses]! [Hilare]s [o]mnes!’, addresses multiple persons. 15. Smith (2000, 338–343) lists items found there in situ: several glasses portray saints, but none St Agnes. See also Utro 2001–2002, 207–208, who notes a complete lack of correspondence between context and saint on gold-glasses. 16. ‘Spes in deo’: catacomb of Ss. Pietro e Marcellino, cubiculum X (Guyon 1987, 338); the prayer to St Paul is attested in the catacomb of Praetextatus together with a gold-glass depicting a seated male figure whose name began with ‘P’ (Smith 2000, 177). 17. Smith (2000, 194–195) interprets them as domestic reminding of home comforts. However, the finds – shells and lamps (the most frequent categories), animal teeth, bones, jewellery, figurines, coins, name pendants, leaves and decorative plaques – are not entirely convincing as household items, and Guyon’s suggestion that they represent prophylactics is surely correct. 18. Other motifs include the medusa, stylite saints, pagan deities, frogs, tortoises and Romulus and Remus. 19. As underscored in the Traditio apostolica handed down under the name of Hippolytus of Rome. See for example Hippol. trad. ap. 41.11–14: ‘Around midnight rise and wash your hands with water and pray. If you are married, pray together. But if your spouse is not yet baptized, go

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into another room to pray, and then return to bed […] By catching your breath in your hand and signing yourself with the moisture of your breath, your body is purified, even to the feet. For the gift of the Spirit and the outpouring of the baptism, proceeding from the heart of the believer as though from a fountain, purifies the one who has believed’ (transl. Edgecomb). Cf. Bowes 2008, 57–58. 20. As argued by Engemann (1968–1969; 1972), with examples of secular precedents. A display function of the vessels is suggested by their shape, in many cases too concave for them to actually stand on their base rings: Howells 2015, 25. 21. Infant baptism was practiced only as an emergency measure: known cases were administered on the deathbed. 22. That gold-glass was also used with this meaning is shown by a glass depicting Achilles on Skyros (Morey 1959, cat. no. 284), a motif that Alan Cameron (2009) has convincingly associated with gifts for adolescents. 23. See Korol and Rieckesmann (2011), whose thorough re-examination of the frescoes is the most comprehensive to date. They accept the function of the room as baptismal and the sarcophagus as representing the tomb of Christ, noting that already Tertullian associated baptism with Christ’s death and resurrection (Tert. bapt. 19.1–2). I would suggest that the two stars framing the sarcophagus (which, as Korol and Rieckesmann point out, have different numbers of rays) should be understood as the sun and the moon, representing eternity and rebirth. 24. The link was first established by Richard Krautheimer (1942, 20–33) and has since become commonplace. 25. See Brandt (2017) on the Lateran Baptistery, which was, moreover, located on the spot of an earlier bath attached to the demolished castra of the urban cavalry (Liverani 2019); cf. Haynes et al. 2017 on the excavations of the Lateran Project. In fact, Krautheimer rejected baths as the model for baptisteries based on features such as ambulatories, and one should allow for several architectural references: among them I would emphasise round and octagonal ceremonial spaces, which were very common in the relevant period. 26. Marrou (1964, 275–287) read representations of catechesis as boasts of erudition, but since every baptised Christian was familiar with these scenes it is doubtful that they could confer such distinction. 27. Morey read the name as Susstus. 28. Similarly ambiguous is the label Istefanus of a figure seated across Christ and crowned by a smaller Christ: Morey 1959, cat. no. 187. 29. The upper register shows Christ with St Peter and St Paul, at the centre Simon and Timothy, below Sixtus II and Florus. 30. As Robert Couzin (2015, 2–3, 33–34) puts it, ‘what Christ merely displays, Peter nonetheless receives’. See Arbeiter and Rausch 2007, 124 and 130–131. 31. Augustine read it as the last stage of catechesis before the sacrament. 32. For instance, St Peter and St Paul are called ‘new stars’ (nova sidera) by Damasus (Damas. carm. 20.7); cf. Trout 2015, 121–122. 33. One scene of traditio legis (on an incised glass now in München, Archäologische Staatssammlung, Museum für Vor- und Frühgeschichte, inv. E-47/1996) adds the label SALBATOR to the figure of Christ: Couzin 2015, fig. 51. 34. Spieser’s list of representations of Christ descending to earth portrayed as a lamb includes several baptismal scenes. 35. Baptismal waters are usually depicted vertically, denoting their origin from the Holy Spirit above. Spieser (2015, 799) links the rock in the traditio legis motif to the rock in the desert from which the water of life flows, representing Christ and the Church. 36. Baptism in still or heated water required special dispensation.

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37. The word hilaris is common on gold-glasses and is probably an adjective: cf. hilares omnes in Morey 1959, cat. no. 71. See also Morey 1959, cat. nos. 80–81, with Petrus written out. On this theme see Huskinson 1982, 129–140. 38. Multiplication of loaves: Città del Vaticano, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, inv. 60750; Morey 1959, cat. no. 72. For the miracle of Cana see Morey 1959, cat. no. 285. 39. Ferguson (2017, 158–159) also lists images of fish and fishermen among baptismal motifs, as symbolising the gathering of souls to Christ as well as referencing water. Among the examples are Walker 2017, cat. no. 36 (fish around the legend spe); Morey 1959, cat. nos. 376 (fish threatened by hook and net) and 393 (two standing figures, four fish in the water below). 40. The legend has been used to disprove that the vessels were produced for the tomb (St Clair Harvey and Smith 2017, 601), but it was actually not uncommon on tombstones, as shown by Ferrua (1975, 1116–1118), who lists 19 items, all commemorating Christians. 41. Ferrua (1975, 1121–1123) notes that such qualifying phrases are also prevalent on Christian tombs and denote a continuous state. 42. ‘Hilaris vivas cum tuis feliciter, semper refrigeris im pace Dei’. Città del Vaticano, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, inv. 60766: Morey 1959, cat. no. 36. Ferrua (1975, 1122) questions that the verb refrigero ever referred to funerary meals. 43. Ferguson (2014, 29–30 and 49) describes them as designed to usher in rather than filter out. 44. Easter baptism had been the norm at least since AD 200: Ferguson 2014, 124. Only after the 5th century is baptism on Christmas and Epiphany attested in Rome: Brandt 2017, 161. 45. As can be reconstructed from his works On the mysteries and On the sacraments: Strecker 2011, 1402–1403; Ferguson 2014, 35–41. 46. In the Antiochene liturgy the seal was a cross of balm and oil made by the bishop on the forehead of the baptisand and was considered the sealing of the promise of Christ, the sphragis: Strecker 2011, 1397. 47. On 4th-century monumental baptisteries see Brandt 2017, 162. Brandt (2011, 1587) underscores that they were meant for adults and not infants. 48. The Lateran basilica was begun in 312 and predates the baptistery. 49. The uniqueness of baptism was emphasised by church fathers and councils: see Markschies 2011, lv; Staats 2011, 1568. 50. For non-elite individuals, ‘their most precious possession’ (Howells 2015, 112). 51. The position of the Christogram puts emphasis on the children, and the inscribed names may be theirs rather than the adults’. 52. See e.g. a gold-glass depicting two adults with one child, all named, the adults flanking a Christogram (Morey 1959, cat. no. 315); another glass shows as many as four children (Garrucci 1858, cat. no. 203.3). Couples of males may also be similarly explained: e.g. the aforementioned gold-glass with Iulius and Electus (see above and note 27), if both labels are to be intended as personal names; or another one depicting two men who have crowned themselves (Morey 1959, cat. no. 21). 53. Pillinger (1979, 11–12) interprets a gold-glass portraying a man clad in white (Morey 1959, cat. no. 193) as depicting a baptisand, translating the legend a saeculare benedicte as ‘Christian from heathen’. I would relate the word saeculare to the two stars flanking the man, rather than to paganism; moreover, the man wears a toga, not the exomis appropriate for baptism. 54. Gr. Naz. or. 40.25: ‘For it is base to say, “But where is my offering for my baptism, and where is my baptismal robe, in which I shall be made bright, and where is what is wanted for the entertainment of my baptizers, that in these too I may become worthy of notice? For, as you see, all these things are necessary, and on account of this the Grace will be lessened.” Do not thus trifle with great things, or allow yourself to think so basely. The Sacrament is greater than the visible environment’ (transl. Browne and Swallow). 55. Among the most important are: Basil of Caesarea, Exhortation to Holy Baptism and On Baptism; Gregory of Nazianzus, Oration 40 On Holy Baptism; Gregory of Nyssa, Against those who

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delay baptism; John Chrysostom, Instructions to catechumens; Cyril of Jerusalem, Catechetical lectures. 56. Strecker (2011, 1411) describes the catechumenate as ‘a less binding form of being a Christian’. 57. Curran (2000, 9) suggests that not doing so could offend his high-powered, non-Christian friends. 58. Strecker (2011, 1411–1412) underscores how baptism was deliberately designed to promote community formation. The preparation was called the photizomenate (in the East) to distinguish it from the mere catechumenate. On community aspects of baptism see also Ferguson 2014, 19, with further references. 59. Brandt (2011, 1588) notes how the baptised and non-baptised were clearly separated in architecture. 60. Walker (2017, 134) lists possible interpretations, including the company of martyrs or a burial club. Neither is quite convincing, nor do they fit well with an above-ground context. The phrase is never grammatically integrated with other legends on the glasses, and appears almost like a stamped-on emblem. 61. The legend is attested also on gold-glasses depicting Adam and Eve (Morey 1959, cat. no. 47), the Good Shepherd (Morey 1959, cat. nos. 45, 236) and individuals (martyrs?) crowned by Christ (Morey 1959, cat. nos. 187 [Istefanus], 365 [Ionanes]). 62. On the meaning of name formulae in baptismal contexts see Hartman 2011. Forerunners belong to the sphere of contracts, such as oaths, economic transactions and public inscriptions, and not to the Old Testament. 63. See Mitchell 2011, 1746–1747 for scholarship on the seal or σφραγίς. In the Abercius inscription, she argues (1768–1769), this theme overlays the baptismal rite with imperial and civic pronunciations. 64. See Day 2011, 1192–1194 on the meaning of the seal: the neophyte ‘has been sealed by the Holy Spirit through baptism and thus receives divine power: this power is, therefore, a fruit of baptism’ (1194). 65. For the lead seals found in Rome, Ostia and the northern limes, see Weiss 2006. This material category may provide closer comparanda to gold-glass motifs than coins or contorniates. 66. Bisconti (2001–2002, 180–185 and 192–193) argues for a close link between church decoration and gold-glasses, using the latter to reconstruct, as it were, image programmes in churches. I am not convinced that the link is as strong as he suggests, but I agree, for example, that radial motifs plausibly originated in domes. 67. For summaries of the debate, see Couzin (2015, 10–12) who is sceptical about the attribution, and Arbeiter and Rausch (2007, 126 and 145–146) who accept it. So, although reluctantly, does also Spieser (1998, 66) on the grounds that St Peter’s was a funerary church. Couzin (2015, 52) rejects the idea that the image on the lid of the Samagher reliquary is a topographical reference related to the scenes on its sides, which seem to take place in and by the basilica of St Peter’s. There is, in fact, no secure evidence for figurative decoration in this edifice, let alone the specific identification of a scene of traditio legis. Buddensieg’s (1959) reconstruction of the apse has been treated as almost factual, but his chief evidence, the Vita Silvestri 16–17, mentions no figurative decoration, nor even an apse (as it does for the Lateran basilica in the preceding lines). 68. Utro (2001–2002, 196) uses the famous relief with facing busts of St Peter and St Paul found in Aquileia (from the basilica of San Felice, now in the Museo Paleocristiano) as evidence for a monumental origin of the motif: but this Christian relief is obviously later than the seals with facing imperial busts. 69. The bronze pendant portraying St Lawrence on the griddle and inscribed Successa vivas is most likely a forgery, as convincingly argued by Bisconti (1995, 252–253). 70. Note that the busts in the tondi are all flanked by two scrolls, while a standing figure not encircled in a tondo is dressed as a lay person and not marked by scrolls. 71. See Smith 1999 on the stereotypical portrayal of contemporary governors with scrolls as marble struts and inscriptions that bespeak the virtues of the official.

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72. A good summary of previous interpretations is presented by Koep and Hermann 1954. 73. His position remains the most widespread: see for instance Kabala 2017. 74. She makes a case for public values to have been replaced by private virtues in funerary art by the mid-3rd century, an argument that I find somewhat circular. While intellectuality was certainly an ideal, assimilating all instances of scrolls to learnedness blurs distinctions and inflates her categories. 75. Claridge and Osborne (1998, 204, cat. no. 250) summarise arguments by early investigators (beginning with Buonarroti 1716) for the scroll as scripture. I would go further and suggest that scripture itself symbolises law, Christ and salvation. 76. Couzin (2015, 31) suggests that this virile, powerful, and mature portrayal of Christ was created for this iconography; Foletti and Quadri (2013, 22–23) suggest that it came to denote Christ as cosmocrator. 77. Most instances are found on high-quality sarcophagi, of which several belonged to members of the Roman elite (catalogue in Couzin 2015); these burials clearly represent a higher social stratum than the loculi of gold-glass owners. Couzin (2015, 52) observes that the patron’s portrait in the sarcophagus of Sant’Ambrogio was placed directly above the traditio legis scene, expressing status while at the same time drawing on the salvific implications of the motif. The theme is also referenced in a bronze lamp (Firenze, Museo Archeologico Nazionale, inv. 1671) in the shape of a ship steered by St Peter and St Paul, which has a tabula on its sail inscribed ‘Dominus legem dat Valerio Severo. Eutropi, vivas!’ (Bowes 2008, 79; Couzin 2015, 39–40). If a baptismal gift, it celebrated Valerius’ reception of salvation in terms agreeable to members of his class. 78. Several scholars (e.g. Foletti and Quadri 2013, 19; Couzin 2015, 56–58) note that Peter is made equal to Paul, which may speak against seeing Petrine primacy as the main message. Spieser (2015, 276) rejects a reading of the motif linked to ecclesiastical geography and views it as metaphorical. 79. Utro (2001–2002, 207–209) anticipates the suggestion by Grig (2004) that the glasses were tied to martyrs’ feasts, but also notes that the correlation between the religious calendar and the images on gold-glasses is far from perfect. Many saints who appear on the glasses had no such known cult, while expected ones are absent. 80. Hippolytus too, who had lived a great deal earlier, was rewritten as a contemporary of Sixtus II and Cyprian who opposed Novatian: Damas. carm. 35, with Trout 2015, 144–147, esp. 146. 81. This theory may help make sense of the late Constantinian laws regarding artisans, which (according to her) were aimed at sustaining the grand church construction projects. 82. Trout (2015, 84–87) is strongly in favour of a baptistery by Damasus. Among those less convinced is Brandt (2017). 83. The possible connection of the motif with death fits a baptistery just as well (if not better) than the basilica. The same is the case if one accepts the Samagher casket as providing topographical information. 84. Grig (2004, 221) plausibly suggests that the texts followed the images rather than the reverse.

Bibliography

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Birt, T. (1907) Die Buchrolle in der Kunst: Archäologisch-antiquarische Untersuchungen zum antiken Buchwesen. Leipzig, Teubner. Bisconti, F. (1995) Dentro e intorno all’iconografia martiriale romana: dal ‘vuoto figurativo’ all’ ‘immaginario devozionale’. In M. Lamberigts and P. van Deun (eds) Martyrium in multidisciplinary perspective. Memorial Louis Reekmans, 247–292. Leuven, Peeters (Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium, 117). Bisconti, F. (2001–2002) Vetri dorati e arte monumentale. Rendiconti della Pontificia Accademia Romana di Archeologia 74, 177–193. Bowes, K. (2008) Private worship, public values, and religious change in Late Antiquity. Cambridge/ New York, Cambridge University Press. Brändle, R. (2011) Johannes Chrysostomus: Die zehn Gaben (τιμαί oder δωρεαί) der Taufe. In Hellholm et al. (2011), 1233–1252. Brandt, O. (2011) Understanding the structures of early Christian baptisteries. In Hellholm et al. (2011), 1587–1609. Brandt, O. (2017) Baptistery. In Finney (2017a), vol. 1, 161–163. Buddensieg, T. (1959) Le coffret en ivoire de Pola, Saint-Pierre et le Latran. Cahiers archéologiques 10, 157–200. Buonarroti, F. (1716) Osservazioni sopra alcuni frammenti di vasi antichi di vetro ornati di figure trovati ne’ cimiteri di Roma. Firenze, nella stamperia di S.A.R. per Jacopo Guiducci e Santi Franchi. Cameron, A. (2009) Young Achilles in the Roman World. Journal of Roman Studies 99, 1–22. Claridge, A. and Osborne, J. (1998) The paper museum of Cassiano dal Pozzo. Series A, part II: Early Christian and medieval antiquities. Vol. 2: Other mosaics, paintings, sarcophagi and small objects. London, Harvey Miller Publishers. Couzin, R. (2015) The traditio legis: Anatomy of an image. Oxford, Archaeopress. Croci, C. (2013) Portraiture on early Christian gold glass: Some observations. In I. Foletti (ed.) The face of the dead and the early Christian world, 43–59. Roma, Viella (Studia Artium Medievalium Brunensia, 1). Cumbo, C. (2019) Vetri dorati e lastre incise: alcuni casi interessanti dalle c.d. gammadiae. In C. Cecalupo, G. Assunta Lanzetta and P. Ralli (eds) RACTA 2018: Ricerche di archeologia cristiana, tardantichità e altomedioevo/Researches on Christian archaeology, Late Antiquity and early Middle Ages. 1st International conference of PhD students (Rome, 5th–7th February 2018), 54–62. Oxford, Archaeopress. Curran, J. (2000) The conversion of Rome revisited. In S. Mitchell and G. Greatrex (eds) Ethnicity and culture in Late Antiquity, 1–14. London, Duckworth. Day, J. (2011) The Catechetical Lectures of Cyril of Jerusalem: A source for the baptismal liturgy of mid-fourth century Jerusalem. In Hellholm et al. (2011), 1179–1204. Elsner, J. (2014) Rational, passionate and appetitive. In J. Elsner and M. Meyer (eds) Art and rhetoric in Roman culture, 316–350. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Engemann, J. (1968–1969) Bemerkungen zu spätrömischen Gläsern mit Goldfoliendekor. Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum 11–12, 7–25. Engemann, J. (1972) Anmerkungen zu spätantiken Geräten des Alltagslebens mit christlichen Bildern, Symbolen, und Inschriften. Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum 15, 154–173. Entwistle, C. and Finney, P.C. (2013) Late antique glass pendants in the British Museum. In Entwistle and James (2013), 131–177. Entwistle, C. and James, L. (eds) (2013) New light on old glass: Recent research on Byzantine mosaics and glass. London, British Museum Press (British Museum Research Publications, 179). Ferguson, E. (2014) Early Church at work and worship, vol. 2: Catechesis, baptism, eschatology, and martyrdom. Cambridge, James Clarke & Co. Ferguson, E. (2017) Baptism. In Finney (2017a), vol. 1, 158–161. Ferrua, A. (1975) Pie zeses per i defunti. In Forma futuri: Studi in onore del cardinale Michele Pellegrino, 1115–1124. Torino, Bottega d’Erasmo.

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Filacchione, P. (2019) Dalla materia all’immagine: i fondi d’oro tardoantichi in relazione con l’edilizia cristiana monumentale. In F. Bisconti, M. Braconi and M. Sgarlata (eds) Arti minori e arti maggiori. Relazioni e interazioni tra Tarda Antichità e Alto Medioevo, 551–572. Todi, Tau Editrice. Finney, P.C. (ed.) (2017a) The Eerdmans encyclopedia of early Christian art and archaeology. Grand Rapids, MI, Eerdmans Publishing. Finney, P.C. (2017b) Traditio Legis. In Finney (2017a), vol. 2, 616–617. Foletti, I. and Quadri, I. (2013) Roma, l’Oriente e il mito della Traditio legis. In I. Foletti (ed.) Byzantium, Russia and Europe: Meeting and construction of worlds, 16–37 (Opuscula Historiae Artium 62, Supplementum). Fujii, Y. and Namiki, H. (2019) A study of continuity, occurrence and combination of ancient cut gold leaf techniques on gold glass: from Hellenistic ‘Kirikane’ to late Roman ‘scratching’. Conference presentation. Gold glass memorial day for Daniel T. Howells (27 April 2019), Ioannou Centre for Classical and Byzantine Studies, Oxford. Garrucci, R. (1858) Vetri ornati di figure in oro trovati nei cimiteri dei cristiani primitivi di Roma. Roma, Tipografia Salviucci. Geertman, H. (1986–1987) Forze centrifughe e centripete nella Roma cristiana: il Laterano, la Basilica Iulia e la Basilica Liberiana. Atti della Pontificia Accademia Romana di Archeologia. Rendiconti 59, 63–91. Grig, L. (2004) Portraits, pontiffs and the Christianization of fourth-century Rome. Papers of the British School at Rome 72, 203–230. Guyon, J. (1987) Le cimetière aux deux lauriers: Recherches sur les catacombes romaines. Rome, École française de Rome (Bibliothèque des Écoles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome, 264). Hartman, L. (2011) Usages – Some notes on the baptismal name-formulae. In Hellholm et al. (2011), 397–413. Haynes, I., Liverani, P., Heslop, D., Peverett, I., Piro, S., Spinola, G. and Turner, A. (2017) The Lateran project: Interim report for the 2016–17 season (Rome). Papers of the British School at Rome 85, 317–320. Hellholm, D., Vegge, T., Norderval, Ø. and Hellholm, C. (eds) (2011) Ablution, initiation, and baptism: Late Antiquity, early Judaism, and early Christianity. Berlin, De Gruyter (Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft. Beihefte, 176). Hellström, M. (2015) On the form and function of Constantine’s circiform funerary basilicas in Rome. In M.R. Salzman, M. Sághy and R. Lizzi Testa (eds) Pagans and Christians in late antique Rome: Conflict, competition, and coexistence in the fourth century, 291–313. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Hopkins, K. (1998) Christian number and its implications. Journal of Early Christian Studies 2, 185–226. Howells, D. (2013) Making late antique gold glass. In Entwistle and James (2013), 112–120. Howells, D. (2015) A catalogue of the late antique gold glass in the British Museum. London, British Museum Press (British Museum Research Publications, 198). Huskinson, J. (1982) Concordia apostolorum: Christian propaganda at Rome in the fourth and fifth centuries. A study of early Christian iconography and iconology. Oxford, British Archaeological Reports (British Archaeological Reports. International series, 148). Kabala, I. (2017) Scroll. In Finney (2017a), vol. 2, 479–480. Koep, L. and Hermann, A. (1954) Buch III: Metaphorisch und symbolisch. Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum, vol. 2, 718–721. Stuttgart, Hiersemann. Korol, D. and Rieckesmann, J. (2011) Neues zu den alt- und neutestamentlichen Darstellungen im Baptisterium von Dura Europos. In Hellholm et al. (2011), 1611–1672. Krautheimer, R. (1942) Introduction to an ‘iconography of mediaeval architecture’. Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld institutes 5, 1–33. Lega, C. (2012) Il corredo epigrafico dei vetri dorati: novità e considerazioni. Sylloge Epigraphica Barcinonensis 10, 263–286. Liverani, P. (2019) Nobili, militari, vescovi: il Laterano in età imperiale. Paper delivered at the British School at Rome, 17 April 2019.

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Mackie, G. (1997) A new look at the patronage of Santa Costanza, Rome. Byzantion 67, 383–406. Markschies, C. (2011) Einführung. In Hellholm et al. (2011), xlix–lxiii. Marrou, H.-I. (1964) Mousikos Aner. Étude sur les scènes de la vie intellectuelle figurant sur les monuments funéraires romains, Roma, ‘L’Erma’ di Bretschneider (Bibliothèque de l’Institut français de Naples, 1e série: Études d’histoire et de critique, 4). Martimont, A.-G. (1949) L’iconographie des catacombes et la catéchèse antique. Città del Vaticano, Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana. Meredith, H.G. (2015) Engaging mourners and maintaining unity: Third and fourth century goldglass roundels from Roman catacombs. Religion in the Roman Empire 1, 219–241. Mitchell, M. (2011) The poetics and politics of Christian baptism in the Abercius monument. In Hellholm et al. (2011), 1743–1782. Morey, C.R. (ed. G. Ferrari) (1959) The gold-glass collection of the Vatican Library, with additional ­catalogues of other gold-glass collections. Città del Vaticano, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana (Catalogo del Museo Sacro, 4). Pillinger, R. (1979) Römische Goldgläser. Antike Welt 10, 11–15. Smith, R.R.R. (1999) Late antique portraits in a public context: Honorific statuary at Aphrodisias in Caria, AD 300–600. Journal of Roman Studies 80, 155–189. Smith, S.L. (2000) Gold-glass vessels of the late Roman empire: Production, context, and function. Ph.D. dissertation. New Brunswick, Rutgers University. Spieser, J.-M. (1998) The representation of Christ in the apses of early Christian churches. Gesta 37, 63–73. Spieser, J.-M. (2015) Images du Christ: des catacombes aux lendemains de l’iconoclasme. Genève, Librairie Droz. Staats, R. (2011) Das Taufbekenntnis in der frühen Kirche. In Hellholm et al. (2011), 1553–1583. St Clair Harvey, A. and Smith, S. (2017) Glass: gold. In Finney (2017a), vol. 1, 600–601. Strecker, C. (2011) Taufrituale im frühen Christentum und in der Alten Kirche: Historische und ritualwissenschaftliche Perspektiven. In Hellholm et al. (2011), 1383–1440. Thomas, E.B. (1986) Spätantike und frühchristliche Charakterköpfe aus Pannonien. Klio 68, 501–541. Thümmel, H.G. (1994) Tertullians Hirtenbecher, die Goldgläser und die Frühgeschichte der christlichen Bestattung. Boreas 17, 257–265. Trout, D. (2015) Damasus of Rome: The Epigraphic Poetry. Oxford/New York, Oxford University Press. Utro, U. (2001–2002) Raffigurazioni agiografiche sui vetri dorati paleocristiani. Rendiconti della Pontificia Accademia Romana di Archeologia 74, 195–219. van de Beek, A. (2009) Heretical baptism in debate. In die Skriflig 43, 537–561. Walker, S. (ed.) (2017) Saints and salvation: The Wilshere Collection of gold-glass, sarcophagi and inscriptions from Rome and Southern Italy. Oxford, Ashmolean Museum. Walker, S. (2019) Craft, consumers and the value of gold glass in late antique Cologne. Conference presentation. Gold glass memorial day for Daniel T. Howells (27 April 2019), Ioannou Centre for Classical and Byzantine Studies, Oxford. Weiss, P. (2006) Die Tetrarchie in Bleisiegeln der Reichsverwaltung. In D. Boschung and W. Eck (eds) Die Tetrarchie: Ein neues Regierungssystem und seine mediale Präsentation, 229–248. Wiesbaden, Reichert (ZAKMIRA, 3).

Plate 0.1: Terracotta figurine of a camel with Dionysian images on its saddlebags, from China, 6th–7th century. New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, acc. no. 2000.8 (The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Rogers Fund, 2000, http://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/53630 [accessed 16/03/2020]).

Plate 1.1: Mosaic depicting the victorious charioteer Marcianus, from Calle Arzobispo Mausona (Mérida) (© Archivo Fotográfico, Museo Nacional de Arte Romano).

Plate 1.2: Mosaic depicting the victorious charioteer Paulus, from Calle Arzobispo Mausona (Mérida) (© Archivo Fotográfico, Museo Nacional de Arte Romano).

Plate 1.3: Mosaic depicting a victorious charioteer, from Calle Holguín (Mérida) (© Archivo Fotográfico, Museo Nacional de Arte Romano).

Plate 1.4: Wall painting depicting a charioteer, from Calle Suárez Somonte (Mérida) (© Archivo Fotográfico, Museo Nacional de Arte Romano).

Plate 1.5: Wall painting depicting a charioteer, from Calle Suárez Somonte (Mérida) (© Archivo Fotográfico, Museo Nacional de Arte Romano).

Plate 1.6: Geographic distribution of circus scenes and victorious charioteers in mosaics and paintings from Hispania, with the villa of El Pomar marked with a star (authors: Rubén Montoya and Matthew S. Hobson).

Plate 2.1: The triumph of Neptune and personifications of the four seasons. Mosaic pavement from a seaside villa at Chebba (Tunisia), late 2nd century AD. Tunis, Musée National du Bardo (photo: Tony Hisgett/Wikimedia Commons, license CC-BY-2.0).

Plate 2.2: The villa of dominus Iulius. Mosaic pavement from a house on the hill of Byrsa, Carthage (Tunisia), late 4th century AD. Tunis, Musée National du Bardo (photo: Sean Leatherbury/Manar al-Athar, http://www.manar-al-athar.ox.ac.uk [accessed: 17/03/2020]).

Plate 2.3: A matron at her toilette. Mosaic pavement from a villa at Sidi Ghrib, ca. AD 400. Tunis, Musée National du Bardo (photo: Sean Leatherbury/Manar al-Athar, http://www.manar-al-athar. ox.ac.uk [accessed: 17/03/2020]).

Plate 2.4: A matron and her sons heading to the baths. Mosaic pavement from the Villa romana del Casale at Piazza Armerina (Sicily), ca. AD 320 (photo: José Luiz Bernardes Ribeiro/Wikimedia Commons, license CC BY-SA 4.0).

Plate 2.5: The return from the boar hunt. Detail of a mosaic pavement from a house on the Hill of Juno, Carthage (Tunisia), early 3rd century AD. Tunis, Musée National du Bardo (photo: Sean Leatherbury/ Manar al-Athar, http://www.manar-al-athar.ox.ac.uk [accessed: 17/03/2020], detail).

Plate 2.6: The return from the boar hunt. Detail of a mosaic pavement from a house in the Dermech district of Carthage (Tunisia), early 4th century AD. Carthage, Musée National de Carthage (© akg-images/photo: Gilles Mermet).

Plate 2.7: The return from the boar hunt. Detail of the so-called ‘Small Hunt’ (Piccola Caccia) mosaic from the Villa romana del Casale at Piazza Armerina (Sicily), ca. AD 320 (photo: Neil Weightman/ Wikimedia Commons, license CC BY 2.0).

Plate 2.8: The return from the boar hunt. Detail of the so-called ‘Great Hunt’ (Grande Caccia) mosaic from the Villa romana del Casale at Piazza Armerina (Sicily), ca. AD 320 (photo: Sebi Arena, by kind permission).

Plate 3.1a: Viminacium. Wall painting of grave G-2624 (Documentation of the Institute of Archaeology, Belgrade).

Plate 3.1b: Portrait of the deceased lady from Viminacium grave G-2624 (Documentation of the Institute of Archaeology, Belgrade).

Plate 3.2: Viminacium. Wall painting of grave G-3130 (Documentation of the Institute of Archaeology, Belgrade) and its reconstruction (after Rogić 2018c, 188 fig. 23).

Plate 3.3: Viminacium. Wall painting of grave G-5464 (Documentation of the Institute of Archaeology, Belgrade).

Plate 3.4: Viminacium. Wall painting of grave G-160 (Documentation of the Institute of Archaeology, Belgrade) and its partial reconstruction (after Anđelković Grašar et al. 2013, 92 fig. 24).

Plate 3.5: Wall painting of the grave from Beška (after Đorđević 2007, 71).

Plate 3.6: Reconstruction of the wall painting of the grave from Čalma (after Đorđević 2007, 32).

Plate 3.7: Brestovik tomb and the reconstruction of its wall painting (after Nikolić et al. 2018, 209 fig. 6, 211 fig. 7).

Plate 3.8: Viminacium. Wall painting of grave G-5517 (Documentation of the Institute of Archaeology, Belgrade).

Plate 3.9: Wall painting of the ‘Tomb with an Anchor’ from Niš and its reconstruction (after Rakocija 2009, 90 fig. 6, 95 fig. 16, 103 fig. 27).

Plate 4.1: Watercolour view of the eastern side of the imperial cult chamber in Luxor, drawing by Sir John Gardner Wilkinson. Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS. Wilkinson dep. d. 34 (sketchbook 1852–1856), fols. 25v–26r (© National Trust Images. Courtesy of the Bodleian Library, Oxford).

Plate 4.2: The eastern section of the south wall of the imperial cult chamber in Luxor: detail of the audience scene. Fresco, ca. AD 300 (rectified orthomosaic by Owen Murray. Courtesy of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago).

Plate 4.3: Relief depicting two embracing emperors. Porphyry. Egypt, ca. AD 300. Venezia, Basilica di San Marco (photo: Fabio Guidetti).

Plate 4.4: The niche of the imperial cult chamber in Luxor: the cult images of the emperors. Fresco, ca. AD 300 (rectified orthomosaic by Owen Murray. Courtesy of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago).

Plate 4.5: The niche of the imperial cult chamber in Luxor: the eagle. Fresco, ca. AD 300 (rectified orthomosaic by Owen Murray. Courtesy of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago).

Plate 5.1: Pewter pilgrim flask (Walters Art Gallery, Baltimore, inv. 55.105. http://art.thewalters.org/ detail/34878/pilgrim-flask-of-saint-sergios [accessed 17/05/2020]).

Plate 5.2: Copper alloy jug (Metropolitan Museum, New York, Inv. No. 67.200.2, Rogers Fund 1967, https://images.metmuseum.org/CRDImages/md/original/sf67-200-2s1.jpg [accessed 24/03/2020]).

Plate 5.3: Clay figurine from Gerasa. Height 21.5 cm (Art Museum, Princeton NJ, Inv. No. 1939.453, https://artmuseum.princeton.edu/collections [accessed 01/07/2019]).

Plate 5.4: Ornamental band, wool, in the Katoen Natie textile collection, Antwerp (© The Phoebus Foundation, Antwerp. Photo Hugo Maertenss [KTN 656-02]).

Plate 6.1: Late antique Egyptian grave stele. Berlin, Staatliche Museen – Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Skulpturensammlung und Museum für Byzantinische Kunst, Museum für Byzantinische Kunst, inv. 3/59 (© Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Skulpturensammlung und Museum für Byzantinische Kunst, photo: M. Hilbich).

Plate 7.1: Interior of the baptismal chamber in the ‘house church’ at Dura Europos. New Haven, Yale University Art Gallery (Courtesy of Yale University Art Gallery, Dura Europos Collection).

Plate 7.2: Fragment of a gold-glass vessel base depicting a round edifice, perhaps a mausoleum or a baptistery. London, British Museum, Department of Britain, Europe and Prehistory, inv. 1854.0722.6 (© The Trustees of the British Museum).

Plate 7.3: Gold-glass vessel base depicting an orant couple flanked by a rock with two streams. Oxford, Ashmolean Museum, inv. AN 20017.26 (photo: D. Gowers, © Ashmolean Museum, University of Oxford).

Plate 7.4: Gold-glass vessel base depicting a family. London, British Museum, Department of Britain, Europe and Prehistory, inv. 1863,0727.7 (photo © The Trustees of the British Museum; drawing by Garrucci 1858, pl. 29.4).

Plate 7.5: Drawing of a gold-glass vessel base depicting St Peter and St Paul, with legend ‘Dignitas amicorum’ together with exhortations to drink and prosper. From the ‘paper museum’ of Cassiano dal Pozzo. Windsor Castle, Royal Library 9110 (photo: Royal Collection Trust/© Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 2019).

Plate 7.6: Drawing of a gold-glass vessel base depicting medallions with saints encircling Christ. From the ‘paper museum’ of Cassiano dal Pozzo. Windsor Castle, Royal Library 9117 (photo: Royal Collection Trust / © Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 2019).

Plate 12.1: Fresco from the so-called Largest Cave (Kizil Cave 60), Berlin, Museum für Asiatische Kunst Inv. III 8419a (© Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Museum für Asiatische Kunst/Jürgen Liepe).

Plate 12.2: Dancer in the vault of the apodyterium of Qusayr ʿAmra, in situ (photo: K. Meinecke).

Plate 12.3: Dancer in the vestibule of Qusayr ʿAmra, in situ (photo: K. Meinecke).

Plate 12.4: Sasanian ewer (Arthur M. Sackler Gallery, Smithsonian Institution, Washington D.C.: Gift of Arthur M. Sackler, S. 1987.117).

Plate 14.1: Network of early medieval routes in modern-day Tajikistan and adjacent regions and identification of regional cluster (in colour) with the help of the Newman-algorithm (AD 400–800) (data: Ciolek 1999–2012; map and network analysis: J. Preiser-Kapeller, 2019).

Plate 14.2: Regional clusters (green) identified in the 25 over-regional clusters (red) identified among nodes in the ORBIS-network model for the Roman Empire with the help of the Newman-algorithm (data: Scheidel et al. 2014; map and network analysis from Preiser-Kapeller 2019a).

Plate 14.3: 26 over-regional clusters identified among nodes in a route network model for imperial China with the help of the Newman-algorithm (map and network analysis from Preiser-Kapeller 2019a).

Chapter 8 ‘First-generation diptychs’ and the reception of Theodosian court art

Fabio Guidetti Among the varied products of late antique visual arts, ivory diptychs are particularly suitable for study from a combined geographical and chronological perspective.1 Thanks to the presence, on a great number of these objects, of inscriptions naming their commissioners, scholars have been able to link many of them to well-known historical figures, usually leading members of the late Roman elite: in this way, it has been possible to establish their date and place of production with a degree of accuracy mostly unattainable for other categories of late antique artworks. The production of ivory diptychs spans the period from the last decades of the 4th to the mid-6th century, a crucial time for the development of late antique visual culture, witnessing the shift from an ‘international style’,2 expression of a highly interconnected Mediterranean, to the (re-)emergence of local visual languages in conjunction with the political and cultural fragmentation of the post-Roman world. In the present chapter, I will focus on the so-called ‘first-generation diptychs’, i.e. those produced roughly between AD 380 and 410,3 a period when the high degree of Mediterranean interconnection is confirmed by the existence of a common visual language adopted by artists all over the Empire. Nonetheless, even in this time a number of regional varieties may be recognised. In the following pages I will focus on the different ways in which the empirewide Theodosian style was practiced in the Aegean area, where it first developed, and in Rome, where this new global aesthetic trend was embraced by local artists and interacted with a well-established local tradition. In the latest decades, ivory diptychs have been studied primarily as evidence to reconstruct some details of the evenemential history of late antique Rome, especially concerning the prosopography and political careers of its elite. By contrast, I will address them first and foremost as artworks, attesting to the geographical extent and chronological development of a shared visual culture. Therefore, I will combine the historical information available

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about the diptychs, their commissioners and recipients with some remarks based on the method of stylistic analysis.

Some definitions: ‘consular’ vs. ‘presentation’ diptychs The most famous sub-category of late Roman ivories is surely that commonly known as ‘consular diptychs’: these were produced in multiple copies and distributed by ordinary consuls to their fellow senators and other dignitaries of high rank, usually to celebrate their entry into office (on the category of ‘consular diptychs’ in general cf. Cameron 2013; 2015). Their distribution was regulated by a special sumptuary law, preserved in the Codex Theodosianus, prescribing that ‘apart from ordinary consuls, absolutely no one else shall be allowed to make a distribution of gold coins or diptychs of ivory. When public offices are being celebrated, the donation will be made of silver coins, the diptychs of a different material’.4 This law was issued on 25 July 384 in the name of all three ruling emperors (Valentinian II, Theodosius and Arcadius) and addressed ad Senatum. Senators were indeed the patrons mostly responsible for the production and distribution of ivory diptychs to celebrate the accession to public offices. Most probably however, as Alan Cameron pointed out (Cameron 1982), the Senatus to which the law was addressed was that of Constantinople, since in Rome public officials below the rank of consul continued to commission such objects well after 384: the letters of the great orator Quintus Aurelius Symmachus attest that ivory diptychs were distributed on the occasion of his son’s quaestorian games in 393 (Symm. ep. 2.81 and 8.76; cf. also 5.56 and 9.119, without explicit indication of the material). Moreover, several ivories which can be attributed, mainly on stylistic grounds, to a date later than 384 were undoubtedly commissioned by non-consular patrons, e.g. by an unknown priest of the imperial cult around AD 390 (V58) or by Rufius Probianus, vicarius of the praetorian prefect of Italy, around AD 400 (V62).5 Consular diptychs are in any case extremely useful for dating purposes, since they are very often inscribed with the name of the consul who commissioned them: by checking in the fasti consulares the year of each patron’s consulate, scholars have been able to determine the exact date when these ivories were produced and officially distributed. The diptych of Anicius Petronius Probus (V1), consul in AD 406, is commonly considered the earliest surviving consular diptych (Fig. 8.1) (Aosta, Museo del Tesoro della Cattedrale, inv. BM 10517; cf. most recently Cameron 2007; Cracco Ruggini 2008; Lejdegård 2014; Cameron 2017, 310).6 This, however, is debatable. Although commissioned by a consul, the ivory panels feature none of the standard iconographic elements of later consular diptychs, such as the depiction of the consul himself, or scenes from the games in the circus or the amphitheatre. Here, on the contrary, each leaf is entirely occupied by a full-length portrait of the emperor Honorius in military dress, carrying the imperial banner (labarum) and the insignia of sovereignty (the globe supporting a Victory and the long sceptre). But the main evidence that this ivory does not belong to the category of ‘consular diptychs’, as defined by the law of

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Fig. 8.1: Diptych of Anicius Petronius Probus (V1). Ivory. Rome, AD 406. Aosta, Museo del Tesoro della Cattedrale, inv. BM 10517 (© Archivi dell’Assessorato al Turismo, Sport, Commercio, Agricoltura e Beni Culturali della Regione Autonoma Valle d’Aosta. Photo: Paolo Robino. Courtesy of the Regione Autonoma Valle d’Aosta).

384 quoted above, is provided by its inscription, which (as Peter Brown recognised) unambiguously identifies the diptych as a gift presented by Probus to the emperor himself.7 This object, in other words, was not meant to be distributed in multiple copies among Probus’ peers to celebrate his consulate, but was a unique piece donated by him to the emperor, probably (given the insistence on military imagery) to celebrate

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the victory of the imperial army, earlier in the same year 406, against the Goths led by Radagaisus (Cameron 2007; 2017, 310). The fact that its commissioner happened to be consul at that moment is not enough, in my opinion, to consider this ivory a consular diptych, i.e. to include it in a category of objects made with a different purpose and for a different audience. In general, one of the main difficulties in studying these ‘first-generation diptychs’ seems to be precisely the fact that they do not fit easily into the more or less clear iconographic categories which characterise later ivories: rather, their images reflect the intense competition within the Roman senatorial elite of the late 4th and early 5th century, which allowed different patrons to express their social and political claims by means of different self-representational choices. Indeed, the subject matter which was deemed appropriate by the patrons of these ‘first-generation diptychs’ was so varied that scholars have rightly called into question the usefulness of a classification based on their iconography. The late Alan Cameron even denied the very existence of the traditional category of ‘consular diptychs’ as an identifiable group of artworks: in his opinion, ‘“[c]onsular diptych” is a misleading modern categorization. There were just presentation diptychs, with no fixed or “suitable” iconography, adaptable to a variety of occasions and purposes, public and private indifferently’ (Cameron 2017, 310). Cameron’s caveat is useful if we limit our scope to these ‘first-generation diptychs’, precisely because of the remarkable variety of their iconographies. But this statement also calls for extra reflection: that the iconography of these diptychs was ‘adaptable to a variety of occasions and purposes’ is surely true, but does not mean that these occasions and purposes cannot be identified and differentiated. Although these artworks were undoubtedly ‘presentation diptychs’, inasmuch they were presented to a recipient in a more or less formalised context, this act did not always have the same significance: the distribution of gifts to celebrate a family event (e.g. a wedding), a valuable offering to an emperor or another powerful person, and the official distribution of diptychs by the consul during the celebration of games were different social rituals, each with its own rules and its own level of formalisation. For this reason, I do believe that the category of ‘consular diptychs’ can still be helpful if employed to identify those diptychs which were produced for, and distributed during, a donation ceremony performed by an acting consul in an institutional context – i.e. precisely that kind of ceremony which was regulated by the sumptuary law of 384. Once defined in this way, the category of ‘consular diptychs’ is determined only by the function of these objects and the circumstances of their distribution, as far as they can be known to us: and Cameron was surely right in warning that the iconography of a diptych, especially a ‘first-generation diptych’, does not necessarily help in defining the circumstances of its presentation. From this point of view, inscriptions are much more reliable. As a telling example of this difficulty, Cameron mentions the diptych commissioned by Flavius Constantius (V34), magister utriusque militiae of the Western Empire, on the occasion of his second consulate in AD 417.8 Although its inscription undoubtedly identifies this ivory as a consular diptych,9 the iconography of its only

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known fragment (a Muse holding a scroll, accompanied by a putto carrying a palm leaf), centred on the aristocratic ideal of classical literary culture, diverges considerably from the ceremonial imagery displayed on most specimens of this category. The relation between image and inscription is more straightforward in the case of the diptych of Probus: its iconography is centred on imperial representation, and its inscription confirms that this is not a ‘consular diptych’ (according to the definition stated above), but rather a precious gift for the emperor. On the other hand, however, it is undeniable that the considerable iconographic variety noted by Cameron is a distinctive feature of these ‘first-generation diptychs’: in later periods, a tendency towards standardisation is clearly recognisable. The diptych commissioned by Anicius Auchenius Bassus, consul in AD 408,10 depicting the patron in full magistrate’s dress, with toga picta, calcei patricii and sceptre, is the earliest known example of an iconography peculiar to the category of ‘consular diptychs’, which will become increasingly standardised in the following decades.

The earliest urban diptychs and Valentinianic visual culture The diptych of Probus has been traditionally considered the earliest surely datable late Roman ivory, thanks to its connection to the consul of 406. However, some other diptychs, even if they provide no explicit link to a consular patron, can be safely attributed to the last decades of the 4th century. The earliest ivory datable with a reasonable degree of certainty is the surviving right half of a diptych now in the British Museum, known as the consecratio panel (V56) (Fig. 8.2).11 Based on the simultaneous presence of the monogram of the Symmachi family12 and an iconography referring to the traditional imagery of imperial consecratio (i.e. the official proclamation of a deceased emperor’s divine status, decreed by the Senate),13 Lellia Cracco Ruggini convincingly showed that this ivory commemorates the consecratio of the deceased magister militum Flavius Theodosius (emperor Theodosius’ father), decreed by the Senate of Rome when Quintus Aurelius Symmachus was urban prefect (Cracco Ruggini 1977).14 Far from being just the reiteration of an old-fashioned pagan ritual, this proclamation was an extremely important political move: with it, the Roman senators gave official sanction to the legitimacy of the Theodosian dynasty, thus securing the concord between the Senate and the imperial courts in Milan and Constantinople, as well as validating Theodosius’ role as the defender of the young senior Augustus Valentinian II. Thanks to Symmachus’ preserved letters announcing the decree of the Senate to the emperors (Symm. rel. 9 and 43, addressed respectively to Theodosius and Arcadius, and to Valentinian), we know that this ceremony took place in the summer of 384. While the monogram allows us to interpret the ivory as a commission of the Symmachi family, unfortunately we have no reliable information as to its recipient or the occasion of its presentation. On the one hand, its distinctively imperial iconography, which finds its best parallel in the diptych of Probus, may justify the hypothesis that the consecratio ivory too was a gift to one of the emperors. If this is the case, its function may have been to remind

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Fig. 8.2: Consecratio panel (V56). Ivory. Rome, AD 384. London, British Museum, Department of Britain, Europe and Prehistory, acc. no. 1857,1013.1 (© The Trustees of the British Museum).

the recipient of the Symmachi’s role in obtaining the consecratio decree from the Senate. On the other hand, the mention of the Symmachi as a family contrasts with Probus’ focus on himself as individual donor, and seems rather to place the ivory within the traditional dynamics of senatorial self-representation, which treated the achievements of individual senators as elements of one social and political discourse, centred on the celebration of the family as a whole, rather than of any of its members. 15 If this is the case, multiple specimens of the consecratio diptych would have been distributed by Symmachus among his senatorial peers, to remind them of the particularly good connections with the imperial courts enjoyed by his family. I plan to return at length in a dedicated paper on this problem, as well as on the general interpretation of the consecratio ivory in its historical context. Here I focus only on some of its stylistic features, which in my opinion provide us with an exceptional opportunity to explore the visual culture of the senatorial elite of Rome in the mid-380s. The style of the consecratio panel was very well described by Ernst Kitzinger, who, looking at it from the perspective of a medieval art historian, saw in this ivory ‘an almost deliberate protest’ against formal beauty and naturalism, and a ‘positive intention’ (clearly an English rendering of Alois Riegl’s Kunstwollen) with a strong anti-classical character (Kitzinger 1940, 13–16). Such a stylistic language is rooted

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in the visual culture of the Valentinianic age (AD 364–388), during which the idealised classicism of the late Constantinian period was replaced by new, more concrete aesthetics. Valentinianic art is full of figures with stocky proportions and deeply concentrated facial expressions; it is permeated by a vibrant internal tension and a lively sense of movement, and shows remarkable interest in the coherent rendering of volumes in space.16 All these features are duly found in the many figures which crowd the consecratio panel. The protagonist’s head has rather squarish proportions, with large neck, nose and ears; the undulating line of the eyebrows forms two symmetrical arches, demarcating a broad and flat forehead Fig. 8.3: Consecratio panel (V56): detail of one marked by parallel wrinkles. In general, of the two winds carrying the soul of Divus all the figures in the ivory display exag- Theodosius to the Milky Way. Ivory. Rome, AD geratedly large heads and rather short 384. London, British Museum, Department of Britain, Europe and Prehistory, acc. no. 1857,1013.1 arms, looking at once frozen and ges(© The Trustees of the British Museum [detail]). ticulating, in rigid yet lively movements (Fig. 8.3).17 All these features support a stylistic dating of the panel to the Valentinianic period, surely before the Theodosian classicising turn of the late 380s. An uninscribed diptych depicting a lion hunt show in the amphitheatre (V60), now in the Hermitage Museum in St Petersburg (Fig. 8.4), shares the main stylistic features of the consecratio panel.18 Special significance should be attributed to the outer astragal border with elongated pearls and disc-shaped fusaroles. This moulding can be considered a sign of a rather early date: in the whole corpus of late Roman ivory diptychs, it appears again only in the consecratio panel and the diptych of Probus, disappearing completely after the early years of the 5th century. If we expand our search to other categories of late Roman ivories, we find a similar moulding in a small open-work panel depicting Bellerophon fighting the Chimaera (V67), probably pertaining to the decoration of a casket and datable to the mid-4th century;19 and, as external frame, in three fragments of a ‘five-part diptych’ (V112–114), probably belonging to the cover of a Gospel book, decorated with scenes from the life of Christ and ascribed to a Roman workshop of the early 5th century.20 The consecratio panel and the Hermitage lion hunt diptych share also the same way of depicting the human figures, which show similarly bulky proportions, with big heads and short arms, and are characterised by the same rigid movements (Figs 8.3 and 8.5). Their faces, too, look remarkably similar: particularly noteworthy

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Fig. 8.4: Diptych with depiction of a lion hunt (V60). Ivory. Rome, ca. AD 380–390. Sankt-Peterburg, Gosudarstvennyj Ermitaž, Collection of Oriental Art – Byzantium, inv. W-10 (© The State Hermitage Museum. Photo: Vladimir Terebenin).

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are the exaggeratedly fleshy lips of the beardless figures, which, together with the deep naso-labial lines isolating the upper lip from the cheeks, almost give the viewer the impression of a moustache. These stylistic hallmarks, in my opinion, closely link the Hermitage lion hunt diptych to the consecratio panel, encouraging us to consider these two pieces as representative of elite visual culture in the city of Rome during the mid-380s.

The Theodosian style, from the East to Italy The lively, stocky characters of the consecratio panel and the Hermitage lion hunt Fig. 8.5: Diptych with depiction of a lion hunt (V60): detail with a monomachy between a diptych are in sharp contrast to the slenhunter and a lion. Ivory. Rome, ca. AD 380–390. der and elongated figures which became Sankt-Peterburg, Gosudarstvennyj Ermitaž, a dominant feature of the classicistic Collection of Oriental Art – Byzantium, inv. no. revival taking place only a few years later.21 W-10 (© The State Hermitage Museum. Photo: Theodosian classicism has an official date Vladimir Terebenin [detail]). of birth: namely Theodosius’ decennalia, the celebration of the 10th anniversary of his appointment as emperor. This is the date of the earliest extant document of the new style, namely the famous ceremonial silver dish now in Madrid (see Fig. 4.4 in this volume): its inscription, with Theodosius’ name in the nominative case, allows us to identify this object as a gift bestowed by the emperor himself to a high-ranking official on the very day of the anniversary, 19 January 388.22 It is not implausible that, in preparation to this important occasion, a new official image of the emperor was produced, which immediately became widespread and gave origin to a new stylistic trend.23 This is further confirmed by the fact that the earliest securely datable artworks created in this new language were produced in the Eastern part of the Empire, where Theodosius was residing in that period. Moreover, some characteristic features of the new style are firmly rooted in the visual culture of the Aegean area, particularly of Asia Minor. During the early and middle imperial periods, artists active in this region had continued to elaborate upon its illustrious artistic tradition, developing an approach to Hellenistic models which can be defined as mannerist. Their style was characterised by a remarkable attention to the polishing of the surface, the search for theatrical effects in the postures of the figures, the idealisation of bodily and facial features: all of which are found in late 4th-century classicising works.24 If we accept that Theodosius donated the Madrid silver dish to one of his officials on the day of his

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decennalia (as stated in the inscription), then this ceremony must have taken place in Thessalonica, where the emperor was residing at that point (Seeck 1919, 273). As the seat of a mint, Thessalonica had important reserves of precious metal and craftsmen capable of working with it; the presence of a Greek inscription on the base of the dish, attesting its weight, confirms its production in a Greek-speaking context,25 while the artistic achievements of the silversmiths from this city are sufficiently illustrated by the famous ‘Achilles plate’ found in Kaiseraugst (Switzerland), dated to the mid-4th century and signed by a certain Pausylypos of Thessalonica (Augst, Römermuseum, inv. 1962.1; see von Gonzenbach 1984; Guggisberg 2003). Soon after Theodosius’ decennalia, the new style was employed for some major public monuments commissioned by the leading government officials of the Roman East: namely, the portrait statues of the emperors Valentinian, Theodosius, Arcadius, and Honorius dedicated by Flavius Eutolmius Tatianus, the praetorian prefect of the East, in the city of Aphrodisias between 388 and 390; and the sculpted base of the obelisk erected in the circus of Constantinople by Tatianus’ son, the urban prefect Proculus, between 388 and 392 (Guidetti forthcoming, with references to earlier literature). The new Theodosian style appropriates the heritage of Constantinian classicism, but it does so from a quite different aesthetic background, consequence of a specific choice of models: Hellenistic and Asian, rather than neo-Attic. The lively anti-classical elements which animated the art of the Valentinianic period have now disappeared: Theodosian figures become slenderer, harmonious, and motionless. The portrait of Theodosius on the Madrid silver dish offers an exemplary illustration of the new visual language (Fig. 8.6): the head, with a perfect oval shape and elegant facial features, is as refined as it is superhumanly inexpressive. As is usually the case with ancient sculpture, the idealisation is particularly evident in the upper part of the face. The forehead, completely free from wrinkles, is rendered geometrically as a smooth semi-cylindrical surface, delimited by the two regular arches of the fringe and the eyebrows, and joining seamlessly with the perfectly straight nose; the staring gaze of the big almond-shaped eyes entails no contraction of the facial muscles. This Fig. 8.6: Ceremonial plate celebrating emperor geometrisation of the upper part of the Theodosius’ decennalia: detail with the portrait face contrasts with the elaborate model- of Theodosius. Silver. Thessalonica, AD 388. ling of the lower part, whose fleshier and Madrid, Real Academia de la Historia, inv. 176 delicately carved surfaces give a certain (© Real Academia de la Historia, España).

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animation to the smooth cheeks, the lively mouth, and the small protruding chin. This peculiar facial structure, ultimately derived from Greek models of the Classical and (especially) Hellenistic period, directly links the Theodosian style to the visual language commonly employed by Roman artists for mythological depictions – in particular to the well-established tradition of mythological sculpture which had been flourishing in Asia Minor during the early and middle imperial periods, characterised by an especially close relation with the local Hellenistic models. The prestige of imperial patronage, and the immediate and keen appropriation by leading members of the Eastern elite, allowed this new style to spread very quickly, reaching soon the main artistic centres of the Empire, including Italy. Its diffusion in the city of Rome is documented by two fragmentary imperial portraits, exemplary of the new Theodosian aesthetics, now preserved in Berlin.26 Although found in Rome, both seem to be made of Proconnesian marble (at least from a naked-eye examination): therefore, it is very likely that they were produced by an Eastern workshop and then imported to Rome, either as an imperial gift or as the commission of a private patron who wanted to show himself up-to-date with respect to the new style of imperial self-representation. An early document of the (partial) adoption of the new Theodosian style by a senatorial patron is provided by a fragmentary diptych now in Paris (V58), depicting an anonymous official presiding over amphitheatrical games, featuring a bear hunt and a show of trained bears (Fig. 8.7).27 The man wears a crown decorated with four busts, which identifies him as a pagan priest, most probably of the imperial cult:28 even if the extent of the actual implementation of late antique laws is notoriously debated, it seems to me quite difficult that the religious ceremony depicted in the diptych could be advertised with such overtly pagan imagery after the official prohibition of the public rituals of the traditional religion, issued by Theodosius in AD 391 (Cod. Theod. 16.10.10–12).29 The early date of this ivory is confirmed also by its stylistic inconsistencies. The highly idealised portrait of the protagonist, displaying all the features of the new Theodosian style, is somewhat artificially inserted into a scene still deeply indebted to the visual language of the Valentinianic period. The human bodies are remarkably large and with rather stocky proportions; the scenes from the games (the single combat between a hunter and a bear, as well as the trained bears dancing over the celestial sphere or performing agility numbers with ribbons), although lively and animated, look just as frozen as the figures on the consecratio panel. The impression is that the carver carefully imitated the new kind of portrait recently developed at the imperial court, but without fully understanding the aesthetics on which it was based: he just inserted it, as a new and independent iconographic formula, into a scene still executed according to the style of the Valentinianic period. To find a specimen of purely Theodosian art in late 4th-century Italy, we have to look away from Rome. The famous diptych of Stilicho (V63), produced probably in AD 396 and now preserved in the cathedral treasury in Monza, contains a family portrait of the magister utriusque militiae of Honorius, his wife Serena, and their son Eucherius

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Fig. 8.7: Fragmentary diptych issued by a priest of the imperial cult (V58). Ivory. Rome, ca. AD 390. Paris, Musée du Louvre, Département des Objets d’art, inv. OA 9062 (© Réunion des Musées Nationaux – Grand Palais (Musée du Louvre). Photo: Jean-Gilles Berizzi).

(Fig. 8.8).30 The perfectly balanced composition, the noble and calm attitudes of the figures, the refined elegance of their slender proportions, their rich draperies rendered as a detailed network of soft folds – all these stylistic features concur to place this diptych among the distinctive products of Theodosian court art. The faces of the three protagonists show the same balance between geometrisation (in the upper part) and delicate modelling (in the lower part) which characterises the portraits produced in Constantinople and Asia Minor. At the same time, the artificial elongation of some details (for example the fingers of Stilicho’s and Serena’s right hands) offers a good specimen of the mannerist stylistic trend of the late 4th and early 5th century, which developed into what Hans Peter L’Orange called the subtiler Stil (L’Orange 1961). Given Stilicho’s pre-eminent political role, we can take this diptych as a good illustration

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Fig. 8.8: Diptych of Stilicho (V63). Ivory. Milan, AD 396. Monza, Museo e Tesoro del Duomo, inv. 6 (© Museo e Tesoro del Duomo. Photo: Piero Pozzi).

of the dominant taste at the imperial court in Milan, where the new stylistic trends coming from the East had been scrupulously adopted and followed. By contrast, the stress on family celebration, rather than on Stilicho’s personal achievements, shows the adoption, by the magister militum, of a mode of self-representation typical of the urban senatorial elite – especially if, as Alan Cameron suggested, the diptych actually advertised not Stilicho’s own political and military achievements, but rather the bestowing of an honorary rank in the civil service to his young son Eucherius. Whereas the depiction of younger male descendants is quite common in such family

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celebrations, the importance given to a woman within the composition of the diptych is wholly exceptional: Serena, however, was the emperor’s cousin, and Stilicho knew very well that the political legitimation of his family derived not only from his own personal qualities, but also from having married a member of the imperial family.

Theodosian ivories from Rome: a local variant of an empire-wide language By the end of the 4th century, classicism was the dominant trend in the city of Rome too – but here it was based on partially different premises than the version in fashion at the imperial courts of Constantinople and Milan. The new Theodosian style was just one among several influences which shaped urban visual culture around the turn of the century. Since Roman senatorial families continued to commission artworks for mostly local consumption, the city of Rome experienced an independent artistic development, which, although partaking in the new trend, did not lose its local specificity. This does not mean, of course, that the artists working in Rome were not touched by the influence of Eastern court art: this traditional idea has been rightly disproved by Alan Cameron, who rightly proposed to interpret the spread of classicising tendencies as the consequence of the movement of portable objects, including (but by no means limited to) ivories.31 Again, the diptych of Probus (Fig.  8.1) has pride of place in this discussion. As stated above, although commissioned by the consul of AD 406, this ivory should not be interpreted as a consular diptych to be distributed in multiple copies among peers, but rather as a unique piece donated to Honorius, probably to celebrate the victory against the Goths which restored the security of Italy and the city of Rome. Even if the gift was delivered to its recipient in Ravenna, the ivory was in all probability commissioned and produced in Rome, where its patron resided. Several stylistic choices attest to a close link between this diptych and the earlier urban ivories examined above. One obvious element of continuity is provided by the employ of the same outer astragal moulding, with elongated pearls and disc-shaped fusaroles, which we already found on the consecratio panel and the Hermitage lion hunt diptych. The distance from contemporary court art is made clear by a comparison of how the human figures are rendered: the artist who carved the diptych of Probus preferred to give his double portrait of Honorius the traditional square-built proportions which had been typical of the Valentinianic style, rather than adopting the elongated mannerism of the more recent diptych of Stilicho. Only the emperor’s face (Fig. 8.9) looks fully updated to the new features of Theodosian art, probably as a consequence of its more direct imitation of official portraits produced at court. Another example of urban visual culture around AD 400 is provided by the fragmentary diptych of the Lampadii (V54), produced in all probability to celebrate the suffect consulship of a younger member of this family (Fig. 8.10) (Brescia, Museo di Santa Giulia, inv. MR 5770; Cameron 1998, 400–401; 2013, 182–187; 2017, 306–311; Christ 2015, 185–188). The family portrait in the upper part of the panel (Fig. 8.11) is particularly

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Fig. 8.9: Diptych of Anicius Petronius Probus (V1): detail with the portrait of emperor Honorius. Ivory. Rome, AD 406. Aosta, Museo del Tesoro della Cattedrale, inv. BM 10517 (© Archivi dell’Assessorato al Turismo, Sport, Commercio, Agricoltura e Beni Culturali della Regione Autonoma Valle d’Aosta. Photo: Paolo Robino. Courtesy of the Regione Autonoma Valle d’Aosta [detail]).

interesting as a peculiar mix of new fashion trends and more traditional features. The short beard, moustache and hairstyle of the two younger characters are up-to-date with respect to the most recent trends of Theodosian court fashion: for example, they are similar to those sported by the young Honorius on the diptych of Probus. On the

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contrary, the older age of the man on the right (probably the father of the other two) is expressed through his full beard and characteristic hairline, mildly receding on the temples, which look like those depicted twenty-five years earlier in the portrait of the magister militum Flavius Theodosius on the consecratio panel (Fig. 8.2).32 This mixture of different trends is not limited to fashion, but extends to style as well: the portraits of the Lampadii show some features typical of the new Theodosian language, such as the geometrisation of the heads and the preference for smooth inarticulate surfaces, but their skull is essentially cubic, not rounded – an element of continuity with the previous local tradition, which appears not to have been influenced by the ovalshaped portraits of contemporary court art. A comparison between the racing chariots of the Lampadii panel and the quadriga on top of the funeral pyre in the consecratio ivory also highlights the tension between elements of the traditional urban visual language and the reception of Theodosian novelties. The prancing horses of the consecratio ivory are carved in high relief with a remarkable three-dimensional effect, while their heads are depicted individually in a variety of lively movements. By contrast, the quadrigae of the Lampadii panel are rendered almost graphically, Fig. 8.10: Diptych of the Lampadii (V54). Ivory. Rome, in low relief, with no interest in their ca. AD 400. Brescia, Museo di Santa Giulia, inv. MR plastic development; all four horses look 5770 (© Archivio fotografico dei Civici Musei di the same, as the simple iteration of one Brescia – Fotostudio Rapuzzi). model. On the other hand, the proportions of both the horses and the charioteers seem not to have been affected by the new Theodosian style, and show the same compact and stocky structure found in the consecratio ivory and in general in the art of the city of Rome in the previous decades. This mix of styles is not restricted to secular

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Fig. 8.11: Diptych of the Lampadii (V54): detail with the portraits of the patrons. Ivory. Rome, ca. AD 400. Brescia, Museo di Santa Giulia, inv. MR 5770 (© Archivio fotografico dei Civici Musei di Brescia – Fotostudio Rapuzzi [detail]).

objects: the same tension between stocky proportions and rigid movements, typical of Valentinianic visual culture, and the smooth classicising faces of the Theodosian style characterises the three fragments of a book cover decorated with scenes from the life of Christ (V112–114), which (as said above) also share the same decorative pattern with at least three of the ‘first-generation diptychs’ (cf. above, note 20). Comparable features are found in several, roughly contemporary artworks, e.g. in the diptych commissioned by Rufius Probianus (V62), vicarius of the praetorian prefect for the city of Rome, now preserved in Berlin.33 Here, the highly geometrised faces, the soft rendering of the draperies, and the harmonious perspective of the architectural setting attest to the reception of some essential elements of the new Theodosian style. This is also confirmed by a detail of fashion: Probianus has the same hairstyle as the two younger Lampadii, although he sports a full beard and not a moustache. On the other hand, the carver shows a clear preference for less elongated proportions and lively gestures, such as those of the litigants in the foreground – two features which set him in full continuity with earlier urban tradition. The famous diptych of the Nicomachi and Symmachi (V55), commissioned around AD 400 to celebrate the alliance between these two leading families of the senatorial aristocracy and now divided between Paris and

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London, shows the same combination of different influences (Fig. 8.12).34 In this case, the balance between local tradition and international style seems to shift more towards the latter, at least at first sight. As a matter of fact, the refined classicism, the detailed treatment of the soft draperies, and even some mannerist details such as the artificially elongated fingers of the female figures are reminiscent of the diptych of Stilicho and clearly attest to the carver’s engagement with the inputs of court art. On the other hand, the proportions point to a closer relation with properly classicising models, well-established in the visual culture of the city of Rome since the Augustan period, rather than with the new fashion coming from the Eastern provinces of the Empire. In a third example, the diptych of Asclepius and Hygiea now in Liverpool (V57), the figures have similar proportions, although the rendering of the draperies is now difficult to appreciate due to the bad wearing of the surface (Fig. 8.13).35 In this case, the choice of classicising models is brought to its extreme consequences: the diptych does not depict the two gods, but rather statues of them (as is suggested by the presence of pedestals), belonging to recognisable statuary types taken from the repertoire of Classical and Fig. 8.12: Right leaf of the diptych of the Nicomachi Hellenistic Greek sculpture. There is, however, a significant detail and Symmachi (V55). Ivory. Rome, ca. AD 400. London, Victoria and Albert Museum, inv. 212-1865 linking all these diptychs to one another, (© Victoria and Albert Museum). as well as to further ivories produced in Rome in the late 4th and early 5th centuries: their ornamentation. I have already noted the presence of the same astragal moulding of pearls and fusaroles in the external frames of the consecratio panel (Figs 8.2–8.3), the Hermitage lion hunt diptych (Figs  8.4–8.5), the diptych of Probus (Figs  8.1 and 8.9), and the fragments with scenes from the life of Christ (V112–114). In addition, in this latter ivory the individual scenes are framed by an egg-and-dart moulding, which

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Fig. 8.13: Diptych with depiction of statues of Asclepius and Hygiea (V57). Ivory. Rome, ca. AD 400. Liverpool, World Museum, Collection of British and European antiquities, inv. M10044 (© National Museums Liverpool, World Museum).

appears again in the cornice over the heads of the three Lampadii (Figs 8.10–8.11), as well as in the pedestals of the two statues in the diptych of Asclepius and Hygiea (Fig. 8.13).36 On the background of the Liverpool diptych are four pillars whose crowning is decorated with a ribbon motif, which is found, in a more or less simplified version, in the cornices of the arches framing the two images of Honorius on the diptych of Probus (Figs 8.1 and 8.9), as well as in that of the architectural space surrounding the figure of Probianus in

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both halves of his diptych. Finally, the external frame of the latter diptych is decorated with a sequence of alternating palmettes and lotus flowers which is found, absolutely identical, in the frame of the Nicomachi and Symmachi diptych (Fig. 8.12), as well as in the cornice of the door of the Holy Sepulchre in a panel depicting the Resurrection now preserved in Milan (V111).37 In other words, all these ivories are closely linked to one another not only by a stylistic similarity, namely the peculiar balance between the novelties of Theodosian court art and the tradition of urban visual culture, but also by more technical details such as the use of the same ornamentation elements. It is very significant, in my opinion, that none of these geometrical or vegetal motifs appears in the diptych of Stilicho or in later diptychs attributable (with more or less certainty) to Eastern workshops: these elements, in other words, belong to a repertoire of decorative motifs characteristic of the urban workshops between the late 4th and early 5th century, receptive of the new stylistic inputs and capable of integrating them into the illustrious tradition of urban visual culture.

Conclusion: international style and local variants The analysis of a group of ivories produced in Rome between the last decades of the 4th and the early years of the 5th century prompts some observations about the aesthetic choices of the urban elite in this key moment in the development of late antique art. In this period, for the first time after centuries of cultural preeminence, the city of Rome is confronted with stimuli coming from elsewhere in the Mediterranean world – in this case, a new trend originating at the Eastern imperial court. The spread of the new style invented by Theodosius’ court artists is not just another episode in those cyclical waves of classicism which marked Roman art from the late Republican period onwards. Previous Roman classicising waves (e.g. in the Augustan, Hadrianic, or Constantinian periods) based their aesthetics on the appropriation of ancient and venerable models, those produced by Athenian artists of the 5th and 4th century BC. By contrast, Theodosian classicism draws on contemporary visual culture of the Aegean region: the new style was developed by artists trained in the tradition of Asian art, who were specialised in the production of mythological images, had a keen interest in theatricality and the polishing of surfaces, and were used to working on models ultimately derived from the Hellenistic tradition, especially neo-Attic and Pergamene sculpture. The success of this new aesthetics was propelled by its adoption as the official style of the Eastern imperial court. This led not only to the erection of public monuments in this style in Constantinople, Aphrodisias and other cities of the East, but also to the production of portable objects, which were then sent or brought to other parts of the Empire as imperial gifts or private commissions. The Madrid silver dish is just one example, as are the two imperial portraits now in Berlin, found in Rome but probably imported from the East. Imperial patronage, of course, gave this new style a prestigious position, and using it enabled patrons to express their closeness

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or allegiance to the court: this is the case, for example, of the diptych of Stilicho, in which the official court style is appropriated to express the patron’s proximity to the imperial family. In Rome, however, the reception of the new style was more complex. On the one hand, the portrait of a priest of the imperial cult, in the fragmentary diptych now preserved in Paris, attests to a rather precocious adoption (no later than AD 391) of at least some elements of the Theodosian style. But, as we have seen, the newly fashioned portrait was inserted within a scene otherwise fully displaying the stocky and anti-classical visual language of the Valentinianic period: in other words, the Theodosian portrait was employed as an isolated formula within a context which was still traditional, and did not imply the understanding of the new style on a deeper level. The appropriation of iconographic and stylistic features of imperial portraiture by members of the elite for their own self-representation is by no means uncommon in Roman art: German scholarship has created the concept of Zeitgesicht to identify the phenomenon by which depictions of private individuals adapt even their facial features to the dominant trends of imperial portraiture. What happened in the Theodosian period, however, was unprecedented: for the first time, the new fashion of imperial portraits had been elaborated within a different artistic tradition than the urban one – a tradition rooted in the visual language of Constantinople. What was previously the normal habit in provincial contexts, namely adapting the global language of imperial art to the various local traditions,38 begins in this period to be done in Rome as well, by the numerous artists residing there and by the patrons of the senatorial elite. Only later, in a group of ivories produced around AD 400, do we find a successful compromise between the new stylistic trend and the instances of the traditional urban visual language. This adaptation gave birth to a peculiar local variant of the Theodosian ‘international style’. On the one hand, urban artists appropriated the new taste for the geometrisation of volumes and the smoothly polished surfaces, reducing their interest in plasticity and the rendering of three-dimensional space. On the other hand, they did not accept the extreme consequences of the new aesthetics: the perfect oval heads and elongated proportions of Theodosian court art did not find their way into the visual language of urban artists, who preferred to continue with the solider, squarish figures of their local tradition. This phenomenon was possible because urban artists did finally abandon the anti-classical Valentinianic language to embrace the new instances of Theodosian art, and created their own version of this classical revival by looking to different models than those used by their Eastern colleagues. One would search in vain for the elongated proportions and boneless faces typical of Theodosian art in the female figures on the diptych of the Nicomachi and Symmachi. Late 4th-century classicism in Rome did not depend on the Hellenistic tradition of the Aegean region, but rather continued to draw on the illustrious models of the Augustan and Hadrianic urban classicism. This new reconstruction of the artistic developments in Rome and Constantinople in the Theodosian period has, in my opinion, important consequences on the long-standing debate about late 4th-century classicism, which started more than thirty

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years ago with Alan Cameron’s seminal article on ‘pagan’ ivories (Cameron 1986). Up to that moment, the dominant interpretation had seen this artistic phenomenon as the consequence of primarily religious choices: according to the traditional view, the classicising language of late 4th- and early 5th-century Roman art was consciously sponsored by pagan aristocrats as part of what Ernst Kitzinger called a ‘last heroic effort at a pagan revival’, an ‘amply documented Kulturkampf which was carried out on many fronts’ (Kitzinger 1977, 34). Classicism was seen as a way to ‘resuscitate the past’ also from a formal, aesthetic perspective: in Kitzinger’s words, these artworks could be interpreted as ‘exercises in nostalgia undertaken in the service of a very specific cause’ (Kitzinger 1977, 34). Cameron devoted much scholarly effort to question the very existence of this alleged ‘pagan revival’, and more generally the importance of religion in the shaping of late antique elite identity (Cameron 2011). In fact, the stylistic analysis of the so-called ‘first-generation diptychs’ which I carried out in these pages seems to add further strength to his point: far from substantiating the idea of a polemical reaction to imperial policies by some parts of the Roman Senate, the classicising style of late 4th-century urban ivories shows that patrons and artists in Rome were fully receptive of the stimuli coming from Constantinople, accepting the innovations produced at the imperial court and adapting them to their own traditions and local aesthetic horizon. In conclusion, I have argued that the stylistic analysis of this category of artworks shows both the need and the potential of a geography-based approach to late antique visual culture. In this paper, I employed this approach to highlight the new role taken by the city of Rome in the context of Theodosian art: after five centuries during which Rome had been the main centre of artistic production in the Mediterranean world, the city starts now to become just one among several artistic centres. Although still important, Rome no longer exerts its influence all over the Empire, but is able to receive external influences and integrate them into its own peculiar tradition, producing artworks destined primarily for local consumption by the urban elite. In turn, the visual culture of Rome continues to influence a smaller geographical area, including at least the dioceses of Africa and Italy: ivories produced in Rome are attested in the African provinces, where (for example) the iconography of the consular diptych of Bassus found its way into a middle-class production of ceramic objects; many urban ivories are still preserved, or have their presence documented in the mediaeval period, in Northern Italy, where the urban version of late 4th-century classicism entered into competition with the official art of the imperial court in Milan and Ravenna. In sum, the traditional centre-periphery model used to explain the relationship between the city of Rome and its provinces in the late Republican and early Imperial periods can and should be replaced, for the centuries of Late Antiquity, by a new model, in which Rome finds its importance as a hub within a complex network of artistic centres, receiving, exchanging, and exerting cultural influences on a much more complex level than before. It is only through a better definition of the relations, influences, and interactions among

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these centres that we can gain a clearer understanding of the development of late antique visual culture.

Acknowledgements I am grateful to Julien Chapuis, Gavin Kelly and Katharina Meinecke, who read previous versions of this paper and improved it considerably with their remarks and advice. Of course, the responsibility of any mistakes and inaccuracies is entirely mine.

Notes

1. The most influential catalogues of late Roman ivories are those by Delbrück (1929) and Volbach (1976), now in many respects outdated. Recent developments in the study of this category of objects mainly depend on the many works by the late Alan Cameron (1982; 1986; 2007; 2011; 2013; 2015; 2016; 2017); particularly important are also Kinney (2008) and Christ (2015). 2. My use of this adjective is inspired by the well-known category of Gothique international, coined by the 19th-century French art historian Louis Courajod to define the artistic trend which spread widely across western and central Europe between the late 14th and the early 16th century, mainly thanks to the frequent travels of both artists and (portable) artworks. I understand the main features of an ‘international style’ as (1) supra-regional diffusion and (2) shared aesthetic values, which can be understood by viewers of different geographical origins. Depending on political, social and economic circumstances, such a style may or may not coexist with a variety of local visual languages; it may be restricted to a small elite or extend to other social groups. 3. The category of ‘first-generation diptychs’ has been defined by Kinney (2008, 150) as ‘those [diptychs] of the first generation (by which I mean, arbitrarily, plaques that might have been made before the sack of Rome in 410)’. 4. Cod. Theod. 15.9.1: ‘Illud etiam constitutione solidamus, ut exceptis consulibus ordinariis nulli prorsus alteri auream sportulam, diptycha ex ebore dandi facultas sit. Cum publica celebrantur officia, sit sportulis nummus argenteus, alia materia diptychis’. The Latin text is quoted from the edition by Mommsen and Meyer 1905; all translations from ancient sources are my own. 5. The numbers preceded by a V refer to the entries in the catalogue by Volbach (1976). 6. Given the enormous amount of scholarship on late Roman ivories, here and in the following pages I mention only the most recent literature on each object: from it, the reader will be able to retrieve earlier publications. 7. The inscription, repeated on each leaf of the diptych, reads: ‘D(omino) N(ostro) Honorio semp(er) Aug(usto) || Probus famulus v(ir) c(larissimus) cons(ul) ord(inarius)’ (‘To our lord Honorius, forever Augustus, his servant Probus, senator and ordinary consul’). Cf. Brown 1961, 9: ‘the ivory diptych, presented … to the Emperor Honorius, in 406’. 8. This badly abraded fragment was excavated in 1875 near the church of Sankt Paulin, outside the walls of Trier, then brought to Berlin and subsequently lost during the Second World War. See Shelton 1983; Cameron 2017, 302. 9. Only a fragment of the diptych was found, but Shelton (1983, 8–10) was able to recognise a copy of its complete inscription on an 11th-century tombstone from the church of Sankt Paulin in Trier, purporting to be the epitaph of a Constantius identified as emperor Constantine’s father. 10. The diptych of Bassus is not included in Volbach 1976 because the object itself is not preserved; however, an exemplar of it was used to produce a mould which was employed for the decoration of several items of African Red Slip Ware, ensuring the survival of the consul’s portrait and inscription: Spier 2003; van den Hoek 2005; see also Meinecke in this volume, 329–330.

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11. London, British Museum, Department of Britain, Europe and Prehistory, inv. 1857,1013.1: http://research.britishmuseum.org/research/collection_online/collection_object_details. aspx?objectId=60464&partId=1 (all the links in this chapter were last accessed on 20/04/2020). The literature on this ivory is particularly copious and full of many diverging interpretations. Among the studies which have been, in my opinion, most significative and influential see Cracco Ruggini 1977; Cameron 1986, 45–53; Weitmann 2010, 180–184; Cameron 2011, 719–728. 12. The reading SYMMACHORVM was first proposed by Weigand (1937) and has been almost universally accepted, the only exception (but without good counter-arguments) being Wright 1998, 359–360. 13. Although much literature on the imperial cult has been published in the recent decades, to my opinion the best treatment of consecratio as a ritual is still Bickermann 1929. 14. Alan Cameron’s attempts (1986, 45–53; 2011, 719–728) to counter Cracco Ruggini’s conclusions, although very influential (at least on English-speaking scholarship), actually rely on a good number of false assumptions, which I intend to address exhaustively in a dedicated paper. 15. This approach to family competition among late antique senators is explicitly theorised by Symmachus himself in his letters. See e.g. Symm. ep. 4.60.2: ‘Vincenda est enim mihi fama exemplorum meorum, quae post consularem munificentiam domus nostrae et filii mei quaestoriam functionem nihil de nobis mediocre promittit’ (‘Indeed, I need to outdo the fame of my own precedents, which, after the consular generosity of my family and the performing of the quaestorship by my son, makes people expect nothing ordinary from us’); cf. also 7.48: ‘quidquid domui nostrae praetoria filii mei editio splendoris adiecerit’ (‘whatever splendour my son’s praetorian games will have added to our family’). The text of Symmachus’ letters is quoted from the edition by Callu (1972–2009). 16. The main stylistic features of the art of the Valentinianic period have been especially highlighted in studies of imperial portraiture: Delbrück 1933, 178–185; von Sydow 1969, 73–81; Stichel 1982, 41–44; Meischner 1992; Kovacs 2014, 66–69; Guidetti forthcoming. 17. A good comparison is provided by the figures depicted in a large hunt mosaic from a late antique villa near the mouth of the river Tellaro, in south-eastern Sicily, whose archaeological dating to the second half of the 4th century could be further pinned down, in my opinion, to the Valentinianic period precisely on stylistic grounds. Cf. Wilson 2016, 34–35 for the archaeological dating of the villa; 75–103 on the hunt mosaic. 18. Sankt-Peterburg, Gosudarstvennyj Ermitaž, Collection of Oriental Art – Byzantium, inv. W-10: http://www.hermitagemuseum.org/wps/portal/hermitage/digital-collection/08.%20 applied%20arts/226729/!ut/p/z1/04_Sj9CPykssy0xPLMnMz0vMAfIjo8zi_R0dzQyNnQ28_ J1NXQwc_YMCTIOc_dwNDE30w8EKDHAARwP9KGL041EQhd94L0IWAH1gVOTr7JuuH1WQWJKhm5mXlq8fYWChp5BYUJCTmZqikFhUUqwfYWRkZm5kCXRPFJqJnt7mQBNDTD38_cOcjZxNoArwuKkgNzSiysfDINNRUREAlYjwig!!/dz/d5/L2dBISEvZ0FBIS9nQSEh/?lng=en. Cf. Cameron 2013, 182, 185; Christ 2015, 181–183. 19. London, British Museum, Department of Britain, Europe and Prehistory, inv. 1856,0623.2: http://­ research.britishmuseum.org/research/collection_online/collection_object_details.aspx?­objectId =59897&partId=1&searchText=1856%2c0623.2&page=1. Although the surface of the panel is badly worn, the harmonious proportions of the figures, the sinuous elegance of their movements, as well as their complex three-dimensional development, with the overlapping of several different planes, support in my opinion a stylistic dating in the central decades of the 4th century. 20. V112 (right vertical side): Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Skulpturensammlung und Museum für Byzantinische Kunst, inv. 2719 (http://www.smb-digital.de/eMuseumPlus?service= ExternalInterface&module=collection&objectId=1437500&viewType=detailView). V113 (left vertical side): Paris, Musée du Louvre, Département des Objets d’art, inv. OA 7876–7878 (http:// cartelfr.louvre.fr/cartelfr/visite?srv=car_not_frame&idNotice=6177). V114 (fragment of the upper horizontal band): Nevers, Musée de la Faïence et des Beaux-Arts, inv. NOA 20. On these fragments see now Frantová 2017, with references to earlier literature; however, I find her

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suggestion of a mid-5th century date, based on the alleged theological content of the panels, rather difficult to accept on stylistic grounds. 21. On the Theodosian classicistic revival in late antique sculpture see Kollwitz 1941; von Sydow 1969, 81–88; Kitzinger 1977, 31–34; Stichel 1982, 45–57; Kiilerich 1993; Kovacs 2014, 91–96; Guidetti forthcoming. 22. Madrid, Real Academia de la Historia, Gabinete de Antigüedades, Antigüedades hispano-romanas y visigodas, inv. 176 (http://www.rah.es/disco-de-teodosio). The inscription along the rim of the plate reads: ‘D(ominus) N(oster) Theodosius perpet(uus) Aug(ustus) ob diem felicissimum X’ (‘Our Lord Theodosius, forever Augustus, on the most fortunate day of his 10th anniversary’). The attempt by Blázquez Martínez (2000) to date the production of the plate to AD 393 is in my opinion unconvincing and unnecessary. The search for an alternative date was prompted by the wrong assumption that Theodosius could not be depicted in such a pre-eminent position within the imperial college at a time when he was not yet the senior Augustus, since in 388 Valentinian II was still alive (although, of course, dependent on Theodosius’ support). In fact, although occupying the central position in the scene, Theodosius is clearly not depicted as the senior Augustus on the plate. The latter must be identified, without doubt, with the young emperor on the left: he, and not the central figure, is the only member of the imperial college bearing the long sceptre, symbol of supreme sovereignty; the unequivocal date provided by the inscription allows us to identify him, correctly, as Valentinian. On the iconography of the plate see also Barbagli in this volume, 101–102 and 110–111. 23. Romeo (1999) has reconstructed a similar phenomenon to explain the origin of Constantinian classicism, suggesting that the new style was prompted by an innovative imperial portrait produced for Constantine’s quinquennalia in 310; cf. also Guidetti 2013, 186–187. 24. On the artistic developments in this geographical area during the imperial period see Smith 1998 (who explored the notion of ‘Hellenistic sculpture under the Roman Empire’); cf. also the collected volumes by D’Andria and Romeo (2011) and Aurenhammer (2018). On the late antique period see especially Van Voorhis 2018, 51–68. 25. The weight inscription reads: ‘Ποσ(ότης) λ(ιτρῶν) ν̅ μετ(άλλου)’ (‘Quantity: fifty pounds of metal’). 26. Berlin, Staatliche Museen – Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Antikensammlung, inv. Sk 1772 and Sk 1779. See the entries in the Last Statues of Antiquity database (http://laststatues.classics.ox.ac. uk), LSA-589 and LSA-594 (J. Lenaghan); cf. also Guidetti forthcoming, with references to earlier literature. 27. Paris, Musée du Louvre, Département des Objets d’art, inv. OA 9062: http://cartelfr.louvre.fr/ cartelfr/visite?srv=car_not&idNotice=6156. Rumscheid 2000, 20–24 and 144–145; Gaborit-Chopin 2003, 43–44; Cameron 2013, 182–183; Ibba and Teatini 2015, 93–94. Contrary to what is stated by Cameron (2013, 182), the person depicted in the diptych does not need to be a provincial priest: the toga certainly points to a patron of senatorial rank, the use of ivory diptychs is not attested outside the two capital cities at this early date, and there were surely enough festivals of the imperial cult in the city of Rome to provide the occasion for the distribution of such an object by the presiding priest. 28. Several categories of priests wore crowns equipped with images of different deities; those used by the priests of the imperial cult were decorated with imperial portraits: see Fishwick 1991, 477–478; Rumscheid 2000, 7–51. Since the priestly crown on the Louvre diptych features four busts, it is tempting to identify these as portraits of the four consecrated emperors of the Valentinian and Theodosian dynasties, namely Valentinian I, Valens, Gratian and Theodosius senior. 29. Such overtly religious insignia as the priestly crowns were among the first victims of Christian zeal. In the famous porphyry portrait from Gamzigrad (Serbia), depicting either Galerius or Licinius, the four divine busts (Jupiter, Hercules, Mars and Sol) which originally decorated the emperor’s crown were carefully defaced, probably as early as AD 317, in conjunction with the reuse of the statue as an image of the new ruler Constantine: Bergmann 2016, 793–801.

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30. Monza, Museo e Tesoro del Duomo, inv. 6. The identification of the military officer depicted in the ivory as Stilicho has been called into question by Shelton (1982) and Christ (2015), but defended by Kiilerich and Torp (1989) and more convincingly by Cameron (2016). A detailed description and discussion of the diptych can be found in Vergani 2007, with references to earlier literature; cf. also Abbatepaolo 2005. 31. Compare e.g. Kitzinger 1977, 34 (‘a Western development concurrent with the “Theodosian Renaissance” in the East’) with Cameron 1982, 128: ‘Surely it is not two simultaneous but independent “Classical Revivals” that we are faced with, but one classicizing ceremonial style, with so precise a social role that it flourished wherever the governing class lived. One way in which such motifs passed from one capital to another was surely through the mobile medium of the ceremonial diptych’. 32. The custom of distinguishing the members of different generations of the same family by the iconographic features of their portraits is a common feature in Roman family depictions, at least from the late Republican period. One could mention e.g. the family funerary monuments known in the German literature as Kastengrabsteine, studied by Zanker (1975), Frenz (1977), Kleiner (1977) and Kockel (1993); the famous statue of the Togato Barberini (Roma, Musei Capitolini, Centrale Montemartini, inv. MC2392), probably of the early 1st century AD, on which see Fittschen et al. 2010, 48–51; or the stucco portraits in the tomb of C. Valerius Herma in the Vatican necropolis, built around AD 160: see now Borg 2019, 158–166, with references to earlier literature. 33. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin – Preußischer Kulturbesitz, ms. theol. lat. fol. 323; the ivory was reused in the medieval period as the cover of an 11th-century hagiographical manuscript. Alföldi Rosenbaum 1995; Cameron 2017, 319–320. High-quality digital images are available on the website of the Staatsbibliothek: http://digital.staatsbibliothek-berlin.de/ werkansicht?PPN=PPN863341861&PHYSID=PHYS_0001&DMDID=DMDLOG_0001. 34. Nicomachi leaf: Paris, Musée de Cluny – Musée National du Moyen Âge, inv. Cl.17048 (http:// www.musee-moyenage.fr/collection/oeuvre/diptyque-nicomaque-et-symmaque.html). Symmachi leaf: London, Victoria and Albert Museum, inv. 212–1865 (http://collections.vam. ac.uk/item/O70084/the-symmachi-panel-diptych-leaf-unknown). On this diptych see Cracco Ruggini 1977, 485–489; Cameron 1986; Simon 1992; Kinney 1994; Ensoli and La Rocca 2000, 465–468; Kinney 2009; Cameron 2011, 712–719; Cameron 2017, 305–309, 313–314, 317–321. Cameron’s suggestion that both this diptych and that to which the consecratio panel once belonged were commissioned in AD 402 by Q. Fabius Memmius Symmachus in order to celebrate the memory of his father Q. Aurelius Symmachus and his father-in-law Nicomachus Flavianus, is untenable: the style of the consecratio ivory suggests a date in the Valentinianic period, further strengthening Cracco Ruggini’s interpretation. The style of the Symmachi and Nicomachi diptych, by contrast, is fully compatible with a date around the turn of the century. 35. Liverpool, World Museum, Collection of British and European antiquities, inv. M10044: http:// www.liverpoolmuseums.org.uk/artifact/asclepius-hygieia-diptych. Gibson 1994, 10–15; Ensoli and La Rocca 2000, 509–510; Cameron 2017, 303–304 and 314. 36. This egg-and-dart moulding is also found in a handful of slightly later ivories such as the diptych of Felix (V2), the diptych of Rome and Constantinople (V38) (Wien, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Antikensammlung, inv. X 37–38: http://www.khm.at/objektdb/detail/71760 and http://www. khm.at/objektdb/detail/71771), and a fragmentary leaf with depiction of a philosopher (V39) (Bologna, Museo Civico Archeologico, inv. PCR 13). 37. Milano, Castello Sforzesco, Museo delle Arti Decorative, inv. avori 9: http://artidecorative. milanocastello.it/it/content/marie-al-sepolcro. Zastrow (1978), 19–20; Brenk (2001–2004). 38. On this adaptation see e.g. the contributions to the collected volume edited by Alcock, Egri and Frakes (2016).

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Part III Connections with Roman visual culture in extra-Roman and post-Roman contexts

Chapter 9 Buckles and bones: Central Asiatic influences and the making of post-Roman Gaul

Carlo Ferrari We are used to thinking of the early Middle Ages as a moment of synthesis between Roman and Germanic civilisations. Some countries and regions, once part of the Roman Empire, even retain in their names the memory of such merging, as a consequence of the grand migratory movements which involved western Europe during the 5th and 6th century: thus England is the land of the Angles, Burgundy the land of the Burgundians, Lombardy the land of the Lombards. France makes no exception. In the second half of the 5th century, however, no one would have imagined that Gaul was soon to become the land of the Franks – not least because of the presence, in the South of the country, of the Visigothic kingdom, which had always proven particularly aggressive, especially under king Euric (ruled 466–484). Shortly after their settlement in Aquitaine (in 418 or 419: see Mathisen and Sivan 1999, 8; Halsall 2007, 228), the Visigoths had engaged in a series of military campaigns – sometimes on the side of the Romans, sometimes on their own – which had put them in control of a very large portion of Gallic territory, not to mention their vast conquests in the Iberian Peninsula. By Euric’s death, the Visigothic kingdom in Gaul extended from the Atlantic Ocean to the Alps, and from the Loire to the Mediterranean. Nevertheless, the rapid growth of the Frankish power in the north-east of the country, especially after the accession to the throne of the young though extremely capable Clovis in 481 or 482, put an abrupt end to Visigothic expansion. In the battle of Vouillé (507), not far from Poitiers, the Visigoths suffered a catastrophic defeat at the hands of the Franks: they lost all their territories in Gaul (except for Septimania, a strip of land along the Mediterranean coast which included the city of Narbonne) and their king, Alaric II, was killed during the battle. Some thirty years later, the Frankish armies destroyed the kingdom of the Burgundians (534) and took over Provence after driving out the Ostrogoths (537), worn out by the harsh conflict with the Byzantine Empire. Gaul became Francia.

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This, however, is just one side of the story. First of all, it is now fairly clear that the groups which we call (and which called themselves) Franks, Goths, Burgundians, etc., were not ‘peoples’ in the Romantic sense of the term, that is static, ethnically homogeneous and endogamic communities, whose members shared, together with a common language, also the same traditions and rituals (for the importance of this assumption in modern nationalism, see Geary 2002): they were rather multi-ethnic coalitions, formed in periods of social stress as a consequence of large-scale migrations, and characterised by a high degree of fluidity (Wenskus 1961; Wolfram 1988; Pohl 2002 and 2013; Heather 2008). It seems that this fluidity affected the regnum Burgundionum to the highest degree: according to Wood (2016, 15), ‘all barbarian peoples were mongrel, but the ethnic mix among the followers of Gundobad and Sigismund seems to have been extreme’. In any case, we can presume that the situation among the Franks and the Visigoths was not very different from that. This is not to say, of course, that barbarian groups were completely amorphous: the loyalty to the ruling family, the distribution of lands and booty, even the gradual conversion to Christianity (in its Homoian or Nicene variant) are likely to have created a sense of identity, especially among higher-status warriors, who could profit more than anyone else from social and political cohesion. However, this does not change the basic fact that none of these communities could claim to be very ancient (although they tried to), nor very special (although they tried to as well): Franks, Goths, Burgundians, etc., were not ‘closed “peoples” utterly distinct from one another’ (Heather 2015, 2), and this assumption is essential if we want to understand some of the singularities which characterise late antique Gaul. Another point which is worth stressing concerns the origin of the individuals who ended up in Gaul. No one doubts that most of them were Germanic-speaking, coming basically from central and eastern Europe. Some of them, however, were not: one of the peculiarities of this age of migrations was in fact the arrival, in pretty large numbers, of Central Asiatic nomads, whose contribution to the cultural background of the European Middle Ages has not yet been fully appreciated. Huns and Alans, in particular, played a major role in 4th- and 5th-century events, and their weight in the shaping of a new mentality and new habits was surely very important. In the following pages we will examine some of the most significant examples of this influence, with particular attention to Gaul. The impact of the Huns on the history of Europe was enormous. Their arrival in the second half of the 4th century in the form of autonomous and extremely aggressive warbands set in motion a long-term process of migrations and displacements which would eventually lead to the fall of the Western Roman Empire more than a century later (Heather 1995). According to the Roman historian Ammianus Marcellinus (our best informed source of the period: see Jones 1964, 116; Sabbah 1978; Matthews 1989; Heather 2009, 156), the Huns assaulted first the Alans – an Iranian population who at the time inhabited the region between the Don and the Volga – and then the Goths, who had been living north of the Black Sea for more than a

9. Buckles and bones: Central Asiatic influences and the making of post-Roman Gaul 245 century. Despite a strenuous resistance, the Goths eventually moved southwards and sought asylum in the Roman Empire, together with some Alanic groups and other communities who had been forced by the Huns to leave the Black Sea region. In 376 Roman authorities gave the permission to a group of Goths, the Tervingi, to cross the Danube, while another Gothic group, the Greuthungi, entered the Empire independently (and illegally), joining the Tervingi at a later stage. However, the Romans apparently behaved so unjustly towards the refugees (who were even forced to sell their own children in order to buy some dog meat, according to Ammianus [31.4.10– 11]), that they eventually revolted: after two years of plundering and devastations in Thrace, the Goths finally confronted the Romans in the battle of Adrianople (378), destroying two thirds of their army; the emperor Valens himself lost his life in the fight. According to Ammianus (31.13.19), it was the worst defeat since the battle of Cannae, fought against Hannibal almost six centuries earlier. The treaty which the new emperor Theodosius arranged in 382 did not put an end to the unrest. Under Alaric’s leadership the Goths revolted once more and, after a series of military and diplomatic events, even sacked the city of Rome in 410 (Halsall 2007, 200–217). After Alaric’s death in the same year, his successor Athaulf decided to move the Goths to Gaul, where they were given territory in Aquitaine, laying the foundations of the future Visigothic kingdom of Toulouse. Hunnic military pressure was likely responsible for another significant sequence of displacements, which culminated in the famous Rhine crossing of 405/6 (see Kulikowski 2000, 325–331 for the date), when tens – perhaps hundreds – of thousands of people (amongst whom Vandals, Alans and Sueves) penetrated into Gaul. Just like in 376, Hunnic advance into Europe (this time towards the Middle Danube) created a climate of insecurity that induced thousands of people to leave their homes and seek refuge further west. In the first decades of the 5th century the Huns were still a composite ensemble of warbands with a multiplicity of leaders, but in the 430s a process of centralisation began under Rua and Octar, attaining its highest point in the 440s under Bleda and Attila (Heather 1995, 10–11; Kelly 2009, 96). By the middle of the century, the Huns had established a vast empire across central Europe and were able to pose a constant threat to the Roman Empire – at least until Attila’s death in 453, when the Hunnic Empire, ‘an essentially unequal, involuntary confederation’ (Heather 2009, 232) kept together by violence and fear, collapsed, following the battle on the River Nedao (454). Despite the central role that the Huns had played for almost a century in the history of Europe, little attention has been generally paid to their influence on late Roman and early medieval culture, as though the interchange between sedentary and nomadic peoples could move in only one direction, i.e. from the former to the latter. In fact, the military superiority and diplomatic skills that the Huns had been able to display for so many years should prevent us from assuming they were just a horde of howling savages or, to use Ammianus’ words (31.2.11), ‘unthinking animals’ (inconsulta animalia). On the contrary, the awe that the Huns could inspire as a consequence of

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their almost uncontested military supremacy made them not only an enemy to fear, but a model to imitate as well, leading to the creation of an international symbolic language by which barbarian aristocracies could give expression to their political and social aspirations. For example, the custom of artificial cranial deformation (i.e. the intentional alteration of the head shape of newborn infants by means of a strong pressure, usually by bandage), which was common among the Huns and other Eurasian nomads as a way to express group membership (Torres-Rouff and Yablonsky 2005, 4), was extensively adopted – as the Hunnic Empire grew stronger – also by Germanic peoples, in order to be accepted and integrated into the new political system (Molnár et al. 2014, 6; Ferrari 2016, 325–328). On a more general level, also the diffusion of the so-called ‘Danubian style’ – a particular mix of techniques and artistic motifs (mostly from eastern Europe and Central Asia), discernible above all in jewelry and metal works – must be attributed in all likelihood to the influence of the Huns, and to the determination of local aristocracies to conform to a prestigious model (Kazanski 1997, 290; Kouznetsov and Lebedynsky 2005, 45). Hunnic influence did not fade away even after Attila’s death and the rapid disintegration of his Empire. Excavations in the Belgian city of Tournai have proven that the tomb of the Frankish king Childeric, father of Clovis (died 481/482), was situated under an enormous barrow – an architectural element owing much to Hunnic funeral traditions: Attila was buried in the same way, according to Jordanes (Getica 258). On the occasion of Childeric’s burial, more than twenty horses were sacrificed and buried in large ditches surrounding the king’s tomb – another element which can be traced back to Eurasian nomadic rituals (Kazanski and Périn 2005, 293–295). In all evidence, Childeric and his family opted for this particular type of ceremony because it still represented, even after the disappearance of the Hunnic Empire, a valid and awe-inspiring model – perfectly suitable for a royal house on the rise (such as the Merovingians at the end of the 5th century) which wanted to express its claim to power by establishing an ideal continuity with the great empire of Attila (see for example Heather 2009, 322). In this regard, it must be stressed that despite its relative brevity the Hunnic Empire exerted such a deep and lasting impression on the mind of contemporaries and of the following generations that its effects are to be seen not only in monuments or artifacts, but in the spiritual domain too. The Huns’ arrival in Europe was not just a military event: it represented in more than one way a sort of catastrophic epiphany that struck and disrupted the old balance of the continent. Peoples who had never been conquered and had successfully defied the power of Rome for centuries were completely subdued in just a few years and found themselves subject to brutal warlords, who did not speak their language, were physically very different and came, in a sense, from another world. According to Lotte Hedeager (2011, 194), the impact of the Huns on barbarian Europe was immense and ‘is most clearly seen in the epic poetry […]. Attila and the Huns constitute a fixed point of social remembrance, so to

9. Buckles and bones: Central Asiatic influences and the making of post-Roman Gaul 247 speak, of an oral tradition of a longue durée thus codified in written form’. The battle between the Huns and the Burgundians, for instance, with the almost complete extermination of the latter (a historical event which took place in the 430s), constitutes the kernel of one of the most famous medieval epic poems, the Nibelungenlied or Song of the Nibelungs. Moreover, the overwhelming superiority of Hunnic forces and the astonishing, almost magical rapidity of their conquests created the conditions for the assimilation of Attila to the supreme god of the Germanic pantheon: ‘Attila and the Huns in fourth and fifth century AD Barbarian Europe amalgamated with Wodan/Wotan/Woden/Woutan, the old pan-Germanic god whose name meant ‘possessed, frantic’ […]. The eruption of the Huns from the world ‘out there’ was a truly unprecedented earth-shattering event, of a kind not seen before. Attila was therefore transformed and incorporated into an already existing mythology and system of belief ’ (Hedeager 2011, 222, 227–228). As is well known, the Hunnic Empire never extended over Gaul, and the only incursion which the sources report is that of 451, which ended in the famous battle of the Catalaunian Plains (or Campus Mauriacus, near Troyes), where the Huns and their vassals were stopped (although not defeated) by an army mainly composed of Romans and Visigoths (plus other federates) led by the generalissimo Aetius (O’Flynn 1983, 97). Nevertheless, by the time Attila crossed the Rhine, Hunnic presence in Gaul had not been rare – quite the contrary. In the first half of the 5th century, in fact, Hunnic mercenaries had extensively been employed on Gallic territory, not least because of the close relationship between them and Aetius, who in his youth had been a hostage of the Huns for three years. On two occasions the Roman general owed his life and position to the military support of his Central Asiatic friends: in 425, when he was appointed comes and magister utriusque militiae per Gallias by the new emperor Valentinian III despite having compromised himself in the previous years with the usurper John; and in 433, when he forced the imperial government to concede him the supreme military office in the West, which he would retain for the next twenty years (Jones et al. 1971–1992, II, 22–24; O’Flynn 1983, 76–81). Attila’s rise to power in the 440s, however, put an end to this close cooperation and eventually led to the great battle of 451. Before that, in addition to helping Aetius in his career, Hunnic troops also provided the Roman government with forces to use in the defence of the frontiers or in the fluctuating – and sometimes stormy – relationships with Germanic federates settled on imperial territory. As noted by Heather (1995, 26), ‘there is a nice irony here. Hunnic groups, whose movements had initially caused the upheavals, were subsequently deployed by the Roman state to control the political consequences of their original actions’. We have already mentioned the slaughter of the Burgundians in the 430s – an event caused by their attempt to enlarge the territory they had been given some thirty years earlier near Worms and by the unfriendly reaction of the Romans, who called up the Huns to deal with them (O’Flynn 1983, 89); but Hunnic mercenaries were employed in Gaul also against the Visigoths.

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In 437 the Roman general Litorius led his Hunnic auxiliaries through Auvergne, in order to break the Visigothic siege of Narbonne – although, as it seems, some Huns defected and started plundering the region, according to Sidonius Apollinaris (carm. 7.244–294). Two years later, Litorius and his Huns engaged the Visigoths under the walls of Toulouse, but this time they were defeated: the Roman general was even made prisoner and executed shortly thereafter (Jones et al. 1971–1992, II, 684–685). Even more shocking to Roman eyes, however, is what the Christian writer Prosper of Aquitaine reported in his Chronicle (s.a. 439): according to him, Litorius decided to attack the Goths because ‘he trusted the responses of the haruspices and the advice of the demons’ (haruspicum responsis et daemonum significationibus fidit). If this is true, it is surely noteworthy that several decades after Theodosius’ anti-pagan legislation a general of the Roman army could have at his disposal haruspices or soothsayers, whose activity had been explicitly forbidden (Colling 2007, 111). Curiously enough, another Christian author of that period, Salvian of Marseilles (famous for the bitterness with which he criticises the moral abjection of the Romans), when speaking of Litorius’ defeat (De gubernatione Dei 7.9.39–10.44) does not mention the recourse to haruspices – which is strange, considering that he is always willing to expose the vices which have led the wrath of God to strike the Roman Empire. In his opinion, the Romans suffered such a terrible defeat because they preferred to put their hope in the Huns rather than in the Lord. As noted by Maenchen-Helfen (1973, 268), the combination of this evidence suggests that it was the Huns – and not the Romans – who made use of divination before the battle of Toulouse against the Visigoths. What kind of divination? The answer lies, perhaps, in a fascinating passage by the historian Jordanes (Getica 196). Jordanes reports that, before the battle of the Catalaunian Plains, Attila asked his haruspices (who were probably shamans) to reveal the outcome of the imminent fight. The diviners, ‘as was their custom, […] examined the entrails of cattle and certain streaks in bones that had been scraped, and foretold disaster to the Huns’ (more solito nunc pecorum fibras, nunc quasdam venas in abrasis ossibus intuentes Hunnis infausta denuntiant; transl. Mierow 1915). While the inspection of the entrails was a very typical and widespread method of foretelling the future in antiquity, which does not require here any further explanation, the second method which Jordanes refers to seems more difficult to identify. It has been suggested with very good arguments (Maenchen-Helfen 1973, 269; Kelly 2009, 115) that we have here a description of scapulimancy, i.e. the reading of animal scapulae (shoulder blades) after they have been scraped clean. According to Maenchen-Helfen, this method of prognostication was very common among the Huns as well as other Eurasian nomads, and it is likely that Litorius’ Hunnic auxiliaries used it (without much success, however) to predict the result of the battle of Toulouse. It is difficult to say if this practice had already been present in Europe before the arrival of the Huns. As a matter of fact, scholars usually distinguish between an ‘Asiatic’ and a ‘European’ scapulimancy: in the first case, the bones are exposed to fire, and the soothsayer interprets the cracks which are made by the heat; in the second case, the

9. Buckles and bones: Central Asiatic influences and the making of post-Roman Gaul 249 bones are read as they are once the flesh has been removed. Apparently, the European way seems to be more primitive than the Asiatic one; ‘in any case, [it] is attested only many centuries after Attila. No ancient writer knows about it’ (Maenchen-Helfen 1973, 269). So even if we assume that scapulimancy had already been present in Europe by the time the Huns arrived, it is likely that the latter played a major role in the revival and transmission of this particular method of divination, whose traces are detectable in many parts of Europe, sometimes until quite recently (Andree 1906, 155–162; Tuczay 2012, 131). In France, too, scapulimancy is clearly attested (Boehm 1987, 129): in a passage from the Summa de officiis inquisitionis (composed around 1270), among the questions to be asked to a suspected heretic is ‘whether he investigated the future by looking into shoulder blades’ (si in spatulis quaesivit futura). The possibility that the Huns or other Central Asiatic nomads could have reactivated ancient local practices which had been marginalised for many different reasons (not least the Roman conquest) must be kept in mind, because it can help to explain some otherwise incredible coincidences, as we shall see more thoroughly in a moment. The influence of the Huns and other nomadic peoples in Gaul was probably much stronger than is generally recognised. More than thirty years ago, Jean-Paul Roux – the great scholar of Central Asiatic civilisations – urged to take into consideration ‘the richness of the substrata left in France by Asiatic nomads’ (Roux 1988, 524–525, 531–532). Since then we have certainly become more aware of the close relations between western Europe and the world of the steppes (see for example Ginzburg 1990 and 2016; Corradi Musi 1997; Wells 2012, 200–225), as well as the necessity to adopt a Eurasian perspective for the study of ancient – especially Roman – history (Di Cosmo and Maas 2018, 8). As Michael Bonner (2019, 94) put it, ‘it was the huge expanse of the steppe which linked the civilizations of China, India, Iran, and Rome; and it was the steppe which produced the greatest world powers of ancient and medieval times’. However, as far as Gaul is concerned, much remains to be done. With the exception of some excellent works from the past decades (which will be mentioned in the next pages), Central Asiatic influences on late Roman and post-Roman Gaul have not yet become the subject of any specific and comprehensive studies, regardless of Roux’s exhortation. Kim’s recent attempt to fill this gap, on the other hand, was far from satisfactory: despite some very good intuitions, his recent work on the impact of the Huns on the Frankish West must be handled with care, as it goes to the other extreme of totally overstating Hunnic and Asiatic influence on Merovingian Gaul. Assertions such as ‘[t]he Franks, like the Inner Asian Huns and Turco-Mongols, showed an astonishing attachment to this dynastic principle, in sharp contrast to the Romans and earlier Germanic tribal confederacies, among whom the dynastic principle was never fully established or even accepted’ (Kim 2017, 24) are untenable. In what follows, then, I will try to use both archaeological and literary sources, in order to get a better view of Central Asiatic presence in Gaul during Late Antiquity. In the third and last volume of his learned and impressively documented work The Occident and the Orient in the Art of the Seventh Century, the Swedish art historian

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Nils Åberg was the first to draw attention on what he called the ‘Aquitanian style’, a particular form of artistic expression which comprises some 134 artifacts (mostly belt buckles, see Figs 9.1 and 9.2), dating back to the 6th and 7th century AD and coming principally from three main areas: two major ones – the region between Toulouse and the Mediterranean shore and the one between Orléans and the river Sarthe – and a third one, much smaller than the other two, on what is now the border between France and Switzerland, not far from Lake Geneva (Fig. 9.3). According to Åberg (1947, 46), ‘the buckles derive from a native population, which was certainly subjected to both Vizigothic [sic] and Frankish infiltration, but which nevertheless had on the whole preserved its Gallo-Roman nationality. […] As far as can be judged’ – Åberg continues – ‘within this Gallo-Roman population, with its Germanic element, had already begun the process of fusion which finally led to the romanization of the Germanic culture in Gaul. The Germanic form and the Mediterranean style of ornament of the Aquitanian buckles may possibly be an indication that the two components in the development in the 7th century balanced each other fairly evenly’. Åberg’s conclusions earned general approbation amid the academic world: there was general agreement that the Aquitanian style displayed different artistic motifs – such as Gallo-Roman, Frankish,

Fig. 9.1: Aquitanian belt buckles (from Åberg 1947, 41).

Fig. 9.2: Aquitanian belt buckles (from Åberg 1947, 43).

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Fig. 9.3: Find areas of Aquitanian style objects (from Åberg 1947, 62).

Visigothic, Burgundian and even Coptic ones (see Bachrach 1973, 100). Some issues, however, remained unsolved (Bachrach 1972, 82). Almost twenty years earlier, in fact, the French scholar Louis Franchet had already taken into consideration some pieces from the middle Loire which were later to be included among those of Aquitanian style, suggesting that they dated back to the 5th century and were the product of Alan settlements in Gaul (Franchet 1930). Franchet’s argumentation was rejected by Holmquist and Zeiss (1939 and 1941, respectively), who not only postponed the artifacts to the 7th century but – most importantly – did not agree with Franchet’s suggestion about Alan artistic influences, thinking they were rather Syrian or Coptic. A few years later, however, the archaeologist Édouard Salin (1949, 314–315) partially agreed with Franchet and accepted the idea that these artifacts showed indeed a mix of Alan and Gallo-Roman elements; at the same time, he maintained the 7th-century date which had been argued by Holmquist and Zeiss. As noted by Bachrach (1972, 82), the Franchet-Salin argument, albeit extremely fascinating, remained open to criticism: ‘Franchet’s misdating of the pieces and his too

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broad range in the seeking of parallels has tended to cast doubt upon his conclusions. Salin on the other hand did not demonstrate, except for a few place names, that Alan influence in the middle Loire area extended beyond the fifth century.’ Nevertheless (Bachrach goes on), the Alan hypothesis should not be dismissed that easily. As we know, the most important find area for the Aquitanian style is the one between Toulouse and the Mediterranean (55 pieces), followed by the one between Orléans and the Sarthe (25 pieces): this means that the two largest find areas of Aquitanian style objects and the two major Alan settlements in Gaul perfectly coincide (Bachrach 1972, 83–84). For the sake of clarity, it is worth recalling how the Alans ended up there. We have already seen that amongst the Goths who fought at Adrianople, sacked Rome and eventually entered Gaul under Athaulf ’s guidance, there was a notable group of Alans. In Gaul this Alano-Gothic army managed to seize important towns, such as Narbonne, Toulouse and Bordeaux; in 414, however, during the siege of Bazas, Count Paulinus of Pella offered the Alans land where they could settle, in order to break the enemy front. The plan succeeded, and the Alans eventually defected from the Goths, who, without Alan support, were forced to withdraw. The magister utriusque militiae Constantius (the future emperor Constantius III) accorded to the Alans the area between Toulouse and the Mediterranean, where their presence proved to be particularly lasting – as shown by several towns called after their Alan settlers, such as Alenya, Lanet, Alan (Bachrach 1973, 28–30; Kouznetsov and Lebedynsky 2005, 40). As regards the Orléanais, another group of Alans, under king Goar, was settled there in 442, after being moved from Northeastern Gaul where they had arrived some thirty years earlier. In the intention of Aetius, the Alan presence on the middle Loire had a twofold aim: it should prevent the Bagaudae (dispossessed peasants) of Armorica from revolting, and – at the same time – the Visigoths south of the Loire from extending their territory (Thompson 1956, 71). Town names such as Alains, Alaincourt, Les Allains, Allainville-en-Drouais, Allainville aux Bois, Allainville-en-Beuce, Courtalain, Allains, etc., seem to indicate that the Alan settlement left a profound mark on this area too (Bachrach 1973, 62–63). It is to Bachrach’s credit if Alan (and, more generally, Central Asiatic) influence on Aquitanian style artifacts has been fully appreciated after the first suggestions made by Franchet and Salin. In an important article, the American scholar proposed to consider two aspects of the Aquitanian style ornamentation – namely the four-footed animals and the strongly schematised human figures – as a proof of this influence (although more recently Lerenter 1989 and Lebedynsky 2011, 103, following James 1977 and 1981, have expressed doubts about that, stressing rather the local, i.e. Roman, component). With regard to animal representations (in particular the backward-looking quadrupeds), Bachrach argued that the ones decorating Aquitanian style pieces (Fig. 9.4) show striking similarities with animal motifs coming from Hungary, from sites such as Dunapentele, Csúny and Nemesrölgy among others, dated to the period of Hunnic occupation (Fig. 9.5), as well as from South Russia (Fig. 9.6), for instance from the

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Fig. 9.4: Aquitanian style animals (from Åberg 1947, 55).

Zmeiskii tomb – where a bronze panel plate, probably serving as a saddle ornament, was found, whose ‘animal’s form and medium correspond so closely to the Aquitanian pieces as to be astonishing’ (Bachrach 1972, 86; partially accepted Fig. 9.5: Stylised animal figures from Hungarian also by Lebedynsky 2011, 103–104). As sites: Dunapentele (a, e); Csúny (c); Nemesrölgy far as the schematised human figures (d); Szeged (f); Készthely (g); and Regöly (h) (from are concerned, Aquitanian style artifacts Bachrach 1972, 93, by kind permission). (Fig. 9.7), like their South-Russian parallels, present the peculiar bow-legged motif, which closely recalls the Central Asiatic horseman with his characteristically bowed legs (Fig. 9.8). Whereas this motif can be easily interpreted, ‘the meaning of the squared shoulders and downward pointing arms as found on the Alan finds from south Russia and the Aquitanian style pieces’ is more difficult to ascertain; ‘nevertheless, they are very different […] from the human figures usually found in Gaul during this period’ (Bachrach 1972, 87). In conclusion, ‘since the two largest find areas of Aquitanian style artifacts are in the midst of Alan settlements it seems reasonable to conclude that the assimilated descendants of the original settlers provided the inspiration which influenced the two motifs under consideration here. […] That such artistic influence survived into the seventh century should not be surprising since other aspects of Alan culture lasted even longer’ (Bachrach 1972, 88). Perhaps one of these aspects can be detected in some early medieval texts. We have already seen that in 442 the Alans under king Goar were settled in the

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Orléanais at the behest of Aetius, in order to serve as a deterrent both for the Visigoths in the south and for the Bagaudae in the north. Still, the latter revolted (in part because the arrival of the Alans had led to large dispossessions) and Goar was commissioned by Aetius to crush the rebellion. In this critical situation, the Bagaudae decided to appeal for help to bishop Germanus of Auxerre. Germanus succeeded in dissuading Goar from attacking the rebels, under one condition: the bishop should go and obtain Aetius’ Fig. 9.6: Stylised animal figures from South Russia (from Bachrach 1972, 94, by kind permission). or the emperor’s forgiveness for the Bagaudae. Germanus accepted and left for Ravenna. Although he managed to achieve his mission, he suddenly died in the imperial capital in 455 or 456. When, shortly afterwards, the Bagaudae took up arms again, they were annihilated by the Alans (Constantius of Lyon, Vita Germani 28; 40). Among the many legends that rapidly flourished in connection with the figure of Saint Germanus, one, in particular, deserves our attention. In the second half of the 9th century, the monk Heiric of Auxerre composed the Miracula Fig. 9.7: Aquitanian style human figures (from Germani, a hagiographical work dedi- Åberg 1947, 57). cated to the wonderworks performed by the renowned saint. In chapter 8 of the first book (Acta sanctorum, July, VII, 272), Heiric reports that Germanus, while travelling through Britain, asked for hospitality to the king, but he – a cruel and barbaric man – refused. One peasant, however, offered his house to Germanus and invited him to dinner; for the occasion, he even ordered his wife to kill and cook their only calf. At the end of the dinner, Germanus instructs the woman to collect diligentius (‘in the right order’?) the bones of the calf upon its skin and to place them in the cowshed, in front of the calf ’s mother (ut ossa vituli collecta diligentius super pellicolam eius ante matrem in praesepio componat), and the calf immediately comes back to life (Quo facto […] vitulus absque mora surrexit). The next day, the cruel king is deposed, and the peasant is placed on the throne by Germanus.

9. Buckles and bones: Central Asiatic influences and the making of post-Roman Gaul 255 In the Historia Brittonum (a collection of historical and ethnographical facts written at the end of the 8th or in the first half of the 9th century and traditionally attributed to the Welsh monk Nennius), the same episode is narrated almost identically. The author does not mention Germanus’ order to collect the bones on the Fig. 9.8: Stylised human figures from South Russia animal’s skin but adds a new detail (from Bachrach 1972, 94, by kind permission). which is not reported in Heiric’s version: before dinner, Germanus commands the two peasants not to break even the slightest bone of the calf (praecepit sanctus Germanus ut non confringeretur os de ossibus eius). According to the Italian scholar Bertolotti (1979, 478–480), the two versions of Germanus’ miracle do not exclude one another: on the contrary, it is highly probable that both derive from a common source which is likely to have reported a more complete version of the episode. As a matter of fact, the author of the Historia Brittonum explicitly declares that he has drawn his information from a Liber Sancti Germani – probably the common source that we are looking for. This, however, still does not explain why Germanus ended up performing such a strange and unusual ritual, which – as rightly stressed by Behringer (1998, 43–44) – has nothing to do with Christian practice (although Nennius’ version is likely to have been influenced by the biblical model of the Paschal lamb, see Exodus 12.46: In una domo comedetur, nec efferetis de carnibus eius foras nec os illius confringetis). Bertolotti argued that it is possible to find a connection between Germanus’ miracle and a ritual typical of hunting communities of the Eurasian Subarctic Belt, consisting in the careful preservation (and, in some cases, burial) of the killed animal’s bones. At the heart of this practice was the conviction that an animal could come back to life only if its bones had been preserved intact (on this see Lot-Falck 1953, 206–207; Paulson 1959; Bertolotti 1979, 476; Gignoux 1979, 67). It is not difficult to see that this ritual was intended first and foremost to secure the abundance of the game. As explained by Hamayon (1990, 400–401), since every time a hunter kills an animal a sense of fear and guilt takes possession of him (which is somehow unavoidable in societies whose members imagine their relationship with nature as a system of balance and compensation, where the killing of an animal requires the killing of a man), by preserving intact the bones of the game the hunter shows the intention to take only the animal’s flesh, without preventing the possibility of a return of the animal’s soul to its bones and of a rebirth of the animal: ‘ce qui compte c’est en quelque sorte de maintenir, par-delà un état de mort de la chair, un état de vie en puissance dont l’integrité des os ou du moins du crâne serait garante […]. Ainsi, le rituel accompli

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sur le cadavre du gibier a pour objet de faire du chasseur un preneur de viande au lieu d’un preneur d’animal’. The version of the ritual contained in the Liber Sancti Germani apparently replaced game animals (such as elk or reindeer) with an animal (the calf) more suited to an agricultural and sedentary society as it was late antique or early medieval western Europe; but there can be no doubt that a relationship exists between Germanus’ resurrection of the calf and hunting rituals of Subarctic Belt communities (Bertolotti 1979, 482). Now the question is: are these strong similarities only morphological coincidences, or do they hint at some sort of historical connections? We know that the idea of a ‘bony soul’ (to use Gignoux’s (1979) expression) can be found among many Ural-Altaic populations – especially Siberian, where it is associated not only with animals but with human beings as well: in a Yakut legend, for instance, a shaman can come back to life as long as his skeleton is intact (Nachtigall 1953, 51). As this conception is typical of hunting societies, nothing prevents us from assuming that it had been present in Europe since very ancient times, perhaps since the Palaeolithic (Meuli 1975, 967; Burkert 1992, 176–178 is sceptical). However, we also know that in the 4th and 3rd millennia BC Europe was reached by the so-called Indo-Europeans (Gimbutas 1997, 315–333). Based on linguistic affiliations, it has been suggested that before their arrival these new populations had been living for some time in close contact with Ural-Altaic communities, in an area north of the Black Sea or the Caucasus (Ginzburg 1993, 130). It could also be argued, then, that the myth of the resurrection of the bones had been introduced to Europe by the Indo-Europeans. In this regard, it is noteworthy that the hypothetical Indo-European form *el-en-, which means ‘stag’ or ‘elk’ (the game animals par excellence), is virtually identical to the Altaic word elen, with the same meaning (Werner 2011, 147–148). In addition to that, it has been noted (Weisweiler 1950) that in many parts of Europe it is possible to find the traces of what looks like a superposition of two different cultures, namely a ‘bull-culture’, expression of an autochthonous agricultural society, and a ‘stag-culture’, based on hunt and warfare. The Irish epic cycle is centered on this duality: on the one hand we have the Ulster cycle, whose most famous story is the Táin Bó Cuailnge (The Cattle Ride of Cooley); on the other hand we have the Fenian cycle, a collection of ballads around the hero Finn MacCumhaill and his gang (the Fiann, whose Indo-European etymology is the same as the Latin verb venari, ‘to hunt’), which are literally dominated by the image of the stag: just to make an example, the names of the main characters (Oisín, Oscar, Osscú, Ossbran, Osgein, Ossfer, Osnat) are all derived from os(s), the Irish word for ‘stag’. Curiously, the same centrality of the stag is to be found also among Iranophone Scythian populations: the Sakas, for example, had their name derived from Sag (‘stag’), and so did the Thyssagetae and the Massagetae, from whom the Alans were probably descended (Kouznetsov and Lebedynsky 2005, 23; cf. Ammianus 31.2.12: Halanos […] veteres Massagetas); but the same holds true also for personal names, such as Táxakis (fast stag), Sakesfares (stag jaw), Hrachisakos (piercing stag), etc. (Tchlenova 1963, 60).

9. Buckles and bones: Central Asiatic influences and the making of post-Roman Gaul 257 Whether or not introduced to Europe by Indo-European populations, it is impossible to say if the ritual of the resurrection of the bones had been continuously present in Gaul through the pre-Roman and Roman times and until the early Middle Ages, when it was incorporated into Germanus’ legend. In any case, the settlement of the Alans could have played a major role in this regard, by implanting this custom from scratch or – more probably – by leading to its revival, thanks to Eurasian structural affinities. Moreover, we have seen that Germanus’ biography is closely related to Alan presence in Gaul: in the most dramatic episode of his Life, Germanus did not hesitate, unarmed as he was, to confront the Alan king Goar, going as far as to grasp his horse’s reins in order to prevent him from attacking the Bagaudae. In addition it must also be noted that Germanus’ see, Auxerre, lay directly in the proximity of the Orléanais, one of Alan major settlements in Gaul. All in all, it is not unlikely that Alan culture could have influenced the making of Germanus’ legend. On this point, there is another piece of evidence to consider. According to the 6th-century Life of Saint Amator bishop of Auxerre, the holy man once rebuked Germanus (who was later to succeed him) because of his disgraceful habit to hang on a tree the heads of the animals killed on his hunting trips (Acta sanctorum, May, I, 57). Faced with Germanus’ firm refusal to give up the practice, not only did Amator chop down and burn the tree, but he also had the skulls dispersed far in the countryside. It is hardly necessary to note that the act of hanging heads on trees or poles belongs to the same ritual intended to bring the animal back to life – the head being the pars pro toto (Lot-Falck 1953, 208–209). However, it is likely that we also have to recognise here a reminiscence of the well-known cults of the trees and the severed head, attested in both Celtic and Germanic contexts (see for example Lambrechts 1954; Gasparri 1983, 47–52). To sum up: Central Asiatic elements are certainly an important component of post-Roman culture in Gaul. The settlement of thousands of individuals from the steppe and the great influence of the Hunnic Empire had their effects in shaping a new mentality and way of life, which were both very different from the Roman provincial model. However, these Central Asiatic elements were not introduced into a completely alien environment: rather, they were – so to say – grafted onto local customs and traditions, that had latently outlasted the end of Celtic Gaul, and that belonged, after all, to the same Eurasian cultural continuity. As noted by Wells (2012, 223), ‘the “Roman conquest” of parts of temperate Europe was not as all-changing as most history books would suggest. It resulted in a temporary occupation by Roman forces of conquered European provinces, but it did not change all aspects of cultural tradition or ways of crafting and seeing’. Renewed migrations and settlements, starting at least from the 3rd century AD, overcame the Roman limes and made it possible for the ‘steppe highway’, as Nicola Di Cosmo appropriately called it, to reach Gaul once again. In this huge space, stretching from China to Europe, ‘diverse metallurgical, artistic, and possibly spiritual components were rapidly transmitted, exchanged, and absorbed from community to community’ (Di Cosmo 2002, 39). For my part, I would delete the

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adverb ‘possibly’ from the last sentence. We tend to forget – as far as ‘we’ Europeans are concerned (and perhaps some North Americans, too) – that what was happening in Gaul and in other areas of the Roman Empire at the end of Antiquity was nothing more (so to say) than a regional upheaval, occurring in the most western part of the Eurasian continent – with deliberate mass migrations and less voluntary displacements going on as was the rule a little further east and as had always been happening in the history of Eurasia. So, it must come as no surprise that in this patchwork of human groups on the move, covering huge distances in the span of a single generation, ideas, myths and rituals were exchanged together with objects and techniques. The Aquitanian style and Germanus’ legend, then, testify to the high degree of interconnection and variability that characterises the late antique world, when personal and collective identities were renegotiated and cultural elements flowed from one group to the other with much greater ease than in the previous centuries (although Roman frontiers had never been watertight: see Whittaker 1994). The striking similarities that we have seen on both the artistic and ritual level cannot be simply dismissed as morphological coincidences, all the more so because Huns and Alans provide us with evident historical connections. The dilemma ‘history or structure’, as Carlo Ginzburg (2012, 226) once defined it, is not one which can be easily solved; but, in order to avoid ending up like Buridan’s donkey – as Ginzburg puts it – we can try and combine the two: ‘two alternating voices in debate, finally finding agreement’ (Ginzburg 2012, 227).

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Åberg, N. (1947) The Occident and the Orient in the art of the seventh century, part III: The Merovingian Empire. Stockholm, Wahlström & Widstrand. Andree, R. (1906) Scapulimantia. In B. Laufer (ed.) Boas anniversary volume. Anthropological papers written in honour of Franz Boas, 143–165. New York, G.E. Stechert & Co. Bachrach, B.S. (1972) Two Alan motifs in Åberg’s Aquitanian style. Central Asiatic Journal 16, 81–94. Bachrach, B.S. (1973) A history of the Alans in the West. From their first appearance in the sources of Classical Antiquity through the Early Middle Ages. Minneapolis, University of Minnesota Press. Behringer, W. (1998) Shaman of Oberstdorf. Chonrad Stoeckhlin and the Phantoms of the Night. Charlottesville, University of Virginia Press. Bertolotti, M. (1979) Le ossa e la pelle dei buoi. Un mito popolare tra agiografia e stregoneria. Quaderni storici 41, 470–499. Boehm, F. (1987) Spatulimantie. In H. Bächtold-Stäubli (ed.) Handwörterbuch des deutschen Aberglaubens, vol. 8, 125–140. Berlin/New York, De Gruyter. Bonner, M.J. (2019) Nomad Riders of the Steppe. The Dorchester Review 9, 92–96. Burkert, W. (1992) Opfer als Tötungsritual. Eine Konstante der menschlichen Kulturgeschichte? In F. Graf (ed.) Klassische Antike und neue Wege der Kulturwissenschaften. Symposium Karl Meuli (Basel, 11.–13. September 1991), 169–189. Basel, Schweizerischen Gesellschaft für Volkskunde. Colling, D. (2007) Perceptions chrétiennes des pratiques divinatoires romaines. Revue belge de philologie et d’histoire 85, 93–124. Corradi Musi, C. (1997) Shamanism from East to West. Budapest, Akadémiai Kiadó.

9. Buckles and bones: Central Asiatic influences and the making of post-Roman Gaul 259 Di Cosmo, N. (2002) Ancient China and its enemies. The rise of nomadic power in East Asian history. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Di Cosmo, N. and Maas, M. (2018) Introduction. In N. Di Cosmo and M. Maas (eds) Empires and exchanges in Eurasian Late Antiquity. Rome, China, Iran, and the Steppe, ca. 250–750, 1–15. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Ferrari, C. (2016) Tra le steppe e le Gallie: la descrizione degli Unni di Sidonio Apollinare (carm. II, Panegirico di Antemio, 243–269). Studi Classici e Orientali 62, 315–344. Franchet, L. (1930) Une colonie scytho-alaine en Orléanais au Ve siècle. Les bronzes caucasiens du Vendomois. Revue Scientifique 68, 70–82. Gasparri, S. (1983) La cultura tradizionale dei Longobardi. Struttura tribale e resistenze pagane. Spoleto, Centro Italiano di Studi sull’Alto Medioevo. Geary, P.J. (2002) The myth of nations. The medieval origins of Europe. Princeton, Princeton University Press. Gignoux, P. (1979) ‘Corps osseux et âme osseuse’: essai sur le chamanisme dans l’Iran ancien. Journal Asiatique 267, 41–79. Gimbutas, M. (1997) The Kurgan Culture and the Indo-Europeanization of Europe. Selected Articles from 1952 to 1993, ed. by M. Robbins Dexter and K. Janes-Bley. Washington DC, Institute for the Study of Man. Ginzburg, C. (1990) Ecstasies. Deciphering the Witches’ Sabbath. Chicago, University of Chicago Press. Ginzburg, C. (1993) Deciphering the Sabbath. In B. Ankarloo and G. Henningsen (eds) Early modern European witchcraft. Centers and peripheries, 121–137. Oxford, Clarendon Press. Ginzburg, C. (2012) Threads and traces. True false fictive. Berkeley/Los Angeles/London, University of California Press. Ginzburg, C. (2016) Travelling in spirit: From Friuli to Siberia. In P. Jackson (ed.) Horizons of Shamanism. A triangular approach to the history and anthropology of ecstatic techniques, 35–51. Stockholm, Stockholm University Press. Halsall, G. (2007) Barbarian migrations and the Roman West, 376–568. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Hamayon, R. (1990) La chasse à l’âme. Esquisse d’une théorie du chamanisme sibérien. Nanterre, Société d’ethnologie. Heather, P. (1995) The Huns and the end of the Roman Empire in western Europe. English Historical Review 110, 4–41. Heather, P. (2008) Ethnicity, group identity, and social status in the Migration Period. In I.H. Garipzanov, P.J. Geary and P. Urbańczyk (eds) Franks, Northmen, and Slavs. Identities and state formation in Early Medieval Europe, 17–49. Turnhout, Brepols. Heather, P. (2009) Empires and barbarians. The fall of Rome and the birth of Europe. New York, Oxford University Press. Heather, P. (2015) Migration. Networks and Neighbours 3, 1–21. Hedeager, L. (2011) Iron Age myth and materiality. An archaeology of Scandinavia, AD 400–1000. London/ New York, Routledge. Holmquist, W. (1939) Kunstprobleme der Merowingerzeit. Stockholm, Wahlström & Widstrand. James, E. (1977) The Merovingian archaeology of south-west Gaul, 2 vols. Oxford, British Archaeological Reports. James, E. (1981) Archéologie des Francs en Aquitaine. Dossiers d’archéologie 56, 51–55. Jones, A.H.M. (1964) The later Roman Empire 284–602. A social, economic and administrative survey, 3 vols. Oxford, Blackwell. Jones, A.H.M., Martindale, J.R. and Morris, J. (1971–1992) The Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire, 3 vols. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press.

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Kazanski, M. (1997) La Gaule et le Danube à l’époque des Grandes Migrations. In J. Tejral, H. Friesinger and M. Kazanski (eds) Neue Beiträge zur Erforschung der Spätantike im mittleren Donauraum, 285–302. Brno, Archeologickỳ ústav Akademie věd České republiky Brno. Kazanski, M. and Périn, P. (2005) La tombe de Childéric: un tumulus oriental? In F. Baratte, V. Déroche, C. Jolivet-Lévy and B. Pitarakis (eds) Mélanges Jean-Pierre Sodini, 287–298. Paris, Association des Amis du Centre d’Histoire et Civilisation de Byzance. Kelly, C. (2009) The end of Empire. Attila the Hun and the fall of Rome. New York/London, Norton & Co. Kim, H.J. (2017) The political organization of steppe empires and their contribution to Eurasian interconnectivity: The case of the Huns and their impact on the Frankish west. In H.J. Kim, F.J. Vervaet and S. Ferruh Adali (eds) Eurasian empires in Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages. Contact and exchange between the Graeco-Roman world, Inner Asia and China, 15–33. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Kouznetsov, V. and Lebedynsky, I. (2005) Les Alains. Cavaliers des steppes, seigneurs du Caucase, Ier–XVe siècles apr. J.-C. Paris, Éditions Errance. Kulikowski, M. (2000) Barbarians in Gaul, usurpers in Britain. Britannia 31, 325–345. Lebedynsky, I. (2011) Sur les traces des Alains et Sarmates en Gaule. Du Caucase à la Gaule, IVe–Ve siècle. Paris, L’Harmattan. Lambrechts, P. (1954) L’exaltation de la tête dans la pensée et dans l’art des Celtes. Brugge, De Tempel. Lerenter, S. (1989) Les motifs animaliers des plaques-boucles en bronze de type aquitain. In Actes des Xe journées internationales d’archéologie mérovingienne, Metz 20–23 octobre 1988, 55–61. Sarreguemines, Pierron. Lot-Falck, E. (1953) Les rites de chasse chez les peuples sibériens. Paris, Gallimard. Maenchen-Helfen, O. (1973) The world of the Huns. Studies in their history and culture. Berkeley/Los Angeles/London, University of California Press. Mathisen, R.W. and Sivan, H.S. (1999) Forging a new identity: The kingdom of Toulouse and the frontiers of Visigothic Aquitania. In A. Ferreiro (ed.) The Visigoths. Studies in culture and society, 1–62. Leiden, Brill. Matthews, J. (1989) The Roman Empire of Ammianus. Baltimore, Johns Hopkins University Press. Meuli, K. (1975) Gesammelte Schriften, ed. by Th. Gelzer, 2 vols. Basel/Stuttgart, Schwabe & Co. Mierow, C.C. (1915) The Gothic history of Jordanes in English version with an introduction and a commentary. Princeton, Princeton University Press. Molnár, M., János, I., Szücs, L. and Szathmáry, L. (2014) Artificially deformed crania from the HunGermanic Period (5th–6th century AD) in northeastern Hungary: historical and morphological analysis. Neurosurgical Focus 36(4), 1–9. Nachtigall, H. (1953) Die erhöhte Bestattung in Nord- und Hochasien. Anthropos 48, 44–70. O’Flynn, J.M. (1983) Generalissimos of the western Roman Empire. Edmonton, The University of Alberta Press. Paulson, I. (1959) Die Tierknochen im Jagdritual der nordeurasischen Völker. Zeitschrift für Ethnologie 84, 270–293. Pohl, W. (2002) Ethnicity, theory, and tradition: A response. In A. Gillett (ed.) On Barbarian identity. Critical approaches to ethnicity in the Early Middle Ages, 221–239. Turnhout, Brepols. Pohl, W. (2013) Christian and Barbarian identities in the Early Medieval west: Introduction. In W. Pohl and G. Heydemann (eds) Post-Roman transitions. Christian and Barbarian identities in the Early Medieval west, 1–46. Turnhout, Brepols. Roux, J.-P. (1988) La religion des peuples de la steppe, in Popoli delle steppe. Unni, Avari, Ungari, 513–532. Spoleto, Centro Italiano di Studi sull’Alto Medioevo. Sabbah, G. (1978) La méthode d’Ammien Marcellin. Recherches sur la construction du discours historique dans les Res Gestae. Paris, Les Belles Lettres.

9. Buckles and bones: Central Asiatic influences and the making of post-Roman Gaul 261 Salin, É. (1949) La civilisation mérovingienne, d’après les sépultures, les textes et le laboratoire. Prèmiere partie: Les idées et les faits. Paris, Picard. Tchlenova, N.L. (1963) Le cerf scythe. Artibus Asiae 26, 27–70. Thompson, E.A. (1956) The settlement of the Barbarians in southern Gaul. Journal of Roman Studies 46, 65–75. Torres-Rouff, C. and Yablonsky, L.T. (2005) Cranial vault modification as a cultural artifact: a comparison of the Eurasian steppes and the Andes. Homo 56, 1–16. Tuczay, C.A. (2012) Kulturgeschichte der mittelalterlichen Wahrsagerei. Berlin/Boston, De Gruyter. Weisweiler, J. (1950) Die Kultur der irischen Heldensage. Paideuma 4, 149–170. Wells, P.S. (2012) How ancient Europeans saw the world. Vision, patterns, and the shaping of the mind in prehistoric times. Princeton/Oxford, Princeton University Press. Wenskus, R. (1961) Stammesbildung und Verfassung. Das Werden der frühmittelalterlichen gentes. Köln, Böhlau. Werner, H. (2011) Der uralte Hirsch- bzw. Rentierkult bei den Jennisejern im Lichte des Wortschatzes. Studia Etymologica Cracoviensia 16, 141–150. Whittaker, C.R. (1994) Frontiers of the Roman Empire. A social and economic study. Baltimore and London, Johns Hopkins University Press. Wolfram, H. (1988) History of the Goths. Berkeley/Los Angeles/London, University of California Press. Wood, I.N. (2016) The Legislation of Magistri Militum: the laws of Gundobad and Sigismund. Clio@ Themis 10, 1–16. Zeiss, H. (1941) Die Germanischen Grabfunde des frühen Mittelalters zwischen mittlerer Seine und Loiremündung. Bericht der Römisch-Germanischen Kommission 31, 5–173.

Chapter 10 South Arabia in Late Antiquity: A melting pot of artistic ideas

Sarah Japp The Old South Arabian kingdoms emerged during the late 2nd millennium BC probably as a result of people migrating from the northern Arabian Peninsula and the Levant into the region of modern Yemen (see with bibliography Nebes 2001). An acculturation process with the indigenous Bronze Age population presumably followed, resulting in the development of a completely new culture. From the early 1st millennium BC the kingdom of Saba in the western part of South Arabia became the most powerful realm expanding not only on the Arabian Peninsula but also into the Horn of Africa (see with bibliography Nebes 2012, 243–244; 2014; Gerlach 2013; 2017a). Apart from a sophisticated water management system for successful agriculture (see with bibliography Vogt 2004; Gerlach 2012), the rise of the South Arabian caravan kingdoms depended on the incense trade. Myrrh and frankincense were harvested in the Dhofar region in modern Oman and brought by dromedary caravans to the west, in the early 1st millennium BC especially to Marib, the capital of Saba in the arid desert zone. From there they were transported to the Mediterranean coast in the north or to eastern Arabia, Mesopotamia and Persia in the northeast (see with bibliography Avanzini 1995; Nebes 2014, 15–23). Consequently, intensive contacts with the surrounding world existed in this period. However, reflections of these connections are rarely visible in South Arabian art, architecture and material culture. During the 1st millennium BC the South Arabian kingdoms were conservative in their culture and art and did not adopt foreign cultural influences (de Maigret 1994; Gerlach 2000; 2009; Antonini 2003). A striking change is observable from the late 1st millennium BC onwards (see with bibliography Glanzman 2002; Hitgen 2005; 2013; Japp 2013), at the same time as other major political, social and religious changes occurred (Hitgen 2005, 63–67; Japp 2013, 313–314). One of these was the rise of Himyar, an alliance of tribes in the highlands of Yemen, in the late 2nd century BC (Bâfaqîh 1990; Gajda 1998; Robin 1998; Yule

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2007; 2019; Nebes 2008). Along with the kingdoms of Saba, Qataban and Hadramawt, Himyar fought for predominance in South Arabia until the end of the 3rd century AD. By the beginning of the 4th century AD the entire area of the former caravan kingdoms was under Himyarite domination. However, the Himyarite kingdom still relied on the incense trade as its main source of wealth. The change from inland caravan trade to maritime trade – along the Red Sea and the Arabian Gulf towards India and East Arabia executed by Roman ships at the beginning of the 1st millennium AD – did not pose a problem, as Himyar controlled both the regions in which frankincense and myrrh grew and the harbours along the western and southern coast of South Arabia (Sidebotham 1986; Schiettecatte 2008; Blue 2009; Seland 2010; Power 2012; McLaughlin 2014). In AD 525 Aksum, the Christian kingdom in Ethiopia that had already tried to gain control of South Arabia during the 3rd century AD, invaded Himyar and installed a Christian kingdom (Robin 1989; 2012a; Nebes 2008; Bowersock 2013, 60–64, 92–119). At the end of the 6th century anti-Aksumite Himyarites regained power with the help of the Sasanians making South Arabia a Persian satrapy. In 632 AD the Persian satrap converted to Islam, and the pre-Islamic period of South Arabia came to an end. From the late 1st century BC until the end of the pre-Islamic period and even longer – artistic ideas and expressions do not change and/or cease immediately after a serious upheaval – foreign cultural influences can be observed in South Arabia in several areas of its material culture (see, for example, Will 1998; Hitgen 2005; 2013; Japp 2013; 2014; 2020). Different variants of cultural ‘interference’ such as accommodation, excerpting, adoption, acceptation, substitution and invention are all present at various times in this cultural shift depending on the respective visual medium being explored.1 Generally speaking, the origins of these new influences seem to stem from various contemporaneous globalised visual cultures. There has been some research interest in the foreign elements of South Arabian art, but predominantly for the first centuries of the 1st millennium AD only.2 The later period of the Himyar reign has not received the same attention. This chapter considers foreign influences on specific features in South Arabian art of this later Himyarite period, with a focus on stone reliefs and building decoration. Some of the new elements such as clay and glass vessels or jewellery are imports which were appreciated for their economic value and aesthetic beauty being part of international trade and of fashion koiné.3 During the early Himyarite period, pottery and glass vessels were imported from Italy, the eastern Mediterranean and the Levant. From the 2nd century AD onwards the origin of the imports, except those from the Levant, changed to North Africa, the Persian region and India following general shifts in the international trade system. Later Aksumite elements are also known. Global circumstances and the political changes within South Arabia already mentioned account for this change. Nevertheless, these imports had no influence on local production. None of the imported pottery forms were copied locally, and glass was not produced in South Arabia until the Middle Ages.4 South Arabia stayed conservative regarding these features of its material culture.

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The situation regarding coins is different. Because of the international incense trade, Attic tetradrachmas had arrived in the caravan kingdoms by the late 5th century BC (Dembski 1987, 132; Sedov 2009). Subsequently South Arabia started to mint copies, with the first ones being rather accurate copies using the Attic weight standard (Sedov 2009). From the 3rd century BC onwards transformations can be found, the coins now often displayed a male head with local hairstyle (Dembski 1987, 134; Munro-Hay 2003, 20–23). In the late 1st century BC a mint emerged whose coins presented a portrait similar to depictions of Augustus (Dembski 1987, 134; Potts 1994; Munro-Hay 2003, 47). However, shortly after, coins again showed a head with traditional hair-do on the obverse, but with an ibex or antelope on the reverse (Dembski 1987, 134; Munro-Hay 2003, 48 pl. 24–25). Both animals are associated with the Sabaean state god Almaqah. Significantly, these mints attest a change from pure copies via slight changes to the use of traditional objects and motifs. Himyarite coinage produced between the mid-1st and the 3rd century AD often displays beardless male heads with a traditional hair-do and a legend on both sides (Dembski 1987, 134 fig. 16; Munro-Hay 2003, pl. 26–27; Robin 2012c). The person pictured on such coinage is undoubtedly the king, thus coins were used as a medium for self-representation and to demonstrate power and status. This is a remarkable change, as the prestigious self-depiction of rulers is unknown in early South Arabia. The models for the new mints could have been contemporary Roman coins with their illustration of the emperor’s head/bust on the obverse surrounded by a legend. In the second half of the 3rd century AD the local coinage seems to cease. It was replaced by Aksumite coins in the second half of the 3rd century AD, with the earliest ones being issued by king Endubis (Munro-Hay 1989; Munro-Hay and Juel-Jensen 1995; Hahn 2015). The latest Aksumite coins circulated in South Arabia probably in the first half of the 6th century AD. This popularity of Aksumite coinage was not solely caused by the attempts of the Ethiopian kingdom to gain power over South Arabia. It was also a result of the economic importance of the Christian realm in international trade, visible in the greater number of these coins, for example in India (Hahn 2000, 287–288). Aksum was the only ancient culture in Africa – apart from the areas influenced by the Romans – minting coins. The beginning of its coinage in the late 3rd century AD was an attempt at the prestigious representation of power and at visible participation in international trade by offering a standardised currency to facilitate commodity relations. However, the impetus for such a coinage and its models are still unknown. The coincidental demise of South Arabian coinage might be of importance, although even here the causes are not known with any certainty. The Aksumite mints display depictions of the king with a specific head-cloth and/ or a crown surrounded by a Greek legend and a grain spike on both sides. On the one hand, this is reminiscent of Roman/Byzantine coins for the obverse, but not for the reverse.5 On the other hand, the influence of Himyarite coinage with the king’s head on both sides cannot be excluded (Hahn 1996; Breyer 2012, 36). Other models might have been in use too. Nevertheless, Aksumite coinage was probably a local transformation of foreign coin models in terms of creation and design. Interestingly, a hoard

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of coins from the Byzantine and Aksumite spheres was found, exemplifying contacts via trade in South Arabia (Munro-Hay 1989). The coins stem from the first half of the 4th until the first half of the 6th century AD. This hoard might be linked to the Aksumite interference in South Arabia during that period. Even if the number of late Roman/Byzantine coins in this hoard is minor when compared to the Aksumite ones and does not necessarily point to a direct contact between Himyar and late Rome/ Byzantium, at least the general connection between all these realms becomes visible. In the case of South Arabia the coins display the adoption of a completely unknown element, while the motifs were initially copied. It is still unclear how far the meaning of the motifs was understood or simply taken as closely linked to the object. In the course of time new foreign motifs were introduced, later replaced by local ones, and over time the representative role of coins was adopted by South Arabian rulers. In Aksum the introduction of coinage was likewise caused by the necessity of a standardised currency in international trade. However, the choice of motifs was limited and concentrated on the ruler and his self-representation from inception. In terms of cultural interferences coins might be a case of accommodation, the taking over of elements that were not available in the local culture, but which seemed to be useful. Stone reliefs, and especially building decoration, depict another interesting development. In the following, different elements of these stone reliefs and architectural decoration are examined regarding new features in comparison to Old South Arabian examples and the possible origin of these features by stylistic evaluation.6 In the Old South Arabian kingdoms building decoration was not abundant. Representative buildings were made of smoothened ashlars, sometimes adorned with smoothened margins and pecked centres, with the addition of false windows and doors, inscription bands and ibex and dentil friezes within the walls and at the junction to the ceiling. Rectangular pillars were used as ceiling supports inside rooms or for structuring courtyards and propyla. Initially, they were used without capitals, but later they were equipped with stepped capitals (see, for example, Radt 1973, 20 no. 118 pl. 39, 21 no. 127 pl. 41). In the late 1st millennium BC7 faceted columns (Fig. 10.1) are introduced (see, for example, Hitgen 2005, 53–54; Radt 2008, 229–233). This was probably the result of local knowledge Fig. 10.1: Facetted column drums in ancient Marib/ of Mediterranean columns which Yemen (© DAI Orientabteilung, I. Wagner).

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were not adopted at once, but took the detour of multi-faceted pillars. Later plain columns as well as fluted and twisted examples appear (see, for example, Radt 1973, pl. 10 no. 26–28, pl. 41 no. 126; Costa 1976, pl. 25 no. 169). The same development is observable with the capitals. First the stepped capitals were transformed from a rectangular into a circular shape (Fig. 10.1) (see, for example, Radt 1973, pl. 10 no. 28, pl. 40 no. 120–121; 2008, 232 fig. 5; Japp 2013, 308–311), and then another kind of capital emerged displaying two or three rows of leaves, often with vine tendrils (Fig. 10.2)8 (see, for example, Radt 2008; Japp 2013, 308–311; 2020). The Hellenistic-Roman world provides parallels, the most convincing being the Corinthian capital, even though this order almost never appears canonically on the South Arabian examples.9 Perhaps South Arabian artists adopted the lower part of Corinthian capitals while changing the upper part into something new. Some parallels regarding design are seen in capitals of the northern Arabian Peninsula and the Levant (see, for example, Japp 2013, Fig. 10.2: ‘Himyarite-Corinthian’ capital from Zafar/ 308–309; 2020). Therefore, models in Yemen, Zafar Museum ZM0302 (© Zafar Museum, the form of sketchbooks and/or archi- Universität Heidelberg P. Yule/M. Schicht). tects and artists most likely came from this region which was in direct contact with South Arabia through trade (Nebes 2009; Wenning 2009). The general reason for adopting such an element was presumably the globalised visual culture of the Graeco-Roman world, known in the Mediterranean as well as further away. In the case of the South Arabian capitals, it is probable that Himyarite patrons and artists always strived for a local version and never intended to make an exact copy. Even if this local version was different from the Old South Arabian forerunners, some elements were still culturally familiar, such as the strictly horizontal order of the capitals. Therefore, it seems that this transformation was not seen as alien, but as something, although new, still locally made. The ‘HimyariteCorinthian’ capitals can be considered as an invention, a creation that contains

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elements of a foreign culture, while at the same time following local traditions that cannot be found in that foreign culture. During the later Himyarite period there are close connections to late Roman/ Byzantine art. This is extraordinary as there were only minor political contacts between Himyar and Byzantium during the 4th until the early 6th century AD, mostly concentrating on the expansion of influence in central Arabia (Nebes 2010, 40–42; Bowersock 2013, 107–108).10 It is possible that the contact to Aksum which already commenced in the 2nd century AD encouraged the interaction of South Arabia with Byzantine artistic features. However, the exact starting point of the transfer of cultural ideas is unknown. In the early period Aksum was an ally to the different South Arabian kingdoms, a situation not requiring an intensive cultural exchange. In the later period Aksum conquered Himyar resulting in the adoption of specific foreign elements in the public sphere, but not necessarily in daily life. At the moment it seems that the adoption of these foreign artistic expressions in South Arabia was a consequence of political, religious or economic ties between Himyar and several foreign regions and the knowledge of their specific visual culture. Himyar was still involved in international trade, and becoming acquainted with the new elements via trade is not unlikely.11 One example of these changes are some capitals found in Sanaa (Finster 1978, pl. 57 a–c; Japp 2020).12 At the corners these block-like capitals display broad leaves with serrated leaf edges and moulded veins (Fig. 10.3). A smaller leaf is visible behind the junction of the leaves. Volute-like helices and volutes rise at the overlap of the leaves. These capitals are reminiscent of the Corinthian capital and have stylistic parallels in Byzantine art (see, for example, Strube 2002, pl. 73 d. f, pl. 101 c, pl. 124 f). In contrast to the transformation of the earlier ‘Himyarite-Corinthian’ capitals, here the model is still evident. Therefore, the development of the ‘Himyarite-Corinthian’ capital was not continued, but changed due to a new influence which probably can be dated between the 4th and 6th century AD.13 In the 6th century another type of capital occurs which was also found in the Great Mosque of Sanaa and most likely stems from the church of Abreha, the first Ethiopian king in South Arabia (Gajda 2009, 116–147; Robin 2012b). This Aksumite ruler erected a Christian basilica in the traditional style of his native country (Finster and Schmidt 1994; Yule 2007, 107–110; Finster 2009, 77; Leiermann 2015). The capitals display broad leaves at the corners composed of curved and convex-shaped stripes (Fig. 10.4) (Finster 1978, pl. 60 a–b, 61 a–b, 62 a–b, 63a). They cover most of the space; therefore, the bract is not extant any more. At the corners the tips of the leaves are curled upwards, which might be reminiscent of the Corinthian volutes. Crosses are placed in the upper centre above the junction of the leaves. These capitals seem to be typical for the Aksumite period in Ethiopia (see, for example, Krencker 1913, 106; Breyer 2012, 100 fig. 94). However, the development of this capital type is still unexplored, as there are no local forerunners known.14 Perhaps contacts between Byzantium and Aksum, fuelled especially by religious closeness, led to the introduction of new cultural elements.15

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Fig. 10.3: Late Corinthian-like capital as spolium in the Great Mosque in Sanaa (Finster 1978, pl. 57 c).

Nevertheless, in a similar way to the ‘Himyarite-Corinthian’ capitals of the early 1st millennium AD, the Aksumite capitals are no copies of Byzantine 4th to 6th-century capitals, but transformations. The introduction of features of Hellenistic-Roman and late Roman-Byzantine columns and capitals was most likely caused by a general fashion established in the Mediterranean world and adjoining areas that became a kind of ‘must-have’ for other societies. Another change in South Arabian art was the introduction of decorated reliefs into the construction of walls. As mentioned previously, the traditional style was uniform, but from the 1st century BC onwards a variety of new motifs appear (Yule 2007, 120–151; Japp 2013, 307–313; 2020). In terms of cultural interferences the enlargement of the catalogue of motifs in the 1st millennium AD seems to be a kind of acceptation, the taking over of a foreign element as an alternative for the indigenous one, but the local tradition remains relevant. Here in the course of time substitution took place, a taking over of certain motifs or elements while eliminating the existing local features. The Old South Arabian motifs disappeared, and only the new ones remained. Vine tendrils with grapes were remarkably popular over several centuries (see, for example, Costa 1973, pl. 5. 7–10; 1976, pl. 3–7; Radt 1973, 8–9 no. 11–20 pl. 4–6, 12

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Fig. 10.4: Aksumite capital as spolium in the Great Mosque in Sanaa (Finster 1978, pl. 60 a).

no. 44 pl. 16, 12 no. 45 pl. 17, 19 no. 102–105 pl. 37–38, 19 no. 108–109 pl. 39). 16 Models can be found in Hellenistic-Roman art, probably stemming from the region of the northern Arabian Peninsula. Interestingly, the motif was adopted without transformation which is a different situation from the capitals. The fondness for vine scrolls persisted into the late antique period (Fig. 10.5). By then the scrolls were arranged symmetrically, but became rather abstract unlike the more naturalistic manner of the earlier depictions. The vine leaves in this period seem schematic with distinct features such as drilled holes at the junctions of the lobes or in the centre of the grapes (Fig. 10.6) (see, for example, Yule 2007, fig. 72).17 Again the intention was a copy of the model and not a transformation while including traditional features. The origin of the models seems to be the late Roman/Byzantine world in general, where such depictions occur in several regions situated not too far from South Arabia, for example in Syria, the Levant or Egypt (see, for example, Badawy 1978, 139 no. 3.42, 141 no. 3.47, 176 no. 3.107 and 109a, 184 no. 3.126, 187 no. 3.133 and 134; Enß 2005, 138 no. 124 pl. 74, 151 no. 165a pl. 102; Strube 2002, pl. 65d, pl. 143c).18 Aksum offers the geographically closest connection where vine scrolls can be observed (see, for example, Krencker 1913, 65 fig. 144; Phillipson 2000, 116–119). However, the number of such specimens is still rather small. The Aksumite examples correspond to the late Roman/Byzantine ones allowing the hypothesis that they had been an adoption of those models. Hence, at the moment it cannot be decided with certainty whether this

10. South Arabia in Late Antiquity: A melting pot of artistic ideas new style was introduced to Himyar via regions of Byzantium or Aksum. The continuous and widespread presence of this motif argues for the fact that this decoration was accepted as part of local art, even if it was not known in Old South Arabian art. Still the adoption of late antique versions was the result of a constant influx of foreign models via international contacts and was not solely caused by new political circumstances in Himyar. The South Arabians followed, as did several other cultures, contemporary artistic trends. Aside from the vine tendrils, other decorative scrollwork (see, for example, Radt 1973, 13 no. 50 pl. 19; Costa 1973, 187 no. 5 pl. 2,1, 190 no. 29 pl. 6,6 and 7, 191 no. 38 pl. 9,3, 191–192 no. 40 pl. 10,1)19 and the depiction of rosettes (Japp 2014) as well as anthropomorphic and zoomorphic figures can be distinguished within the South Arabian reliefs. The representation of animals in the Old South Arabian kingdoms was more or less restricted to bulls and ibexes in the sacred sphere plus dromedaries and snakes (Antonini 2005; Antonini de Maigret 2012, 40–44). In the 1st millennium AD the repertoire was enlarged by gazelles, horses, wild cats, peacocks, eagles and vultures, as well as mythical animals (Antonini de Maigret 2012, 124–125; Japp 2020). Gazelles, horses, peacocks and wild cats seldom occur, so their transfer into South Arabian art might be the result of random selection. Eagles and vultures, as well as winged lions and griffins are portrayed more frequently. The eagle is initially known from the

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Fig. 10.5: Relief with vine scrollwork from Zafar, Zafar Museum ZM0681 (© Zafar Museum, Universität Heidelberg P. Yule/M. Schicht).

Fig. 10.6: Relief with vine scrollwork from Zafar, Zafar Museum ZM0017 (© Zafar Museum, Universität Heidelberg P. Yule/M. Schicht).

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reverses of 1st-century AD Hadramitic coins which might be an adoption of early Imperial Roman or Nabatean coins (Müller 1994, 101; Japp 2020).20 However, such early depictions are outnumbered, as most of the eagles and vultures are depicted in another pattern (Fig. 10.7) (see, for example, Radt 1973, 11 no. 41 pl. 14; Costa 1976, 451 no.  152 pl.  17, 453 no.  161 pl.  21; Yule 2007, 138 fig.  99).21 The body is shown in frontal view with stretched wings and the head turned to one side. The tail is visible between the legs. The feathers are divided into small roundish secondary feathers and elongated pointed primary feathers, while the upper edge of the wing is separated by a kind of ridge. The vultures follow the same principles, but display a longer naked neck and a more curved beak (see, for example, Yule 2007, 142 fig. 104, 144 fig. 105, 145 fig. 106).22 Apart from eagles being solely depicted on the stone panels, there are a few examples where the eagle is shown together with snakes (Lombardi 2016, 156–158).23 The eagle either stands on the snake or grabs it with his claws, while the snake surrounds the bird of prey in a circle. Sometimes two snakes can be seen (Antonini de Maigret 2012, 124 fig. 127).24 The artistic style of all these examples seems to be reminiscent of late Roman/Byzantine models (see, for example, Badawy 1978, 169 no. 3.98; Ägypten 1996, 111 no. 56, 126 no. 78, 176 no. 164; Enß 2005, 169 no. 212 pl. 133). Eagles are not known in Aksumite art at the time, so the hypothesis of direct influence via the Aksumite realm has to be used with care and influence of globalised Byzantine visual art emphasised. While eagles in the late Himyarite period (4th–6th century AD) are depicted only on reliefs – as far as we know –, in Byzantine art they appear on reliefs, capitals, as sculpture in the round, on coins, seals and other objects. In principle there are similarities to Sasanian eagle depictions (see, for example, Melikian-Chirvani 1969; Gunter and Jett 1992, 111 no. 56, 153) – again pointing to a widespread system of images during this period. However, one typical element, the short triangular tail feather, is missing in the South Arabian examples. The representation of vultures, unless it is just a case of misidentification, seems to be rather weird, especially for this period. Why this animal was depicted in South Arabia is still an unanswered question (Müller 1994; Sima 2000, 127–129).25 It might be that the symbolic meaning of the ‘imported’ eagle was already accepted by the South Arabians from the beginning of its appearance. In very general terms the eagle could have been understood as a symbol of heaven and the highest deity as well as victory and kingship (see, for example, Schneider and Stemplinger 1950), and in South Arabia it might even be associated with deities. Perhaps the noun nsr, used for eagles and vultures as well, was connected with the god Sayin, or it was the name of a deity (or deities) itself.26 However, as there are almost no written sources clarifying whether in South Arabia real and mythical animals were understood as symbols – either taking over the foreign symbolic value or creating a new local one – or whether they were used as a beautiful image, such considerations must remain hypothetical. Besides animals, human beings were also depicted on reliefs and as sculptures in the round. Old South Arabian representations were limited to sanctuaries and

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Fig. 10.7: Relief with eagle depiction from Zafar, Zafar Museum ZM0164 (© Zafar Museum, Universität Heidelberg P. Yule/M. Schicht).

burials, while their style was uniform comprising upright figures with one leg stepping forward and the forearms stretching forward or seated figures with forearms again stretching forward (see, for example, Antonini de Maigret 2012, 61–65, 90–99; Gerlach 2017b). From the early 1st millennium AD onwards funerary reliefs in particular reveal a variety of motifs such as familial scenes and banquets or vocational, hunting and combat scenes (see, for example, Antonini de Maigret 2012, 100–106; Lombardi 2016, 83–90). These images were new for South Arabian eyes; nevertheless, they depicted scenes from real life in South Arabia and thus became an acceptable feature of the region’s culture. The depictions were also part of the art of the day. However, the South Arabians presumably picked those narrative scenes that were understandable to them. Rulership and power already visible in the coinage were also manifested in sculpture. The most conclusive examples are two bronze statues of a king and his son that were displayed in the entrance hall of a palace (Weidemann 1983; Ali Aqil and Antonini 2007, 43–44, 147–148; Stupperich and Yule 2014, 338–350). The style was adopted from Hellenistic-Roman models. Neither nakedness nor the posture was known before in South Arabia. It is questionable whether this kind of depiction was understood and accepted, an issue hard to discuss, as there are no relevant inscriptions and no

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similar statues currently known. Here a cultural interference took place that might be explained as an excerpt, the taking over of elements that appear as a kind of set piece in the ‘receiving’ culture. From the late antique period a relief is known from the so-called stone building in Zafar, the capital of Himyar, representing a male figure with a long robe and coat and a crown on his head (Fig. 10.8) (Yule 2013, 126–129). He holds a long stick in one hand and a frond in the other, is adorned with a necklace and wears a sword. Fragments of a comparable second figure were unearthed too. The inscription on the upper part of the relief, ‘Wadd is father’, relating to an old South Arabia deity is not proof for a polytheistic date, as even in the later period this was used as an apotropaic formula (Yule 2013, 126). Some elements of the depiction can be judged as traditional such as the design of the face, the frontal view and the arming. However, the other features owe much to foreign influences. Here again Byzantine models are relevant, especially late antique ivory diptychs (see, for example, Metz 1962; Volbach 1976, 28–56; Yule 2013, 126–127). The crown, not known in South Arabian art until the Zafar relief, might have its roots in Byzantine and/or Aksumite art. Byzantine emperors wore bejewelled crowns.27 Aksumite rulers – only known through their coins – have crowns consisting of vertical bar-like objects with round pieces, probably precious stones (see, for example, Hahn 1983; Munro-Hay 1991, 150–166). There are almost no Aksumite reliefs, aside from those on the coins and preserved statues in the round representing rulers or human beings in general. Therefore, it is risky to assume Ethiopian art to be the direct model for the South Arabian specimens. In addition, the Aksumites were also influenced by late Roman/Byzantine art. The date of the relief points to the 5th/6th century AD, when contacts existed both to the Byzantine and the Aksumite culture. Similarly designed fragments were found in Zafar indicating that this kind of representation of human beings was common during the Himyarite period. Again the South Arabians adopted and transformed a typical contemporaneous mode of imperial representation. Only a few other figural depictions are known from late South Arabia, probably influenced by Byzantine models, some of which are presumably Christian. One relief displays a half-figure incised on a stone slab wearing a long robe and perhaps a necklace (Fig. 10.9) (Radt 1973, 19 no. 99 pl. 36).28 The hair is depicted in long strands. In its left hand the figure holds a small bird, most likely a dove, and in its right hand a twig, perhaps laurel as a symbol of eternity.29 On the head a rectangular area with a network pattern is shown, possibly a headdress or a basket. On a similar piece the bird and the headdress/basket are missing (Radt 1973, 19 no. 100 pl. 36). As this type of representation is – as far as current knowledge allows – without tradition in South Arabia, foreign influence has to be assumed. The objects are reminiscent of Christian depictions; therefore, a similar connotation is likely. Christianity was introduced to South Arabia by Theophilos who was sent as a missionary by emperor Constantius II (Ryckmans 1964; Robin 1992; Yule 2007, 103–110). During the 5th century it gained ground, while it was enforced in the 6th century by the presence of Christian

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Fig. 10.8: Relief with crowned man in the so-called stone building of Zafar, Zafar Museum ZM0607 (© Zafar Project, Universität Heidelberg P. Yule).

Ethiopians. A relief displaying a seated female figure, dressed in a long coat that covers the head, who is holding a child on her lap probably has the same background (Hitgen 2005, 67 fig. 23; Finster 2009, 95–97 fig. 27).30 An interpretation as Mary with her child Jesus seems plausible, particularly in comparison with Byzantine depictions of the same motif (Metz 1962, 39 no.  45; Lange 1964, 139 no.  63; Effenberger and Severin 1992, 140–141 no. 53), even though the South Arabian example is not a direct copy, but a local adoption. Again it cannot be settled whether the models came from Aksum or another part of the Byzantine realm since our knowledge of Aksumite art is very limited. Nevertheless, the principal form language in both areas is consistent and reinforces the argument for a globalised visual culture in that period. The Christian content was the result of religious changes in South Arabia and thus in need of new images. Moreover, even the vine scrollwork mentioned above can be included as part of the Christian symbolic repertoire as an emblem of Christ (John 15:1, 5, 8), as well as peacocks as a symbol of immortality,31 both appearing in Byzantine, Aksumite and South Arabian art.

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Fig. 10.9: Relief slab with female figure, Bainun/ Yemen (Radt 1973, pl. 36 no. 99).

Fig. 10.10: Capital with rows of leaves, Zafar Museum ZM0918 (© Zafar Museum, Universität Heidelberg P. Yule/M. Schicht).

Aside from South Arabian relations with the Byzantine and Aksumite realms, two types of pillars and pillar capitals respectively seem to point to contacts to the northeast. Among the capitals there are specimens covered with two to five rows of leaves (Fig. 10.10) (see, for example, Yule 2007, 141 fig. 103).32 These leaves have serrated edges and curved veins. The style of the junction of the individual leaves is particularly noticeable as their connection to each other forms a specific circular eye-like element. The rows can be organised with the leaves either directly one behind the other or in the interspaces, and combinations of both are also present. The other possibility is an arrangement in strict horizontal rows, one above the other, sometimes separated by stripes (Fig. 10.11). The first design mentioned might derive from the ‘Himyarite-Corinthian’ capitals and appears to be the earlier version. However, the specific form of the junction has to come from another source. The serial arrangements in Sasanian building decoration from the 6th century AD seem to be a convincing candidate (see, for example, Kröger 1982, pl. 3 no. 7, pl. 84 no. 2–4). The second variant of pillar capitals could be of a later date, although this is uncertain. With these examples, part of the pillar itself is often preserved, displaying either vine scrolls or floral all-over ornamentations comprising tendrils, leaves, leaf bunches and palmette-like arrangements as well as rosettes (Radt 1973, 21 no. 130 pl. 42, no. 131 pl. 43, no. 132 pl. 44; Finster 1978, pl. 59 a–c). Here again close parallels to Sasanian

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Fig. 10.11: Pillar with separated rows of leaves, Zafar Museum ZM0711 (© Zafar Museum, Universität Heidelberg P. Yule/M. Schicht).

building decoration in stone and stucco can be drawn (see, for example, Ghirshman 1962, 189 no. 232; Kröger 1982, pl. 30 no. 3, pl. 51 no. 3, pl. 63 no. 1, pl. 66 no. 3, pl. 67 no. 1). The emergence of these relief designs in South Arabian art might be a result of Sasanian political dominance over the Himyarites during the late 6th and early 7th century AD. However, Persian culture was not unfamiliar to South Arabians in that period as the Sasanian kingdom was a global player.33 The number of Persian elements is not large, so it seems reasonable that those elements were not really integrated into established South Arabian art, but stayed an alien feature linked with ostentation to foreign rule. Perhaps these kinds of reliefs were only implemented in buildings connected with the Sasanian dominance or directly erected by Sasanians. Some of the figural representations, especially griffins and winged lions (Fig.  10.12), might also have been influenced by Sasanian art.34 The craftsmanship

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Fig. 10.12: Capital with winged lion, Zafar Museum ZM0145 (© Zafar Museum, Universität Heidelberg P. Yule/M. Schicht).

is rather uncertain, probably the result of non-familiarity with the motif. Almost all South Arabian specimens were arranged antithetically around a central object (see, for example, Costa 1976, 450 no. 139 pl. 12).35 The latter often is a kantharos-like vessel or a floral motif. The griffins and winged lions are shown in side view while one or both front paws touch the vessel. The raised wings are again differentiated into small roundish secondary feathers and elongated primary feathers with the uppermost tips slightly curved. The wings especially seem to point to a Persian influence. Nevertheless, in the Persian world the winged lion/griffin has a long tradition probably merging artistic elements of different cultural spheres.36 Here again it is not clear if the original function and symbolic meaning of these animals (Simon 1962) was understood by the South Arabians. They could have equally been adopted without modification as an expression of new political, social or religious elements in South Arabia or provided with a completely new meaning. The taking

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over of griffins and winged lions seem again to be an excerpt, a kind of set piece in the South Arabian culture. South Arabian culture and art during the 1st millennium AD is characterised by the adoption and transformation of foreign ideas, techniques and motifs in contrast to the Old South Arabian kingdoms of the 1st millennium BC with their traditional and conservative approach. Since there was no outside pressure to use such new elements at the beginning of the late antique period in South Arabia, this behaviour can be judged an intentional process, probably of the ruling class. The factors causing such openness are many and varied. The political and related social changes commencing in the early 1st millennium AD and intensifying from the 4th century AD onwards, the time of the united Himyarite kingdom, constitute the main component of these factors (Hitgen 2005, 62–63, 67; 2013, 282; Japp 2013, 314). During the first centuries of the 1st millennium AD different kingdoms in South Arabia tried to secure a dominant position. The Himyarite ‘newcomers’ in particular wanted to express their rising power by using new representative features in the public sphere. From the 4th century AD onwards the area was united under one ruler with a centralised system. The religious change from polytheism to monotheism shortly after was presumably also intended to unify the different groups in the realm.37 Again there was a quest to depict the result of these changes in the cultural sphere. The artistic elements of the Old South Arabian period were judged not to meet these new expectations, and therefore the ruling class had to look elsewhere for a new canon to represent the altered power relations in the realm. Trade connections with different areas, which were further enhanced through the rise of the maritime trade along the Red Sea, facilitated this development. Elements of the Hellenistic-Roman and in due course Byzantine, Aksumite and Sasanian cultures were presumably chosen due to their status as a particular dominant cultural style. Interestingly, not only pure copies can be observed, but also different concepts of ‘interference’. Therefore, South Arabian patrons and artists significantly influenced the adoption, transformation and execution of the motifs, easing the implementation of several of these elements into local art and culture and enabling them to be accepted as indigenous. During the suzerainty of the Aksumites some new features were realised, perhaps by Aksumites themselves. However, several changes were consistent with the general cultural and artistic shifts in the late Roman/Byzantine hemisphere. At the moment it is not possible to identify the direct origin of the models which might be Syria, Egypt, Asia Minor and/or Aksumite Ethiopia, as our knowledge of both 6th-century South Arabian and Aksumite art is limited. The situation under the Sasanian rule in the late 6th and early 7th century AD is even harder to evaluate, as vestiges are difficult to find. Some imports as well as a few new motifs are visible in local art but probably they did not change Himyarite culture at large. The inclusion of foreign elements from surrounding regions into the South Arabian visual canon in the early 1st millennium AD did not lead to the demise of a recognisably autonomous culture. South Arabian culture was instead renewed and transformed not only by the foreign features themselves but also through

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the different ways in which these were implemented. This procedure allowed it to remain an extraordinary culture in its own right both throughout and as a result of the change process.

Notes

1. The German terms used by Meyer 2007 (Persistenz, Akkomodation, Exzerpt, Adaption, Imitation, Akzeptation, Substitution, Assimilation) were translated here. The terms are used here as an experimental classification scheme to see how far they can elucidate cultural choices made by the South Arabians in the period under review. 2. See, for example, overview studies such as Antonini de Maigret (2012, 131–155) on the ‘recent South Arabian period’, Yule 2019 on Himyar and Finster 2009 on late antique Arabia. 3. Regarding the existence of pottery and glass vessels and their origin see for example: Comfort 1968; Calvet 1988; Breton and Bâfaqîh 1993; Japp 2004; Dussart 2009; Tomber 2017; Japp 2019. 4. Boulogne and Hardy-Guilbert 2010 with other find spots. 5. The contemporaneous late Roman mints do not display the emperors’ portraits on the reverse, but instead deities or specific scenes. 6. The limitations of such an approach are acknowledged and well known, as it can only unveil a certain part of culture and its development. Unfortunately South Arabian inscriptions do not provide information on these topics, and the number of archaeological excavations with conclusive contexts is rather small. Inscriptions do not elucidate South Arabian religious beliefs, for example, or the local appreciation of specific figural and ornamental representations. Therefore, we are dependent on, and limited to, what we can glean from the objects themselves. 7. It has to be mentioned that for most of the following pieces an exact date is hard to allocate, as they were found as debris out of their original context. The assumed dates originate from a combination of stylistic observations, general stratigraphic considerations and comparisons with probable models. 8. I would like to thank P. Yule, University of Heidelberg, for the opportunity to work on the material in the Museum of Zafar and for the photographs. I would also like to thank the General Organisation of Antiquities and Museums of Yemen for their help and assistance. 9. Other researchers have dealt with foreign influences in later South Arabian art and some also with building decoration (cf. Dentzer-Feydy 2009, 129–145; Antonini de Maigret 2012, 120–121; Yule 2019, 61–71, 75–76). However, a tangible reference to models and their chronology is often not provided. 10. It seems that at the beginning of the 6th century AD there was a certain kind of rapprochement between Himyar on one side and Aksum and Byzantium on the other. Byzantium was probably interested in access to the harbours along the Red Sea route, but more in the central Arabian tribes under Himyarite rule whom they wanted to function as a counterpoint to the pro-Sasanian tribes. 11. The integration of South Arabia into the international maritime trade network is indicated by the archaeological material from the ports along the Gulf of Aden such as Qani in modern Yemen (Salles and Sedov 2010, with bibliography) and Sumhuram in modern Oman (Avanzini 2008, with bibliography; Pavan 2015). Traded goods as well as some evidence for trading branches were found in the excavations at these ports. Additionally, hundreds of graffiti and inscriptions in different languages such as South Arabian, Aksumite, Greek, Palmyrene, Indian and Bactrian found in the Hoq Cave on Soqotra reflect the international diversity of sailors and traders (see, for example, Strauch and Bukharin 2004; Strauch 2012). Given this background,

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the continuous influx of foreign ideas from the 1st century AD until the end of the pre-Islamic phase into South Arabia can be assumed with certainty. 12. Whether these capitals stem from churches mentioned in the written sources or from other public or even private buildings cannot be decided (Finster 2009, 77). 13. Nevertheless, as the date of most of the known capitals is vague, it cannot be said whether the style of 4th–6th century AD capitals in South Arabia is illustrated entirely by the mentioned capitals in Sanaa or if different types were extant. There could have been, for example, an unknown late version of the ‘Himyarite-Corinthian’ capital. 14. The Aksumite kingdom emerged in Ethiopia in the late 1st millennium BC after almost 400 years of historical silence in the region. The period between the end of the Ethio-Sabaean entity of Di’amat and the rise of the Aksumite realm is still largely unknown. Nevertheless, some lines of traditions from the Ethio-Sabaean culture into the Aksumite culture are known (see, for example, Nebes 2017), but the origin of many elements of Aksumite culture is still unidentified. Three capitals in the National Museum of Eritrea (Zazzaro 2013, 90 fig. 16.24–26) depict a rather simple leaf decoration, while the elongated leaves and acanthus are reminiscent of Byzantine capitals. However, they are not direct forerunners of the aforementioned Aksumite capitals. 15. The earliest contacts between Byzantium and Aksum are proven for the time of Emperor Diocletian (Munro-Hay 1991, 56; Nebes 2010, 31). At least from the mid-4th century AD onwards, when the Aksumite ruler Ezana converted to Christianity, a close connection between the two realms can be assumed (Nebes 2010, 31). 16. The number of reliefs decorated with vine outnumbered all other motifs, which explains the present emphasis on them. 17. Further examples: https://heidicon.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/889389, https://heidicon. ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/888898, https://heidicon.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/888734, https://heidicon.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/888687, https://heidicon.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/ detail/888017, https://heidicon.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/884931 (last accessed: 01/07/2019). 18. Further examples: https://heidicon.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/889235, https://heidicon. ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/889020 (last accessed: 01/07/2019). 19. Further examples: https://heidicon.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/889235, https://heidicon. ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/889020 (last accessed: 01/07/2019). 20. Of later date are gems and ring stones with similar depictions of eagles: Yule 2007, 145 fig. 106 (5th/6th century AD); Lombardi 2016, 157–158 (2nd/3rd century AD). For the wide geographical and chronological distribution of eagle representations see Wittkower 1939. 21. Further examples: https://heidicon.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/888059, https://heidicon. ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/888045, https://heidicon.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/889407, https://heidicon.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/888935 (last accessed: 01/07/2019). 22. Further examples: https://heidicon.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/888066, https://heidicon. ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/885780 (last accessed: 01/07/2019). 23. The British Museum example can be assigned to an earlier period, perhaps the 2nd/3rd century AD. 24. The depiction of this relief is even more schematic and stylised than the other specimens. Similarities to Byzantine cloisonné art can be observed. 25. The term nsr is used for both eagles and vultures, so perhaps South Arabians did not distinguish between the depictions of these birds of prey. 26. Cf. Müller 1994; Sima (2000, 129) and Robin (2012d, 49–50, 79–80) are both sceptical. Even in the Christian period the eagle was still of importance and often associated with Christ (see, for example, Wittkower 1939, 312–321). 27. For example the crowns of Justinian and Theodora in the church of San Vitale in Ravenna (see Andreescu-Treadgold and Treadgold 1997).

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28. The stone slab and the carving is reminiscent of loculus slabs (cf. Effenberger and Severin 1992, 94 no. 18). 29. Both elements have specific connotations in Christianity such as peace for the dove and victory and eternity for the laurel (cf. Braun 2010). 30. Hitgen (2005, 67), who supports the interpretation as Mary with the child, mentions two similar sculptures that disappeared on the art market. 31. A limestone block displaying two antithetic peacocks with a bunch of grapes in the centre, the acroteria decorated with kantharoi, can be cited here (Finster 2009, 94–95 fig. 26). The piece can be dated, following Byzantine comparisons, to the 6th century AD. 32. Further examples: https://heidicon.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/887990, https://heidicon.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/884945, https://heidicon.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/ 888662, https://heidicon.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/888760, https://heidicon.ub. uni-heidelberg.de/detail/888776, https://heidicon.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/888925, https://heidicon.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/888926, https://heidicon.ub.uni-heidelberg. de/detail/888818, https://heidicon.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/889052, https://heidicon. ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/889045 (last accessed: 01/07/2019). One example (https:// heidicon.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/889351; last accessed: 01/07/2019) shows comparable rows of leaves, where the specific junction is not visible, so this might be a kind of transitional piece. 33. The connection between Himyar and the Sasanians is somewhat nebulous in the beginning (Potts 2008). There were diplomatic ties at least in the 4th century AD (Nebes 2010, 32). Close contacts were extant when the Sasanians conquered South Arabia in the second half of the 6th century AD and terminated the Aksumite suzerainty (Potts 2008, 206–211). 34. Reliefs presenting hunt scenes, combats between horsemen or the fight between lion and bull are assumed to be influenced by Sasanian models (Antonini de Maigret 2012, 142–149). 35. Further examples: https://heidicon.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/888052, https://heidicon. ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/888038, https://heidicon.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/885766, https://heidicon.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/detail/885765, https://heidicon.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/ detail/888821 (last accessed: 01/07/2019). 36. See different examples in Ghirshman 1962, 219 fig.  261, 303 fig.  399, the latter showing influence; Kröger 1982, pl.  99 no.  2–3; Gunter and Jett 1992, 145–147 no.  22; Metzger and Girardi 2013, fig.  1. As the Persian depictions of griffins and winged lions might also have been influenced by Hellenistic-Roman and late antique/Byzantine models, it is likewise possible that the South Arabians acquired models from these spheres (see, for example, Meinecke 2016, 219). 37. On the religious changes see, for example: Robin 2003; 2004; Gajda 2009, 47–58; Bowersock 2013, 78–91.

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Ägypten (1996) Ägypten. Schätze aus dem Wüstensand. Kunst und Kultur der Christen am Nil. Wiesbaden, Ludwig Reichert. Ali Aqil, A. and Antonini, S. (2007) Bronzi sudarabici di periodo pre-islamico. Rome, De Boccard. Andreescu-Treadgold, I. and Treadgold, W. (1997) Procopius and the imperial panels of S. Vitale. The Art Bulletin 79(4), 708–723. Antonini, S. (2003) The anthropomorphic sculpture of Southern Arabia. Autochthony and autonomy of an artistic expression. Arabia 1, 21–26. Antonini, S. (2005) Images. Gods, humans, and animals. In A.C. Gunter (ed.) Caravan kingdoms. Yemen and the ancient incense trade, 96–99. Washington DC, Arthur M. Sackler Gallery.

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Chapter 11 The mosaic pavement beneath the floor of al-Aqṣā mosque: A case study of late antique artistic koiné

Michelina Di Cesare Introduction Al-Aqṣā mosque lies in the south-western quadrant of the ḥaram al-sharīf on the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. Its current state is the result of several reconstructions and restorations which took place over time. All the archaeological information on its structural history and site was obtained from the examinations and excavations carried out between 1938 and 1942 by Robert Hamilton, Director of the Department of Antiquities of Palestine under the British Mandate. In his report, published in 1949, Hamilton outlined: a Herodian phase, consisting of the remains of a mikvah and the passage that leads to the esplanade from the Double Gate, in the southern wall of the ḥaram; three Islamic pre-Crusader phases, consisting of the remains of three successive structures built on the same spot; and several later additions, mostly dating to the Crusader and post-Crusader periods. These archaeological evidences and their interpretation concurred with the history of the Temple Mount as outlined by literary sources. In 2008 the archaeologist Zachi Zweig studied the documents produced during the excavations, which are kept at the Israel Antiquities Authority Archives, and discovered the photographs of fragments of a mosaic pavement that Hamilton had omitted to report. Zweig recognised the decorative motifs appearing in these fragments as ‘Byzantine’, dated them to the 5th to 7th century, and ascribed them to a church or monastery. The presence of a Christian building on the Temple Mount, on the same spot where the mosque was later built, and in a period during which the area was supposed to be abandoned, would raise a number of delicate issues regarding the reliability of the literary sources and the objectivity of Hamilton’s excavations, challenging the possibility of reconstructing the history of the site on the basis of textual information and material data. Therefore, it seems extremely important to investigate the

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matter. By studying the documentation produced by Hamilton during the excavations and available on line on the website of the Israel Antiquities Authority Archives, it is possible to ascertain the exact location of the mosaic fragments and their relation to the three pre-Crusader phases of the mosque. Moreover, the ‘Byzantine’ facies of the decorative motifs appearing on these fragments is revealed as a feature of the late-antique artistic koiné, still shared by patrons and craftsmen in the Bilād al-Shām during the Umayyad period.

History of the site of al-Aqṣā mosque according to the literary sources After the destruction of the Herodian Temple in 70 CE, except for the possible constructions ascribed to Hadrian (ruled 117–138: Cassius Dio 69.12.1; Genesis Rabba 64.29) and an attempt of reconstruction ascribed to Julian (ruled 361–363: Gregorius Nazianzenus, Orationes 5.3–4; Ephraem Syrus, Contra Iulianum 1.16 and 2.7; and others), the Temple Mount in Jerusalem was abandoned. After the triumph of Christianity, the centre of the holy city was transferred to the Golgotha area, where in 325/326 Constantine (sole ruler 324–337) built the Basilica of the Holy Sepulchre, the new Temple of the new Israel (Eusebius, Vita Constantini 3.33–40). In the 4th and 5th century the ruined Temple Mount, which Christians regarded as proof of the prophecy uttered by Christ according to Matthew 24.2 and Luke 21.6, was only frequented by the Jews, who each year went to perform a ritual to a pierced rock, the only memorial left of the Temple (Anonymus Burdegalensis 16; Hieronymus, In Sophoniam 1.15–16). In the following period the area was progressively transformed into a dump (Hieronymus, In Isaiam 12.53–55; Ibn al-Murajjā nos. 38 and 42; Eutychius 17–18; Geniza Chronicle in Gil 1992, 71), until ʿUmar b. al-Khaṭṭāb, after conquering Jerusalem in 637/638, had it cleared, unearthed the rock – later enclosed in the Dome of the Rock – and built a mosque at the back of it, so that the rock was not standing in the direction of prayer (Ṭabarī s. 1.V, 2408–2409; Ibn al-Murajjā nos. 39 and 162; Muthīr al-gharām 140–144; al-Ṣuyūṭī 1.240; Mujīr al-Dīn 2.380; Eutychius 17–18). Possibly around 668–670 a mosque was constructed, involving the work of marble-masons (Georgian Anonymous in Flusin 1992, 19–22), and a structure made of wooden beams leaning against some ancient ruins in the area of the Temple was standing between 670 and 680 (Arculf in Adomnanus 1.1). During the reign of al-Walīd (ruled 705–715), skilled workers were sent from Egypt in order to build the mosque of Jerusalem (Aphrodito Papyri nos. 1366, 1403, 1414, 1433, 1435, 1439, 1441, 1451). This structure, except for the part around the miḥrāb, resting on marble columns, was destroyed by an earthquake and rebuilt during the ʿAbbasid period, when it appeared as consisting of a larger central nave, a large dome in front of the miḥrāb, and possibly fifteen side aisles each delimited by eleven arches (Muqaddasī 168–169; Muthīr al-gharām 304; Mujīr al-Dīn 1.413–414). In this period the mosque was considered as the covered part of al-Aqṣā mosque (Muqaddasī 168). A further reconstruction was ordered by the Fāṭimid imam al-Ẓāhir (ruled 1026–1036), according to a lost inscription (al-Harawī in van Berchem 1925, 383), and resulted in an impressive building (Nāṣir-i Khusraw 79–81). After the Crusader conquest in 1099, the building

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was initially converted into the palace of the Kings of Jerusalem (Guilelmus Tyrensis 8.3; Ernoul 8) and later on into the headquarters of the Templars (Theodoricus 17; Bernardus Thesaurarius 460–467; Ernoul 7–9; Estoires d’Outremer 46–47; and others). It went back to its original function after the recapture of Jerusalem by Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn in 1187, when some of the Crusader constructions were demolished, a new miḥrāb was built at the centre of the qiblī wall and a minbar was set next to it (ʿImād al-Dīn 51–54; Abū l-Fidāʾ 1.57; Ibn al-Athīr 10.552; Mujīr al-Dīn 2.485–486; and others).

History of the site of al-Aqṣā mosque according to the excavations The site of al-Aqṣā mosque and the structures occupying it were investigated between 1938 and 1942, during the demolition and subsequent reconstruction of the eastern and central part of the building, which had been heavily affected by earthquakes in 1922 and 1937. The western part had been previously rebuilt by Kemalettin Bey in 1924–1927, when mosaic decorations and a Fāṭimid inscription were discovered on the northern dome-bearing arch and restored (van Berchem in Creswell 1979, vol. 1, 306–307; Creswell 1979, vol. 1, 375–376; Yavuz 1996). The 1938–1942 works were undertaken by the Supreme Muslim Council and the Department for the Preservation of Arab Monuments in the Egyptian Government, in cooperation with the Department of Antiquities of Palestine under the British Mandate. The director of the latter, Robert Hamilton, undertook a thorough investigation of the structures as they were dismantled and also made some excavations beneath the floor when it was removed along with piers and columns which had to be replaced. In his report (Hamilton 1949, on which the following is based), he informs us that in 1938 the structure of the mosque consisted of five sections (Fig. 11.1): 1. the area adjacent to the miḥrāb, featuring a central dome and side arcades resting on marble columns; 2. three central aisles north of the dome; 3. two ranges of vaults to the east of the central aisles; 4. two ranges of vaults to the west of the central aisles; 5. a transept between the eastern vaults and the southern arcades. Section 4 was the work of Kemalettin, whereas section  3 was a Crusader structure with later additions, whose westernmost piers were built against massive masonry columns similar to those of section 1, located on the northern side of the transept 5 and in section 2. Section 5 presented two phases: the latest was related to the aforementioned masonry columns, whereas the earliest was associated with the two massive piers delimiting a small room to the east (the miḥrāb Zakariyyāʾ); these, in turn, were related to the piers and columns supporting the two transverse arcades of section 1 springing from the eastern L-shaped piers of the dome, as well as to the columns supporting the easternmost arcade perpendicular to the latter. The westernmost of the perpendicular arcades in the eastern half of section 1 rested on marble columns flanked by the piers supporting the aforementioned transverse arcades, revealing that the latter were a later addition. These observations allowed Hamilton to identify 5 phases prior to Kemalettin’s reconstruction: the first attested by the perpendicular arcade resting on marble columns in section  1; the second attested by the arcades resting on piers and columns in section  1; the

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Fig. 11.1: Plan of al-Aqṣā mosque before the 1938–1942 reconstruction. Israel Antiquities Authority Scientific Archives, folder Haram (El Aqsa Mosque), A1(4) SRF_93A-B (337/336) (http://www.iaaarchives.org.il/zoom/zoom.aspx?folder_id=83&type_id=&id=7033 [accessed 17/03/2020]) (© Israel Antiquities Authority).

third attested by the arcades resting on masonry columns; the fourth attested by the Crusader and post-Crusader vaults resting on piers; the fifth attested by small structures built against the latter. The façade of the building revealed to be related to the second phase, with a later addition testified by a Fāṭimid inscription, while the porch in front of it presented Crusader and post-Crusader phases. Hamilton did not relate to any of these phases the painted tie-beams connecting the columns of the central nave in section 1, as well as those connecting the columns and piers of the arcades east and west of the dome. The dismantlement of the roof covering the central nave revealed that its timbers were carved and painted; some of them had been re-employed from previous structures, others had been made ad hoc and featured graffiti dated to the late 7th or early 8th century on palaeographical grounds. Wooden panels carved with vegetal and floral compositions, including maḥārīb and

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Fig. 11.2: Plan of the excavations of al-Aqṣā mosque carried out in 1938–1942. Israel Antiquities Authority Scientific Archives, folder Haram (El Aqsa Mosque), A1(4) SRF_93A-B (337/336) (http:// www.iaa-archives.org.il/zoom/zoom.aspx?folder_id=83&type_id=&id=7032 [accessed 17/03/2020]) (© Israel Antiquities Authority).

vases, were nailed to the extremities of these timbers. Hamilton related them to either the second or the third phase. The demolition of the eastern area north of the dome and the removal of the floor offered the opportunity for some excavations, which brought to light more evidence related to the first and second phases (Fig. 11.2). The former consisted in fragments of a marble pavement discovered at ca. 0.60/0.80 m beneath the floor, which ended against the remains of a wall located about 19 m south of the northern wall of the current building and open onto an external paving. Six rows of eight stone blocks,

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interpreted as column plinths, were found embedded in the pavement, at a distance of ca. 6.80 m from one another in east-west direction and ca. 4.20 m in north-south direction – with the exception of the two westernmost rows, which were quite irregularly spaced. These rows were aligned with the arcades running from north to south in section 1 and had the same intercolumniation. Below the bedding of the marble pavement a passage leading to the esplanade from the Double Gate (in the southern wall of the ḥaram), as well as remains of a mikvah were discovered. Both were related to the Herodian Temple. As for the evidence of the second phase, it consisted of 5 rows of stone blocks superimposed to those of the first phase, as well as other blocks aligned with them, forming rows running north beyond the marble pavement and related to pillars embedded in the northern wall of the building, aligned with the corresponding ones embedded in the qiblī wall. Three more blocks were discovered, similarly distant ca 4.20 m in north-south direction, aligned with the western arcade of the central nave and beyond the limit of the marble pavement. Moreover, an external pavement on the same level reached by the upper surface of the blocks was found north of the transept in section 5. These data led Hamilton to identify three successive structures built on the same spot after the Islamic conquest and before the Crusader occupation, which he labelled Aqṣā I, Aqṣā II and Aqṣā III, attributing to them the evidences related to phases one, two and three respectively. Aqṣā I was characterised by at least five aisles delimited by arcades perpendicular to the qiblī wall, resting on marble columns with a diameter of ca. 60  cm, supported by stone plinths distant 6.80 m from one another in east-west direction and 4.20 m in north-south direction (except for the two westernmost aisles, whose arrangement was quite irregular). This building featured a marble pavement and extended up to a wall 19  m south of the northern wall of the present building. Aqṣā II extended up to the present northern wall, with at least five aisles, a wide central nave and a transept, whose intersection was marked by a dome. In this building, too, the arcades perpendicular to the qiblī wall rested on marble columns with a diameter of ca. 0.60 m, supported by stone plinths distant 6.80  m from one another in east-west direction and 4.20  m in north-south direction; each arcade comprised twelve arches. The transverse arcades delimiting the transept and springing from the L-shaped piers of the dome rested on columns, as well as on piers flanking columns. The nave was covered by a gabled roof resting on carved and painted timbers with carved wooden panels at their extremities. Aqṣā III mainly consisted of the renewal of the area north of the dome and its side aisles: new arcades were built, aligned with those of the transept perpendicular to the qiblī wall, resting on masonry columns with a diameter of ca. 0.85 m, distant 7.43 m from one another in north-south direction; each arcade comprised seven arches.

The chronology of the three pre-Crusader phases Hamilton initially followed the chronology proposed by Creswell on the base of the sources and the Fāṭimid inscription discovered by Kemalettin on the northern

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dome-bearing arch (Hamilton 1949, 70–74; Creswell 1979, vol. 1, 373–380; vol. 2, 119–126; Creswell and Allan 1989, 73–78). This inscription mentioned the imām al-Ẓāhir, which seemed to confirm the rebuilding suggested in the inscription reported by al-Harawī: according to Hamilton, this reconstruction corresponded to Aqṣā III. Consequently, Aqṣā II had to be identified as the structure re-built by the ʿAbbasids after an earthquake and described by Muqaddasī. Indeed, the marble columns immediately to the east and west of the dome could be recognised as the area surrounding the miḥrāb which did not collapse and was integrated into the new building. Therefore, Aqṣā I was the mosque built by al-Walīd, as testified by the Aphrodito papyri, with the peculiarity that its aisles were perpendicular to the qiblī wall, unlike in coeval mosques. Hamilton did not discuss the dating of the wooden panels – which Creswell dated to the ʿAbbasid period despite Marçais’s observations (Creswell 1937; 1979, vol.  2, 122; Marçais in Creswell 1979, vol. 2, 127–137; Creswell and Allan 1989, 78) – and of the mosaics on the northern dome-bearing arch. Later on Hamilton tried to find a better correspondence between archaeological data, epigraphical evidence and textual sources (Hamilton in Creswell and Allan 1989, 79–82; Hamilton 1992). He ascertained that the inscription on the northern dome-bearing arch did not mention a rebuilding of the mosque but rather a renovation made by al-Ẓāhir, which he related to the dome and its supports. Then he reconsidered Muqaddasī’s description of the ʿAbbasid mosque and realised that it suited Aqṣā III, especially for the mention of eleven lateral doors, implying eleven arches in the direction north-south, and plastered columns, which were more likely to be made of masonry rather than marble. Therefore, Aqṣā II was the structure built by al-Walīd, and this dating concurred with that of the graffiti discovered on the roof beams, whereas Aqṣā I had to be ascribed to ʿAbd al-Malik (685–705). However, later on Hamilton agreed with Julian Raby that Aqṣā I had rather to be ascribed to Muʿāwiya (ruled 661–680; Johns 1999, 62). Though recent scholarship tends to neglect Hamilton’s results (Grafman and RosenAyalon 1999; Kaplony 2002; St Laurent and Awwad 2013; Marsham 2013; St Laurent and Awwad 2016) or adhere to his first chronological proposal (Elad 1999; Nees 2016), a review of the archaeological data regarding Aqṣā I, together with a new reading of the textual sources, demonstrate that it can effectively be dated to the reign of Muʿāwiya (Di Cesare 2017). Indeed, this chronological setting perfectly justifies its plan, which seemed anomalous to Hamilton himself. According to historical sources, Muʿāwiya commissioned the rebuilding of several mosques, all featuring an orientation which was later perceived as aberrant and was therefore corrected by further reconstructions. However, it has been ascertained that these mosques did not have an erroneous qibla, but were astronomically oriented: they reproduced the orientation of the Kaʿba, so that, depending on the region where each of these mosques was built, the prayer could be directed towards one of its four walls (King 1985; 1995). The major axis of the Kaʿba was determined by the rising of Canopus, and the major axis of the Herodian Temple, coinciding with that of the ḥaram al-sharīf, aligns with the rising of Canopus in about 20/19 BC, when the platform was built. If we consider

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Aqṣā I as astronomically oriented, then its qiblī wall is the eastern rather than the southern and the plan features five aisles parallel, rather than perpendicular, to it. Consequently, the irregular westernmost aisle can be explained as a porch on the façade, whose width narrowed towards the south, thus causing a special intercolumniation. In addition, the marble pavement of the mosque confirms the testimony of the Georgian Anonymous concerning the presence of marble-masons during the construction, which occurred in 668/670. Consequently, the house of prayer seen by Arculf between 670 and 680 was Aqṣā I: it was described as a rough structure due to the coeval Christian eschatological attitude towards the area of the Temple. If Aqṣā I can be dated to Muʿāwiya’s reign, then Aqṣā II is certainly the work of al-Walīd. Its T-shaped plan results from re-orienting Aqṣā II towards the south, and the re-orientation of mosques with an erroneous qibla is ascribed to al-Walīd by several sources; the dome in front of the miḥrāb, conceived to exalt it, concurs with the introduction of this important architectural feature of the mosque which the sources also ascribe to al-Walīd. As mentioned above, the graffiti on the beams supporting the roof of the nave can be dated to the late 7th or early 8th centuries; the design of the wooden panels attached to the extremities of the beams, as well as the motifs on the mosaics decorating the northern dome-bearing arch are undoubtedly Umayyad (Hillenbrand 1999; Di Cesare 2016, 154–166).

The discovery of the pavement mosaics Some years ago, the archaeologist Zachi Zweig studied the photographs taken during the excavations, which are kept at the Israel Antiquities Authority Archives in Jerusalem, and discovered that Hamilton had omitted to report the finding of fragments of a mosaic pavement (Zweig 2008; fragment 3 in the list below). The decorative motifs appeared prima facie as late Roman, thus challenging the traditional assumption that prior to the Crusader period no Christian building had ever been built on the Temple Mount. In an interview released to the Jerusalem Post in 2008 Zweig stated that the mosaics were discovered under the Umayyad level of the floor of al-Aqṣā; he identified them as ‘Byzantine’, stating that they dated to the 5th to 7th centuries and belonged to a public building: a church or a monastery (https://www.jpost.com/Israel/ Was-the-Aksa-Mosque-built-over-the-remains-of-a-Byzantine-church).1 Rina Talgam, also interviewed by the same newspaper, rather inclined to ascribe the pavement to a hospice or an unidentified structure, since the textual sources maintain that the Temple Mount was abandoned during the late Roman period and that the first structure built by Muslims was made of wood. However, the alleged discovery of a late Roman church beneath the mosque, given its ideological and political implications, was rapidly accepted and spread by the media. In truth, the existence of a church on the site pre-dating the mosque had already been postulated by De Vogüé (1864, 70–72) and Vincent and Abel (1926, 924); the former located there the Nea Ekklesia commissioned by Justinian in the 6th century, whose remains, however, were later discovered southwest of the Temple Mount during the excavations directed by Avigad in the 1960s along the

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cardo maximus of the ancient city (Avigad 1977). More recently, Marilyn Sams (2014) tried to demonstrate that before the Islamic conquest the site of the Dome of the Rock was occupied by the Church of Hagia Sophia, whereas the Church of the Virgin and the adjacent hospice occupied the site of the mosque and were later converted by Muslims into the house of prayer seen by Arculf. The textual sources actually report that the two churches were built on Mount Sion, but Sams proposed that a confusion occurred in the identification of these sites: by ‘Mount Sion’ the sources meant Mount Moriah and vice versa. This interpretation, however, is invalidated by the comparison between the information provided by the textual sources and the archaeological data (see Pringle 2007, 93–97 and 261–287). The presence of a mosaic pavement dating to the late Roman period beneath al-Aqṣā mosque would doubtless be of great importance not only to the history of the Temple Mount, but also to any future research on this subject. Indeed, it would lead to question both the reliability of the textual sources and the objectivity of the archaeological data provided by Hamilton: the historical and archaeological investigation would be deprived of any foundations, leaving room only for hypotheses and speculations or scholarly agnosticism. Therefore, the issue requires to be analysed thoroughly in order to verify if the fragments of the mosaic pavement were effectively found beneath the Umayyad Aqṣā (Aqṣā I or Aqṣā II) and dated to the pre-Islamic period.

Reconstruction of the archaeological context of the pavement mosaics The excavations on the site of al-Aqṣā mosque and the related findings can be reconstructed through Hamilton’s report and an impressive number of photographs, notes, drawings, and other documents kept at the Israel Antiquities Authority Archives in Jerusalem and recently made available on line (http://www.iaa-archives.org.il). All these materials allow us to identify the exact location where the fragments of the mosaic pavement were found, their relation to the pre-Crusader phases of al-Aqṣā mosque, and even their stratigraphic context. The photographs of the fragments of the mosaic pavement are 16 in total, namely nos. 20.732, 20.941–20.945, 20.977–20.979, 20.993–20.995, 21.041–21.042, 21.122, 23.269. Of these, nos. 20.941, 20.942, 20.978, 20.994, 20.995 show the same fragment (Fig. 11.3), identified by the following handwritten captions: ‘Mosaic pavement running N of stylobate of column 3 and under pier 3’ (20.941); ‘Stylobate of column 3’ (20.942); ‘Mosaic pavement under pier 3’ (20.978); ‘Mosaic floor under pier 3 and North of stylobate [looking] E[ast]’ (20.994); ‘Mosaic floor under of column 3, in foreground cut A. pier 3 and immediately North of stylobate base of column 3 in foreground’ (20.995). Nos.  20.943–20.945 show another fragment (Fig.  11.4), identified by the following handwritten captions: ‘Mosaic pavement running N. of stylobate of column 6 and under pier 6’ (20.943); ‘Section along west end of mosaic pavement found under pier 6. [looking] E[ast]’ (20.944); ‘Mosaic pavement under pier 6 and stylobate of column 6’ (20.945). Nos. 20.979 and 20.993 show a third fragment (Fig. 11.5), identified by the

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Fig. 11.3: Excavation photographs of a fragment of mosaic pavement found under a pier of al-Aqṣā mosque. Israel Antiquities Authority Scientific Archives, folder Haram (El Aqsa Mosque), A1(3) SRF_92 (102/102), photographs nos. 20.941–20.942 (http://www.iaa-archives.org.il/zoom/zoom.aspx?folder_ id=81&type_id=&id=6552 [accessed 17/03/2020]) (© Israel Antiquities Authority).

following handwritten captions: ‘Mosaic pavement under pier 9 [looking] N[orth]’ (20.979); ‘Remains of a mosaic floor under pier 9’ (20.993). No. 20.977 is identified as ‘Mosaic pavement under pier 12’. The caption of no. 20.732 reads: ‘Rough patches of mosaic under pier 15 [looking] E[ast]’. Nos. 21.041 and 21.042 show another fragment, identified by the following handwritten captions: ‘Trench I [looking] W[est]. Hard layer with patches of mosaics’ (21.041); ‘Trench I [looking] W[est]. Layer with patches of mosaics’ (21.042). Another fragment is identified in no. 23.269: ‘Column base

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Fig. 11.4: Excavation photographs of a fragment of mosaic pavement found under a pier of al-Aqṣā mosque. Israel Antiquities Authority Scientific Archives, folder Haram (El Aqsa Mosque), A1(3) SRF_92 (102/102), photographs nos. 20.943 (http://www.iaa-archives.org.il/zoom/zoom.aspx?folder_ id=81&type_id=&id=6551 [accessed 17/03/2020]) and 20.944 (http://www.iaa-archives.org.il/zoom/ zoom.aspx?folder_id=81&type_id=&id=6554 [accessed 17/03/2020]) (© Israel Antiquities Authority).

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Fig. 11.5: Excavation photographs of a fragment of mosaic pavement found under a pier of al-Aqṣā mosque. Israel Antiquities Authority Scientific Archives, folder Haram (El Aqsa Mosque), A1(3) SRF_92 (102/102), photographs nos. 20.993 (http://www.iaa-archives.org.il/zoom/zoom.aspx?folder_ id=81&type_id=&id=6551 [accessed 17/03/2020]) and 20.979 (http://www.iaa-archives.org.il/zoom/ zoom.aspx?folder_id=81&type_id=&id=6555 [accessed 17/03/2020]) (© Israel Antiquities Authority).

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25 a stone with mosaic E[ast] side of cut’; while another one appears in no. 21.122: ‘Cut under column 30. Lower balat. [looking] W[est]’, where the ‘lower balat’ is the floor in the background. Consequently, eight fragments can be identified, with the following locations: 1. North of the plinth of column 3, under pier 3 (Fig. 11.3); 2. North of the plinth of column 6, under pier 6 (Fig. 11.4); 3. Under pier 9 (Fig. 11.5); 4. Under pier 12; 5. Under pier 15; 6. In Trench I; 7. Near the base of column 25; 8. Under column 30. The numbering of columns, piers and trench appearing in the captions does not correspond to that used in Hamilton’s excavations report. However, a collation of the latter with the captions appearing in other photographs from both the archives and the report allows us to establish the following equivalences (the first figure corresponds to the numbering used in the captions, the second one to that used in the report; see Fig.  11.6): column 3 = 25; pier 3 = P. 18; column 6 = 21; pier 6 = P. 15; column 9 = 17; pier 9 = P. 12; column 12 = 13; pier 12 = P. 9; column 15 = 9; pier 15 = P. 6; column 25 = 23; column 30 = 10. Trench I corresponds to Trench A (Hamilton’s figs 30–31). Therefore we can establish that the mosaic fragments 1–5 were discovered under the Crusader piers located in the first arcade east of the nave in the area north of the transept, each of them north of the corresponding masonry column belonging to Aqṣā III. However, this does not mean that the remnants of the mosaic floor should be ascribed to Aqṣā III. Indeed, as can be inferred from the photographs, the level of the mosaic fragments does not correspond to that of the column plinths but is a few centimetres below the surface of their bases. Moreover, in two cases (fragments 1 and 2; Figs  11.3–11.4) the mosaic shows an interruption of its decorative pattern and a change in the level of its surface due to the addition of some tesserae immediately adjacent to the column bases. These Fig. 11.6: Plan of the central nave and aisles of details suggest that a part of the mosaic al-Aqṣā mosque (from Hamilton 1949). was removed in order to insert the bases

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of the columns and then repaired for aesthetic and practical purposes. Another interesting element is that in fragments 2 and 3 circular areas appear with a diameter of approximately 60 cm, which seem to be column marks. As mentioned above, the columns belonging to Aqṣā II still extant in the transept have a diameter of 0.60 m; moreover, the foundations of columns belonging to Aqṣā II were found by Hamilton beneath the modern pavement, in the area north of the transept, in correspondence to the Crusader piers. The photographs of the cuts made along the first row of piers east of the central nave, as well as the information provided by Hamilton in his report, allow us to further interpret the relation of the mosaic pavement to Aqṣā’s structural phases. Fragments 1–5 were aligned in a row running from north to south under the westernmost row of Crusader piers (see Fig. 11.1), where excavations revealed the foundations of columns of Aqṣā I and Aqṣā II (Hamilton 1949, 53–66 and especially 56 note 1; see here Fig. 11.2): − Fragment 1 was found under pier 18 north of column 25. This is the area where Hamilton discovered the foundations f: a block of stone measuring 0.61 × 0.56 m and 0.52 m high, superimposed on another block of similar dimensions rising 0.13 m above the bedding of the floor of Aqṣā I, which was identified approximately 60 cm below the level of the modern pavement. The lower block was embedded in the floor and therefore belonged to Aqṣā I, whereas the upper block was added for the foundation of a column of Aqṣā II. By calculating the distance of the foundations from the base of column 15 and the measurements of the mosaic fragment, we can infer that f was beneath the area where the pattern abruptly ends. Indeed, from Hamilton’s fig. 30 it can be deduced that the pier measured ca. 2.29 m in the north-south direction and f was found at the distance of ca. 1 m from its northern limit, 0.30 m from its western limit and ca. 0.50 m from the column plinth, whereas the mosaic also extended for ca. 2.29 m in the north-south direction and for ca. 0.68 m from the western limit of the pier. Therefore, f was lying exactly beneath the section of the mosaic showing the repair. − Fragment 2 was found under pier 15 north of column 21. In this area Hamilton discovered the foundations h: a block of stone measuring 0.65 × 0.58 m and 0.42 m high, superimposed on another block of similar dimensions, which rose 15 cm above the bedding of the floor of Aqṣā I. Once again, the lower block was embedded in the floor of Aqṣā I, whereas the upper block was added for the foundation of a column of Aqṣā II. According to the calculations, pier 15 measured ca. 2.29 m in the north-south direction, h was located at a distance of ca. 0.60 m from its northern limit and ca. 1 m from the plinth of column 21, whereas the circle impressed on the mosaic fragment was ca. 0.65 m distant from the northern limit of the pier. Therefore, h was lying exactly beneath the circle. − Fragment 3 was found under pier 12, but its relation to the plinth of column 17 is not indicated in the photographs nor in the related captions. Under the pier, north of the column plinth, and nearby the northern limit of the pier Hamilton

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discovered the foundations j: a block of stone measuring 0.60 × 0.71 m and 0.48 m high, superimposed on another block 0.12  m high. To the south of the column plinth he discovered the foundations i: a block of stone measuring 0.61 × 0.60 m and 0.33 m high, superimposed on another block 0.75 m high. From Hamilton’s fig. 30 it can be deduced that the pier measured 2.25 m in the north-south direction, j and i were respectively ca. 2 m north and 0.50 m south of the column plinth, whereas the mosaic fragment measured more than 1.73  m in north-south direction and ca. 1 m in east-west direction, being located north of the column plinth. It can be inferred that j was lying beneath the north-western corner of the pier, where a circular impression is visible on the mosaic fragment. − Fragment 4 was found under pier 9, where the foundations k were discovered: a block of stone measuring 0.62 × 0.65 m superimposed to another block measuring 0.90 × 0.70 m, in correspondence to the south-western corner of the column plinth. − Fragment 5 was found under pier 6, above the ‘lower balat’, namely the exterior floor outside the wall of Aqṣā I. Regrettably, nothing more can be ascertained about the fragment near column 10 and the ‘stone with mosaic’ found beneath column 23, except that, considering their location, the mosaic pavement should extend up to the western arcade of the central nave. The same can be deduced from the retrieval of tesserae in Trench A, which was excavated in the central nave, from east to west, in the third bay from the south and where the largest fragment of the marble pavement of Aqṣā I was discovered. These observations suggest to identify the mosaic fragments as belonging to the pavement of Aqṣā II. This seems to be confirmed by the scanty stratigraphical details which can be gleaned by reading the report, as well as by studying the drawings of the trenches and the photographs taken during their excavation.

Reconstruction of the stratigraphy in relation to the pavement mosaics The mosaics appear to lie approximately 0.10 m below the modern floor and the bases of the columns of Aqṣā III, several centimetres above the level of Aqṣā I (which lay 0.60/0.80 m beneath the modern floor), and a few centimetres above the foundations of the columns of Aqṣā II. Hamilton reports that the plinths of the columns of Aqṣā II in the transept were sunk below the level of the modern floor (Hamilton 1949, 61): therefore, the pavement of Aqṣā II had to be found a few centimetres below it. The drawing of the plan and section of trench C and Hamilton’s related comment are very meaningful in this regard (Hamilton 1949, 55–56 and 56 note 1; here Fig. 11.7). Trench C was excavated from east to west between pier 18 and column 21 (see Fig.  11.2). There, along the axis of the foundations of the columns belonging to the first arcade east of the central nave of Aqṣā II (e, f, h, i, j, k and l), the foundations g were discovered. They consisted of a block of stone measuring 0.60 × 0.55  m and 0.60  m high,

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Fig. 11.7: Plan and section of Trench C excavated in al-Aqṣā mosque (from Hamilton 1949).

superimposed to a block of similar dimensions which emerged at the same level as the marble pavement of Aqṣā I. According to the legend accompanying the section of Trench C, the western side of the upper block was in contact with a layer of fine stone chips, covered by a thick layer of earth with rubble, covered in turn by a layer of brown earth; in the drawing only the bedding of the marble pavement and the modern pavement are reported. Hamilton assumed that the superimposed block had been turned on its side and that originally it would have raised only 0.55  m above the level of the marble floor, almost reaching the surface of the layer of earth with rubble. Considering that the layer of brown earth is the bedding of the modern floor, it could be argued that the layer of earth with rubble was the bedding of the pavement of Aqṣā II. This suggestion seems to be supported by a photograph of Trench C seen from the south (no. 21.028; Fig. 11.8), where the ‘fine nuhata layer’ identified by the caption corresponds to the layer of earth with rubble, whose surface is pressed as to receive the laying of a pavement. This very sequence with similar features can be observed in another photograph (no.  20.944; Fig.  11.4) showing what was found beneath the mosaic fragment under pier 15, where the foundations h were discovered in correspondence to the circular area. Therefore, we can safely conclude that the ‘nuhata layer’ was the bedding of the mosaic pavement pertaining to Aqṣā II. We can also infer that the mosaics were partially destroyed when the columns of Aqṣā II (60 cm in diameter) were replaced with those of Aqṣā III (85  cm in diameter and with wider intercolumniation): they were repaired around the bases of the columns, while the remaining area was possibly covered with carpets. In addition, it emerges that the floor Hamilton defines as ‘modern’ maintained the same level as the floor of Aqṣā III and the Crusader phase. This reconstruction is also confirmed by a letter dated 2nd March 1940 in which Hamilton asked Nafi Bey for a meeting saying that ‘the removal of the mosaics at the

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Fig. 11.8: Excavation photograph of the stratigraphy found in Trench C excavated in al-Aqṣā mosque. Israel Antiquities Authority Scientific Archives, folder Haram (El Aqsa Mosque), A1(3) SRF_92 (102/102), photograph no. 21.028 (http://www.iaa-archives.org.il/zoom/zoom.aspx?folder_id=81&type_ id=&id=6514 [accessed 17/03/2020]) (© Israel Antiquities Authority).

Aqsa mosque has revealed some interesting remains underneath them’ (IAA Scientific Archives, Folder Aqṣā Mosque Jerusalem, 1st jacket ATQ_530(422/396)). This statement, testifying to the destruction of the mosaic pavement for the sake of unearthing evidence of the earliest phases of al-Aqṣā mosque, also explains why Hamilton did not mention the mosaic fragments in his report.

The mosaic pavement of Aqṣā II and the late-antique artistic koiné in the Bilād al-Shām As stated above, Aqṣā II can be identified as the mosque built by al-Walīd (ruled 705–715). This dating is confirmed by the formal analysis of the decorative motifs featuring in the mosaic fragments and their comparison with similar examples from the regions of Syria and Palestine. Indeed, as will become clear, these motifs cannot be univocally dated to the 5th to 7th century and ascribed to a Christian context, but

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have rather to be considered as evidence of a late antique artistic koiné shared by all the inhabitants of the Bilād al-Shām from the 2nd up to the 8th century. Of the eight fragments photographed during the excavations, only fragments 1–3 can be analysed, since the readability of the others is made difficult by their bad state of preservation. Moreover, the black and white photographs prevent the identification of the colours used, whose variation can nevertheless be appreciated. Fragments 1–2 feature the same motif, namely a grid of lozenges, each of which delimits a white area occupied in the centre by a smaller lozenge, whose tesserae reproduce the colour sequence of the frame (Figs  11.3–11.4). This is a well-known pattern in ancient and late antique tradition, attested in al-Shām in buildings dating from the 4th to the 8th century, namely churches, synagogues, and Umayyad palaces. It is found at Ras el-Deir in a church dated 559/560 (al-Muheisen and Nassar 2014, figs 3 and 14); at Khirbat al-Samra in the Church of Saint Peter, dating to the beginning of the 7th century (Piccirillo 1992, 307 and figs 606–608; Watta 2018, 201–202 and fig. 36), and in the coeval chapel near the Church of Saint John (Piccirillo 1992, 308 and figs 613, 615 and 619); at Shuna al-Janubiyya in the area of the church restored in the late 7th–early 8th century (Piccirillo 1992, 322–323 and figs 664–665 and 668); and at al-Quwaysma in the lower church, dated 717/718 (Piccirillo 1992, 266–267 and figs 480 and 487). In Jewish contexts, it is found in the synagogues of Susiya, in use from the 3rd or 4th to the 8th century (Hachlili 2013, 118 and Index of Jewish Art [http://cja.huji. ac.il], ID: 315); of Jericho, dating to the same period (Index of Jewish Art, ID: 1786); of Sepphoris, in use from the 5th to the 8th century (Hachlili 2013, 78); and of Naʿaran, dating to the 6th century (Index of Jewish Art, ID: 337). It also appears in the Umayyad palace of al-Qasṭal, dating to the reign of Yazīd II (ruled 720–724), in the passageway to rooms 1 and 2 (Bisheh 2000, figs III e V); at Qaṣr Ḥallābāt in the smaller courtyard, whose floor was laid in the 6th or 7th century and restored between the second half of the 7th and the first half of the 8th century (Arce 2009, 169, 174 note 46, 177 and fig. 7); at Quṣayr ʿAmra in the passageway to the small room on the right of the central recess of the great hall, dating to the reign of Hishām (ruled 724–743; Piccirillo 1992, 353 and fig.  787; for the dating see Imbert 2016); and at Khirbat al-Mafjar in the great hall (frigidarium) of the bath, dating to the reigns of Hishām and al-Walīd II (ruled 743–744), whose decoration features elegant polychrome variations in the background and small central lozenges (Tāhā and Whitcomb 2014–2015, 66–67; on the dating see Creswell 1979, vol. 1, 574–576). Fragment 3 (Fig. 11.5) shows two associated decorative motifs: the first is a guilloche on a white background, featuring two treads in different colours framed by two white bands; the guilloche delimits a panel with overlapping fans, each made of two bands framing a white area occupied in the centre by a small flower of the same colours as the outlines of the fans. Both patterns are found in al-Shām in churches, synagogues, and Umayyad palaces. The guilloche, used to frame wider panels or as an element of more elaborate designs, is found at Wadi ʿAfrit in the lower Chapel of the Priest John, dating to the second half of the 5th century (Piccirillo 1992, 176–177

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and figs 234 and 240), and in the upper chapel, dated 565 (Piccirillo 1992, 174–175 and fig.  230); at Madaba in the crypt of Saint Aelianus, dated 595/596 (Piccirillo 1992, 124–125 and figs 124–126, 129–135; Watta 2018, 235 and fig. 64); at Umm Rasas in the Church of the Lions, dating to the late 6th century (Piccirillo 1992, 236–237 and figs  376–378; Watta 2018, 264–266 and fig.  86); on Mount Nebo in the Chapel of the Theotokos, dating between 603 and 608 (Piccirillo 1992, 151 and fig. 200); at Khirbat al-Samra in the churches of Saint John the Baptist, dated 639 (Piccirillo 1992, 304–305 and figs  598–599), Saint George, dated 637 (Piccirillo 1992, 306 and fig. 600–601), and Saint Peter, dating to the early 7th century (Piccirillo 1992, 307 and figs  607–608); at Shuna al-Janubiya in the area of the church restored in the late 7th–early 8th century (Piccirillo 1992, 322–323 and figs 664–666 and 668); and at Madaba in the Church of the Virgin, in the area restored in the 8th century (Piccirillo 1992, 64–65 and figs  21 and 23; Watta 2018, 216–217 and figs  53 and 131–132). It appears also in the aforementioned synagogues of Sepphoris (Hachlili 2013, 259 and fig. V-30), Jericho (Index of Jewish Art, ID: 1786) and Susiya (Index of Jewish Art, ID: 319 and 324); in the synagogue of Beth Alpha, dating to the 6th century (Index of Jewish Art, ID: 335); in the coeval synagogue of Naʿaran (Index of Jewish Art, ID: 280); and in the synagogue of Hammath Gader, dating to the 5th/6th century (Hachlili 2013, 158 and fig. V-32). In Umayyad buildings, it is found again at al-Qasṭal (rooms 1 and 2; Bisheh 2000, figs III and V), Qaṣr Ḥallābāt (rooms 4, 10 and 24; Bisheh 1993, figs 2–6 and 9), Quṣayr ʿAmra (small room to the left of the recess in the great hall; Piccirillo 1992, 353 and fig. 786), and Khirbat al-Mafjar (dīwān of the bath; Tāhā and Whitcomb 2014–2015, 115). The motif featuring overlapping fans each containing a small flower, which is less common, is found on Mount Nebo in the Old Diakonikon, dated 530 (Piccirillo 1992, 146–147 and figs  182, 184–185; Watta 2018, 213 and fig.  128); at Umm Rasas in the Church of Bishop Sergius, dated 587/588 (Piccirillo 1992, 234–235 and figs  365 and 369; Watta 2018, 260–264 and fig.  85); at Khirbat al-Samra in the abovementioned Church of Saint Peter (Piccirillo 1992, 307 and figs 606 and 608; Watta 2018, 201–202 and fig.  36); and at ʿUyun Musa in the Upper Church of Kaianus, dating to the 6th century (Piccirillo 1992, 190–191, fig. 276; Watta 2018, 217–220 and fig. 55). It appears also in the synagogue of ʿEn Gedi, dating to the 6th century (Index of Jewish Art, ID: 516); in synagogue B of Hammath Tiberias dating to the 4th/5th century (Hachlili 2013, 255 and fig. V-24); and again in the synagogue of Jericho (Index of Jewish Art, ID: 1786). The same motif is found at Khirbat al-Mafjar in the great hall (frigidarium) of the bath, but here it is fashioned so that the fans, placed in circle, become petals of large flowers (Tāhā and Whitcomb 2014–2015, 44–47; for a similar arrangement in the side aisle of the Upper Church of Kaianus at ʿUyun Musa, see Piccirillo 1992, figs 276 and 278; Watta 2018, fig. 55). All these decorative motifs are attested in the Roman world at least from the middle Imperial period. For instance, the simple guilloche appears in a 2nd-century mosaic from Verulamium in England (Dunbabin 1999, 89–90 and fig. 88), in a mid-2nd-century

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mosaic from Italica in Spain (Dunbabin 1999, 150 and fig. 156), in a 4th-century mosaic from Trier in Germany (Dunbabin 1999, 82 and fig. 85), in a 3rd-century mosaic from Thuburbo Maius in Tunisia (Dunbabin 1999, 107 and fig. 110), and in a late 3rd-century mosaic from Mytilene in Greece (Dunbabin 1999, 216–217 and fig. 228); the grid of lozenges with diamonds is found in two 2nd-century mosaics from Isthmia and Olympia in Greece (Dunbabin 1999, 211–212 and figs 223–224) and in a late 4th/early 5th-century mosaic from Complutum in Spain (Dunbabin 1999, 152 and fig. 158); the motif with the overlapping fans containing small flowers is rarer but appears, for example, in the mid-6th-century basilica at Sabratha in Libya (Dunbabin 1999, 128 and fig. 130). The presence of these motifs in synagogues dating from the 2nd to the 8th century, churches and chapels dating from the 5th to the 8th century, and Umayyad palaces dating from the late 7th to the first half of the 8th century testifies to the spread and longue durée of a decorative language which had its roots in the Roman Mediterranean tradition and was adopted in the Bilād al-Shām as part of a visual koiné (Talgam 2014). As a consequence, it is impossible to univocally label this language as ‘Byzantine’ (i.e. Christian), Jewish, or Islamic (meaning, by those adjectives, cultural rather than religious contexts) and identify its chronological span as covering just the period from the 5th to the 7th century. On the contrary, the spread and duration of this koiné, besides a shared taste, also reveals the activity of local skilled labourers preserving traditional techniques and applying them wherever their expertise was required.

Selected motifs from floor mosaics and wall mosaics: the end of a process? Within the context outlined above, the case of the pavement of Aqṣā II is particularly meaningful since this is so far the only known evidence of a mosaic pavement belonging to an Umayyad mosque. Indeed, as previously seen, mosaic pavements are attested in coeval palaces and baths, whereas in the Great Mosque of Damascus and in al-Aqṣā itself, as in the Dome of the Rock, mosaics are rather found on the surfaces of walls (van Berchem in Creswell 1979, vol.  1, 211–372; Grabar and Nuseibeh 1996). These wall mosaics feature compositions of vegetal motifs often combined with other elements: cf. for instance the garlands of leaves and fruits springing from baskets, vases or cornucopiae in the soffits of the arches of the octagonal arcade of the Dome of the Rock, as well as those of the vestibule of Bāb al-Barīd in the Great Mosque of Damascus (Creswell 1979, vol.  1, pls. 23, 25, 26, 50); the acanthus scrolls encircling fruits or flowers stemming from plants composed of various vegetal elements, jewels or winged motifs on the arcades and the lower band of the drum of the Dome of the Rock (Creswell 1979, vol. 1, pls. 11–18, 20–21, 31–37); the acanthus scrolls stemming from cornucopiae springing from vases on the inner spandrels of the arches of the western portico of the Great Mosque of Damascus and originally

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below the great arch of the inner side of the transept façade in the same building, as well as those above the northern dome-bearing arch of al-Aqṣā (Creswell 1979, vol. 1, pls. 58, 61, and fig. 366); the trees bearing fruits in the surface above the piers of the octagonal arcade of the Dome of the Rock and those in the outer spandrels of the arches of Bāb al-Barīd in the Great Mosque of Damascus (Creswell 1979, vol.  1, pls. 11, 12, 14, 15, 51, 52); or the trees combined with architectures in the wall of the western portico and above the great arch in the transept façade of the Great Mosque of Damascus (Creswell 1979, vol.  1, pls.  54, 55, 57, 58, 60). In addition, geometrical motifs, such as eight-pointed stars, medallions, twists, lozenges, squares and cubes occur in the soffits and the frames of the octagonal arcade of the Dome of the Rock (Creswell 1979, vol. 1, pls. 6–9, 13–22). These wall mosaics, featuring non-figural compositions set against a golden background and made with glass tesserae set at 30° against the surface, in order to reflect light, apparently seem to have little in common with previous or coeval mosaic pavements. The latter are often made of limestone, carefully levelled on the bedding surface, and feature geometrical and non-figural patterns along with figural motifs. Indeed, pavement and wall mosaics differ greatly as regards their materials, laying techniques, and decorative solutions. However, if we focus on the motifs, we will notice that some of the non-figural motifs found in the wall mosaics are part of the ornamental repertoire attested in pavement mosaics found in coeval churches and in 4th–6th-century synagogues of the Bilād al-Shām. For example, in the Church of the Acropolis at Maʿin, dated 719/720 (Piccirillo 1992, 200–201 and figs 304–312; Watta 2018, 248–250 and figs 76 and 169), the floor of the central nave was covered by a large panel consisting of octagonal, quadrangular and circular areas delimited by bands adorned with ribbons and waves and inhabited by human and animal figures (later replaced by aniconic motifs). The panel is bordered by a geometrical pattern which divides it from a larger frame consisting of acanthus scrolls containing hunting and pastoral scenes (later obliterated) and bordered by lilies. Adjacent to this border runs another large frame where architectural compositions, accompanied by captions and alternating with fruit trees, represent cities and villages located on the east and west banks of the Jordan river. This frame was flanked by two oblong panels to the east and west. Of the former only a floral motif and part of an inscription remain; the latter is better preserved and consists of an area covered with the overlapping fans motif, a tabula ansata bearing the dated inscription, and an area covered by wreaths formed by vine branches originating from a vase and housing birds (later obliterated). To the north of the nave, a passageway covered by interlaced ellipses and lozenges led to a side room, whose floor featured a tripartite panel framed by a guilloche. The lower area has completely disappeared, of the middle one only a few elements remain, whereas the upper one, as suggested by the inscription placed above the scene, originally featured a tree flanked by a zebu and a lion, which were later replaced with a bush and a vase surrounded by vine wreaths.

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In the synagogue of Naʿaran, dating to the 6th century (Hachlili 2013, 254, 260, 278 and fig.  V-31), the side aisles and intercolumnar spaces featured geometrical designs, whereas the central nave was covered by three panels enclosed by a triple frame, consisting of waves, two interlaced chains, and waves again. The easternmost panel presented the Ark flanked by two menoroth with inscriptions above them and the scene of Daniel in the Lions’ Den (later effaced) below them. The square central panel was occupied by the zodiacal wheel, namely two concentric circles containing a depiction of Helios in the inner circle and the twelve zodiac signs in the corresponding segments of the outer circle; the spandrels featured birds and depictions of the four seasons. All the figures appearing in this panel were later effaced. The western panel consisted of a geometric design in which intertwined guilloches, lozenges and ribbons formed octagons, circles and semi-circles inhabited by animals, baskets and chalices. The vestibule featured a pair of gazelles. These examples show that in pavement mosaics of churches and synagogues non-figural motifs were used to border and frame figural ones, or occupied transitional areas such as passageways, intercolumniations, side aisles or rooms. By contrast, geometrical patterns constituted the main decoration of the mosaic pavement of Aqṣā II, while compositions of vegetal motifs were the main subject of the wall mosaics of the Dome of the Rock and Aqṣā II, and compositions of vegetal motifs and architectures were the main subject of the wall mosaics of the Great Mosque of Damascus. Therefore, the geometric pavement of Aqṣā II can be seen as the result of a selection of specific motifs within the broader ornamental repertoire attested in churches and synagogues floor mosaics. The same could be argued for the non-figural motifs decorating the wall mosaics of Aqṣā II, the Great Mosque of Damascus and the Dome of the Rock, where the selection should also imply the transposition of these motifs from floor to wall mosaics. Is it possible to ascribe this selection and transposition to the planners of the decoration of the three Umayyad buildings? More precisely, were these phenomena an innovation originating from the necessity of avoiding figural representations in Muslim religious buildings? Or is it possible to identify analogous instances in previous and coeval churches and synagogues belonging to specific religious or historical contexts? Detailed answers to these questions would require a more articulate discourse: nevertheless, some provisional considerations can be proposed. The entirely geometric designs featuring in the pavement of Aqṣā II seem to find a parallel in the few surviving Samaritan synagogues, dated between the 3rd and the 7th century (Pummer 1999), as well as in Jewish synagogues built or renovated in the late 6th and the 7th century (Hachlili 2013, 278–282). However, in both groups the floors are covered with geometric panels which include or delimit symbols related to the Temple, such as the menorah, the Ark or the Tabernacle, ritual instruments, and vessels. The absence of depictions of living beings complies with the Scriptural prohibition of images. Nevertheless, whereas the Samaritans seem to have strictly adhered to it (Pummer 1999, 144), the Jews seem to have

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shown a different attitude: the synagogue mosaic floors made before the 4th century consisted of exclusively geometrical panels, those made between the 4th and the 6th century (like that in the synagogue of Naʿaran described above) also included depictions of animal and human figures, whereas those made or renovated from the mid-6th century onwards again privileged geometrical motifs; some figural panels in pre-existing synagogues were effaced in the 6th and 7th century during an ‘iconoclastic’ wave which has been variously explained (Hachlili 2013, 251–252 and 278–282). Given the chronological proximity of the latter instances to the construction of Aqṣā II and the aniconic tendency in Muslim religious buildings, we can suppose that the planners of the decoration of the mosque effectively made a selection, but starting from an already established non-figural repertoire attested in coeval synagogues, rather than from the wider ornamental repertoire of previous synagogues and previous and coeval churches of the Bilād al-Shām. This selection consisted in devising an exclusively geometrical decoration which did not contemplate any religious symbol. The transposition of the ornamental repertoire from floor to wall mosaics occurring in the Dome of the Rock, the Great Mosque of Damascus, and al-Aqṣā seems to find analogies in the wall decoration of churches in the Bilād al-Shām as known from the few extant remains and contemporary literary sources (Hamarneh 2015). There, however, contrary to what can be observed in the three Umayyad buildings under discussion, the non-figural motifs still appear subordinated to the figural ones according to a structural hierarchy: compositions of vegetal motifs, such as vine stems and acanthus scrolls springing from vases or crosses, framed figural scenes on the side walls (as in the Christian burial chamber at Jabal al-Jūfa: Zayadin 1982, 10–12 and drawing on p.  11; see also Hamarneh 2015, 244) or covered the entire surface of the lateral apses (as in the 6th-century Church of Saint Sergius in Gaza according to the Laudatio Marciani by Choricius: Hamilton 1930; Hamarneh 2015, 239), whereas depictions of the Virgin and saints dominated the main apses, and biblical scenes and Christological symbols occupied the side walls. The same hierarchy characterises the mosaic wall decoration of churches built slightly before or during the Justinianic period. Composite vegetal decoration, including garlands with fruits springing from baskets, alternate to geometrical motifs in the soffits of the arches of the north colonnade, and of the three-arched window of the façade, in the Basilica of St. Demetrios in Thessaloniki, belonging to the late 5th–early 6th century phase (Taddei 2012, 154–155). They are also found in the soffits of the arches, the vaults, and the frame of the central clipeus of the dome in the Rotunda of St. George, also in Thessaloniki, dated between the late 4th and the early 6th century: here, however, the main surface of the dome was covered with images of angels and unidentified characters, the latter with architectural compositions in the background (Taddei 2012, 156–158). In the Justinianic church of San Vitale in Ravenna acanthus plants, fruits and cornucopiae feature in the inner frame of the semi-dome of the apse (Angiolini Martinelli 1997, 258 fig. 461); garlands with fruits springing from baskets

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frame the Lamb of God depicted in the clipeus of the cross-vault of the presbytery, whereas garlands with fruits inhabited by birds, springing from peacocks and reaching the clipeus, frame the four partitions of the same cross-vault: these are covered by acanthus scrolls inhabited by animals, surrounding the four angels who support the Lamb of God in the clipeus (Angiolini Martinelli 1997, 288–289 figs  520–521); vine stems springing from vases are found in the lunettes of the presbytery above the triple-arched windows (Angiolini Martinelli 1997, 268–269 figs 487–488; 274–275 figs  493–500; 282–287 figs  517–518). The mosaic in the apse of the church of the Monastery of Saint Catherine at Mount Sinai, also dating from the Justinianic period, features vegetal motifs in the bands framing the main Transfiguration scene and the double-arched windows, whereas the plant appearing in the scene to the left of the arch is part of the narrative, being a representation of the Burning Bush (Forsyth and Weitzmann 1973, 11–16 and pls. CIII, CXXIII, CXXVI). In all these instances, even when the vegetal compositions occupy large surfaces, they are always used to frame depictions of human and animal figures. By contrast, there are two instances of wall mosaic decoration of churches, both dating to the 6th century, where the transposition of the ornamental repertoire of floor mosaics is characterised by a deliberate selection of non-figural motifs: these are the main church of the monastery of Mār Samuel, Mār Simeon, and Mār Gabriel near Kartmin in the Ṭūr ʿAbdīn; and the Justinianic Hagia Sophia in Constantinople. The main church of the monastic complex of Mār Samuel, Mār Simeon, and Mār Gabriel near Kartmin in the Ṭūr ʿAbdīn (today in south-eastern Turkey) offers a quite unique witness to the wall mosaic decoration in the Bilād al-Shām in the 6th century, thanks to its good preservation, precise dating, and specific religious context. Its foundation is ascribed to imperial patronage: according to the textual sources, emperor Anastasius sent workmen there in 512 to build a church for the local Miaphysite community (Hawkins et al. 1973, 280 and 295). Large fragments of mosaic decoration, including the two initial words of a Greek inscription, are found in the vault and lateral lunettes of the sanctuary, which consists of a room covered by a transverse barrel vault and ending into a shallow apse (Hawkins et al. 1973, 281 and 296, and figs 2 and 3). The vault has a golden surface completely filled by curling vine stems: they spring from four amphorae placed at the corners, encircle grapes and leaves, and converge towards a central medallion framed by a band of lotus flowers and containing an equal-armed cross, jewelled and rayed, surrounded by six stars (Hawkins et al. 1973, 285 and fig. 18). Other two crosses are visible in the centre of the western and eastern lower sections of the vault. The western cross, encircled by a band of fans, is golden, equal-armed, and stepped; above its arms are two golden discs and below two bunches of leaves (Hawkins et al. 1973, 286, and fig. 19). The eastern cross is only partially preserved: encircled by a guilloche, it was golden, equal-armed, and possibly stepped; two blue-green discs framed by gold were set above its arms, two letters M with pendants below them (Hawkins et al. 1973, 286, and figs 20 and 21). The panel in the vault is framed by a triple border. The innermost band consists of chevrons, the

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outer one of diamonds, while the middle band, larger than the other two, shows a more elaborate pattern: a sequence of eight-pointed stars containing a circle framing a vertical ivy leaf; the latter is replaced by a stepped cross in the star at the centre of the northern side (Hawkins et al. 1973, 287–288, and figs 9, and 28–30). The north and south lunettes were decorated by panels featuring an identical composition. The one in the south lunette, better preserved, features two trees set against a landscape of grassy hills and flanking an architectural structure consisting of a dome resting on columns; two lamps hang from arms springing from the base of the dome, beneath which there is a table covered by a jewelled cloth furnished with a bread basket and two chalices. This composition has been interpreted as a ciborium set in a paradise landscape and shading an altar furnished with the symbols of the Eucharist (Hawkins et al. 1973, 289–291, 293–294, and figs A–B and 33–45). The specificity of these mosaics lies in the absence of animal and human figures, which seem to have been deliberately omitted (Hawkins et al. 1973, 293–294) and substituted by vegetal elements and crosses. On the other hand, the reduction of the symbolic vocabulary to the cross and the Eucharistic table, non-figural representations of the mystery of the Incarnation in which the relation between the divinity and humanity of Christ is not explicitly defined, suits the Miaphysite concept of the undivided unity of Christ’s nature, but also aligns with the aversion to images ascribed to two important figures of the Syrian Church, namely Severus of Antioch (d. 538) and Philoxenus (Xenaias) of Mabbug (d. 523; Allen and Hayward 2004). Both are reported to have condemned the representation of the Holy Ghost as a dove; Philoxenus also condemned the depiction in corporeal form of incorporeal beings, and allegedly removed and destroyed images of angels and hid those of Christ (Hawkins et al. 1973, 294). There is indeed a connection between the two fathers and the monastery of Mār Samuel, Mār Simeon, and Mār Gabriel: Philoxenus’s relics are still kept there and Severus was appointed to the Patriarchal see of Antioch by Anastasius in 512 (Hawkins et al. 1973, 294). As already mentioned, the church of the monastery is dated precisely to 512 and ascribed to Anastasius who, unlike his predecessors, showed a clearly favourable attitude towards the Miaphysites (Allen and Hayward 2004, 8–12). His successor Justin initially supported the Chalcedonian cause, but later on preferred a more conciliatory strategy for the sake of peace and the political and religious unity of the empire, followed in this by Justinian and Justin II (Bell 2013). Justinian tried to establish a dialogue and even a compromise between Chalcedonians and Miaphysites, and it was in this climate that he ordered the reconstruction of the church of Hagia Sophia in Constantinople (532–558; 558–562). Here, judging from the descriptions by Procopius and Paul the Silentiary and the extant original decoration, we find that the mosaics covering the inner walls above the high marble dadoes did not include figural elements (Guiglia Guidobaldi 1999; Schibille 2014; Teteriatnikov 2017). The preserved panels and frames in the inner narthex, aisles and upper galleries exhibit a variety of geometrical and vegetal motifs which span from crenellations

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and jewel strands to eight-pointed stars and eight-lobed rosettes, from lozenges and knots to palmettes and ivy leaves, from acanthus scrolls and vine trellis encircling grapes to carpet-like designs; over all these motifs, radiating Latin crosses stand out (Teteriatnikov 2017, 47–173, and figs 44–209, 220, 222, 223–224, 231). The absence of animal and human figures, the overwhelming golden background, and the prominence of crosses, which are striking in comparison to the decoration of other Justinianic religious buildings, have been recently explained in relation to the aesthetics of light: bright colours and gold would have conveyed divine immanence and let the beholder live the closest experience to the vision of God and the glory of His earthly representative, the emperor (Schibille 2014, 125, 144–146; see also Bell 2013, 329–333). In this context the Cross, as symbol of Christ’s victory, God, the Parousia, and the Holy Wisdom, would have signified Christ’s protection over the building and the emperor, whereas the vine scrolls with grapes would have alluded to the Eucharist (Teteriatnikov 2017, 271–287). However, there might be another explanation: as cursorily suggested by Cyril Mango, the non-figural programme may have aimed at appeasing the Miaphysites (Mango 1986, 116–117). Effectively, the absence of human and animal figures and the reduction of the symbolic language to the Cross would have created an ecumenical space in the capital, which was troubled, like the empire, by the frequent theological and physical conflicts between Miaphysites and Chalcedonians. This would be in line with Justinian’s conciliatory attitude recalled above. Indeed, the absence of figures, especially those of birds usually set in acanthus scrolls and vine trellis in contemporary examples, gives the impression of a deliberate removal from a well-established compositional scheme, exactly as was the case in Kartmin; also the choice of the one religious symbol which conveyed the mystery of the Incarnation while avoiding the subtleties of the Christological discussions about the nature(s) of Christ seem the result of an effort not to take an official stance on a matter which had caused the community’s division. Therefore we can argue that, although out of different reasons, in Kartmin and Hagia Sophia non-figural motifs were transposed and selected from the ornamental repertoire attested in the churches and synagogues mosaic floors of the Bilād al-Shām, but nevertheless included religious symbols. As previously mentioned, this very phenomenon occurs in the pavement decoration of the Samaritan synagogues, as well as the Jewish synagogues built or renovated in the 6th and 7th century. Thus, it can be suggested that the entirely aniconic programme featuring in the Dome of the Rock, the Great Mosque of Damascus, and al-Aqṣā II is the final stage of a process started long before the Islamic conquest and originating from the late-antique artistic koiné spoken in the Bilād al-Shām. Seen in this perspective, the innovation represented by the three Umayyad buildings would consist in the de-semantisation and/or re-semantisation of religious symbols, such as the tree of life, the axis mundi, the vine, the tabernacle, to convey a new message. This message, though still not deciphered, would appear to be related to the specific religious pluralism of the

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region, which was mainly due to different interpretations of monotheism. Indeed, the choice of avoiding figural representations and univocally characterised religious symbols made the ornamental programme of these buildings suitable not only for Muslims, but also for all the different groups of Christians and Jews, revealing a sort of ecumenical attitude: after all, the Qurʾānic invitation to embrace Islām and so return to the pure monotheism professed by Abraham was addressed to all the people of the earth, but especially to the ahl al-kitāb.

Note

1. All links in the text were last accessed in December 2019.

Bibliography

Allen, P. and Hayward, C.T.R. (2004) Severus of Antioch. London/New York, Routledge. al-Muheisen, Z. and Nassar, M. (2014) Geometric mosaic pavements at Ras ed-Deir, Jordan. Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 54, 87–104. Angiolini Martinelli, P. (ed.) (1997) La Basilica di San Vitale a Ravenna. Modena, Panini (Mirabilia Italiae, 6). Arce, I. (2009) Qasr al-Hallabat (Jordan): Transformation of a Limes Arabicus fort into a monastic and palatine complex. In A. Morillo Cerdán, N. Hanel and E. Martín Hernández (eds) Limes XX. Estudios sobre la frontera romana, vol. 1, 155–178. Madrid, CSIC (Anejos de Gladius, 13). Avigad, N. (1977) A building inscription of the Emperor Justinian and the Nea in Jerusalem (Preliminary Note). Israel Exploration Journal 27, 145–151. Bell, P.N. (2013) Social conflict in the age of Justinian. Its nature, management, and mediation. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Bisheh, G. (1993) From Castellum to Palatium: Umayyad mosaic pavements from Qasr al-Hallabat in Jordan. Muqarnas 10, 49–56. Bisheh, G. (2000) Two Umayyad mosaic floors from Qastal. Liber Annuus 50, 431–438. Creswell, K.A.C. (1937) Islam’s newly revealed artistic inheritance from Byzantium: Hellenistic panels in the El Aksa Mosque. Illustrated London News 190/5100, 94–95. Creswell, K.A.C. (1979) Early Muslim architecture. 2 vols. New York, Hacker Art Books. Creswell, K.A.C. and Allan, J.W. (1989) A short account of early Muslim architecture. Aldershot, Scholar Press. De Vogüé, M. (1864) Le Temple de Jérusalem. Monographie du Haram-ech-Chérif suivie d’un essai sur la topographie de la Ville-Sainte. Paris, Noblet & Baudri. Di Cesare, M. (2016) Al-ḥaram al-sharīf in epoca omayyade. Unpublished thesis, Università di Napoli ‘L’Orientale’. Di Cesare, M. (2017) A qibla musharriqa for the first al-Aqṣā mosque? A new stratigraphic and chronological reading of Hamilton’s excavation, and some considerations on the introduction of the concave miḥrāb. Annali dell’Università degli Studi di Napoli ‘L’Orientale’. Sezione orientale 77, 66–96. Dunbabin, K.M.D. (1999) Mosaics of the Greek and Roman World. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Elad, A. (1999) Medieval Jerusalem and Islamic Worship. Holy places, ceremonies, pilgrimage. Leiden/ Boston/Köln, Brill. Flusin, B. (1992) L’Esplanade du Temple à l’arrivée des Arabes, d’après deux récits byzantins. In J. Raby and J. Johns (eds) Bayt al-Maqdis, part 1. ‘Abd al-Malik’s Jerusalem, 17–32. Oxford, Oxford University Press.

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Forsyth, G.H. and Weitzmann, K. (1973) The Monastery of Saint Catherine at Mount Sinai. The church and fortress of Justinian. Ann Arbor, The University of Michigan Press. Gil, M. (1992) A history of Palestine, 634–1099. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Grabar, O. and Nuseibeh, S. (1996) The dome of the rock. New York, Rizzoli. Grafman, A. and Rosen-Ayalon, M. (1999) The two great Syrian Umayyad mosques: Jerusalem and Damascus. Muqarnas 16, 1–15. Guiglia Guidobaldi, A. (1999) I mosaici aniconici della Santa Sofia di Costantinopoli nell’età di Giustiniano. In M. Ennaïfer and A. Rebourg (eds) La mosaïque gréco-romaine VII. VII Colloque international pour l’étude de la mosaïque antique, Tunis 3–7 octobre 1994, vol. 2, 691–702. Tunis, Institut national du Patrimoine. Hachlili, R. (2013) Ancient synagogues – archaeology and art. New discoveries and current research. Leiden/ Boston, Brill. Hamarneh, B. (2015) The visual dimension of sacred space. Wall mosaics in the Byzantine churches of Jordan. A reassessment. In G. Trovabene and A. Bertoni (eds) XII Colloquio AIEMA. Venezia, 11–15 settembre 2012. Atti, 239–248. Verona, Scripta. Hamilton, R.W. (1930) Two churches at Gaza, as described by Choricius of Gaza. Palestine Exploration Quarterly 62, 178–191. Hamilton, R.W. (1949) The structural history of the Aqsa Mosque. A record of archaeological gleanings from the repairs of 1938–1942. Jerusalem, Oxford University Press. Hamilton, R.W. (1992) Once again the Aqṣā. In J. Raby and J. Johns (eds) Bayt al-Maqdis, part 1. ‘Abd al-Malik’s Jerusalem, 141–144. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Hawkins, E.J.W., Mundell, M.C. and Mango, C. (1973) The mosaics of the monastery of Mār Samuel, Mār Simeon, and Mār Gabriel near Kartmin with a note on the Greek inscription. Dumbarton Oaks Papers 27, 279–296. Hillenbrand, R. (1999), Umayyad woodwork in the Aqṣā Mosque. In J. Johns (ed.) Bayt al-Maqdis, Part 2. Jerusalem and Early Islam, 271–310. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Imbert, F. (2016) Le Prince al-Walīd et son bain: itineraries épigraphiques à Quṣayr ‘Amra. Bulletin d’études orientales 64, 321–363. Johns, J. (1999) The ‘House of the Prophet’ and the Concept of the Mosque, In J. Johns (ed.) Bayt al-Maqdis, Part 2. Jerusalem and Early Islam, 59–112. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Kaplony, A. (2002) The Ḥaram of Jerusalem 324–1099. Temple, Friday Mosque, Area of Spiritual Power. Stuttgart, Franz Steiner Verlag. King, D.A. (1985) The sacred direction in Islam: A study of interaction of religion and science. Interdisciplinary Science Review 10, 315–328. King, D.A. (1995) The orientation of Medieval Islamic religious architecture and cities. Journal for the History of Astronomy 26, 253–274. Mango, C. (1986) The art of the Byzantine Empire 312–1453. Sources and documents. Toronto, University of Toronto Press. Marsham, A. (2013) The architecture of allegiance in early Islamic Late Antiquity: The accession of Mu‘āwiya in Jerusalem, ca. 661 CE. In A. Beihammer, S. Constantinou and M. Parani (eds) Court ceremonies and rituals of power in Byzantium and the medieval Mediterranean. Comparative perspectives, 87–112. Leiden/Boston, Brill. Nees, L. (2016) Perspectives on early Islamic Jerusalem. Leiden/Boston, Brill. Piccirillo, M. (1992) The mosaics of Jordan. Amman, American Center of Oriental Research. Pringle, D. (2007) The churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem: A corpus, vol. III: The churches of Jerusalem. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Pummer, R. (1999) Samaritan synagogues and Jewish synagogues: Similarities and differences. In S. Fine (ed.) Jews, Christians and Polytheists in the ancient synagogue. Cultural interaction during the Greco-Roman period, 118–160. London/New York, Routledge.

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Sams, M. (2014) The Byzantine Presence on the Temple Mount. http://www.academia.edu/11818163/ The_Byzantine_Presence_on_the_Temple_Mount Schibille, N. (2014) Hagia Sophia and the Byzantine aesthetic experience. Farnham, Ashgate. St Laurent, B. and Awwad, I. (2013) The Marwani Musalla in Jerusalem: New findings. Jerusalem Quarterly 54, 7–30. St Laurent, B. and Awwad, I. (2016) Archaeology and preservation of early Islamic Jerusalem: revealing the 7th century mosque on the Haram al-Sharif. In R.A. Stucky, O. Kaelin and P. Mathys (eds) Proceedings of the 9th International Congress on the Archaeology of the Ancient Near East, Basel 9–13 June 2014, vol. 2, 441–453. Wiesbaden, Harrassowitz Verlag. Taddei, A. (2012) Il mosaico parietale aniconico da Tessalonica a Costantinopoli. In A. Acconcia Longo, G. Cavallo, A. Guiglia and A. Iacobini (eds) La Sapienza bizantina. Un secolo di ricerche sulla civiltà di Bisanzio all’Università di Roma, 153–182. Roma, Campisano Editore. Talgam, R. (2014) Mosaics of faith. Floors of pagans, Jews, Samaritans, Christians, and Muslims in the Holy Land. University Park, Penn State University Press. Teteriatnikov, N.B. (2017) The Justinianic mosaics of Hagia Sophia and their aftermath. Washington DC, Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection. Tāhā, H. and Whitcomb, D. (2014–2015) The Mosaics of Khirbet el-Mafjar. Hisham’s Palace. Ramallah/ Chicago, Palestinian Department of Antiquities and Heritage/The Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. van Berchem, M. (1925) Matériaux pour un Corpus Inscriptionum Arabicarum, 2ème partie: Syrie du Sud, tome 2ème: Jérusalem «Ḥaram». Le Caire, Imprimerie de l’Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale. Vincent, H. and Abel, F.M. (1926) Jérusalem. Recherches de topographie, d’archéologie et d’histoire, tome 2: Jérusalem nouvelle. Paris, Librairie Victor Lecoffre. Watta, S. (2018) Sakrale Zonen im frühen Kirchenbau des Nahen Ostens. Zum Kommunikationspotenzial von Bodenmosaiken für die Schaffung heiliger Räume. Wiesbaden, Reichert Verlag. Yavuz, Y. (1996) The Restoration Project of the Masjid al-Aqsa by Mimar Kemalettin (1922–26). Muqarnas 13, 149–164. Zayadin, F. (1982) Al-ḥafriāt al-athāriyya. Annual of the Department of Antiquities of Jordan 26, 10–15. Zweig, Z. (2008) New information from various Temple Mount excavations from the last hundred years. In E. Barukh, A. Levy-Reifer and A. Faust (eds) New Studies on Jerusalem 13, 293–355. Ramat Gan, Bar-Ilan University (in Hebrew).

Part IV Modes of transfer: iconographies, motifs, objects

Chapter 12 Circulating images: Late Antiquity’s cross-cultural visual koiné

Katharina Meinecke In their handbook on Islamic art and architecture, published in 2001, Richard Ettinghausen, Oleg Grabar and Marilyn Jenkins-Madina (2001, 51), three eminent authorities in the field of Islamic art history, conclude the chapter on Early Islam with the following remarks: In a curious way which, for the time being, defies explanation, much in this art [– meaning Umayyad art (my comment) –] bears comparison with nearly contemporary Irish and northern European art. Since there could not have been artistic contacts between these areas during the Umayyad period, the parallelisms must be structural and require an eventual theoretical rather than historical explanation.

Although we cannot completely rule out the possibility of actual diplomatic contacts – at least via embassies – between Umayyad Syria and Northern Europe, in this contribution I do not want to focus on reconstructing how the actual exchange, whether commercial, diplomatic, artistic or other, between these two geographical areas might have worked. Instead, I wish to take up the challenge formulated by Ettinghausen, Grabar and Jenkins-Madina (2001) and explore the theoretical background for the similarities in the visual cultures of contemporary, yet distant cultures in Afro-Eurasia between the 5th and the 8th centuries AD. In the following, I will propose a possible model for the appropriation of images between empires which contributed to the development of a cross-cultural, seemingly globalised visual koiné in Late Antiquity. As I will argue, both cross-cultural interactions and transportable artefacts played a crucial role in the development of this common iconographic repertoire in visual culture. I shall begin with one of the most intriguing examples of the phenomenon which Ettinghausen, Grabar and Jenkins-Madina (2001) describe: two stucco arches, one from the Umayyad palace of Qasr al-Hayr al-Gharbi near Palmyra in Syria (ca. AD 727) and now in the National Museum of Damascus (L’Orange 1979, 66. Beil. 56; Schlumberger

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Fig. 12.1: Stucco arch from the palace of Qasr al-Hayr al-Gharbi, Damascus, National Museum (from Schlumberger 1939, pl. 44.2).

1986, 330. pl. 44,2; Vaj 2002, 186; Genequand 2012, 161–174) (Fig. 12.1), the other in the Longobard chapel in Cividale in the Friuli region in Northern Italy (mid-8th century AD) (Torp 1977; L’Orange 1979, 67–70; Vaj 2002, 185–186) (Fig. 12.2). Qasr al-Hayr al-Gharbi is one of the so-called ‘desert castles’, a large, multifunctional complex located in the heartland of the Umayyad Empire in Syria-Palestine. As we know from an inscription, it was erected by the Umayyad caliph Hisham (ruled 724–743) (Schlumberger 1986, 16–17). Most likely, the ‘Tempietto’ in Cividale was also an official commission, as it has been interpreted as the chapel of the Gastaldaga, the seat of the Longobard king’s administrator of the Duchy of Friuli (L’Orange 1979; Torp 2011). The two stucco arches from these almost contemporary buildings bare some obvious similarities. Not only the shape of the arch, the material stucco and the function as an architectural ornament which was placed above a door or window inside the building are identical, what is especially striking is that both arches are adorned with the same friezes, a vine scroll and a row of rosettes. On the stucco arch from Qasr al-Hayr al-Gharbi, the vine tendrils develop as a medallion scroll which is peopled by birds and lizards, while in Cividale, the vine scroll grows in circles, each enclosing a bunch of grapes and a vine leave. How can these similarities in the Syrian Desert and in Northern Italy, two regions so far apart, be explained? First of all, again direct contacts cannot be excluded, even though they might not be recorded in textual sources. As the Umayyads were on the Iberian Peninsula, it could have been possible for them to exchange at least embassies with the Longobards in Italy. Isabella Vaj (2002) instead proposed travelling artisans: Craftsmen who had previously worked for

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Fig. 12.2: Stucco arch in the ‘Tempietto longobardo’ in Cividale (photo: K. Meinecke).

the Umayyad court could have migrated to Longobard Italy in search of new patrons, after the Abbasids seized power in the caliphate in 750 and did not wish to continue the visual program of their predecessors. Even though stucco analysis revealed significant similarities in the material out of which the ornaments were made in Cividale and at the Umayyad site of Khirbat al-Mafjar (Casadio et al. 1996), however, it seems rather unlikely that the same workshop was responsible for both commissions, especially because of some obvious stylistic differences. The vine scrolls in Cividale are undercut, while the reliefs in Qasr al-Hayr are rather flat. In addition, the kernels of the rosettes in Cividale were decorated with inserted small glass bottles which were not meant to be included in the Syrian stucco frieze. More importantly, it is not even necessary to assume direct contacts via travelling artesans to explain the use of the same ornaments in distant buildings. These ornaments – both neither genuinely Umayyad nor Longobard – were part of a visual koiné, a common repertoire of iconographies and ornamental designs shared by patrons from different regions and empires in the late antique world. The vine scroll is a common motif in Graeco-Roman-Byzantine art and was appropriated into the visual cultures of various regions around the world (on vine scrolls in general see Toynbee and Ward Perkins 1950 and Mathea-Förtsch 1999; compare Japp in this volume). Much more interesting is the frieze of rosettes, which is far less common. It can be found both in

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Byzantine and Sasanian visual culture. An example of a Byzantine artefact with this ornament is the so-called ‘Antioch chalice’, a silver cup from the first half of the 6th century AD which was perhaps used as a lamp (Weitzmann 1979, 606–608 no. 542).1 On this cup, which is decorated with a vine scroll populated by birds, animals and enthroned human figures, the frieze of rosettes runs along the rim of the vessel. A Sasanian example of the same ornament is attested on the stucco decoration from Maʿarid near Ctesiphon, tentatively dated to the 6th–7th centuries AD, where the rosettes frame octagonal panels in a larger geometrical decoration (L’Orange 1979, 66, Beil. 99; Kröger 1982, 83–84, 110–113, pl. 26.2, 45.4, and 46.1–2). In fact, the origin of the frieze of rosettes is not clear: It could either originate in the Sasanian sphere and was then appropriated by Roman-Byzantine visual culture, or vice versa. This is characteristic of Late Antiquity: as visual cultures increasingly interacted and mingled in this period, it becomes more and more difficult to determine an iconographic motif ’s origin – a fact that certainly did not present a problem to the contemporaries. As we have seen, both the palace of Qasr al-Hayr al-Gharbi and the ‘Tempietto’ in Cividale belonged to a royal context. This raises two questions: what was the motivation for their royal patrons to choose ornaments from a visual and material culture other than the one from which they themselves originated for their artefacts and buildings, and from where did they gain knowledge of these iconographies? For Late Antiquity, Matthew Canepa (2009; 2010b) has studied the phenomenon of the appropriation of ‘foreign’ iconographic motifs – meaning motifs coming from a visual culture other than the patron’s own –, exemplified by cross-cultural contacts between the Sasanian Empire, the Roman, later Byzantine Empire and China. According to his observations, the prime objective of this cross-cultural appropriation – which included not only images and objects, but also court ceremonial and royal past-times such as hunting or polo, the latter originating in the Sasanian Empire – was for a sovereign to create or consolidate his royal identity (Canepa 2010a, 122, 127). Through the appropriation of the ‘other’s’ court culture, a ruler could present himself as a ‘cosmopolitan sovereign controlling several cultural and visual markers of kingship’ (Canepa 2009, 222). In addition, through this shared material, visual and ritual culture, the sovereigns of different empires could ‘form an extra-cultural and extra-religious language of debate and legitimacy’ among each other and ‘express power in forms that all courts could understand’ (Canepa 2010, 144). Oleg Grabar and Robin Cormack have highlighted the role of luxury artefacts in this construction of identity. Objects of high quality and with sophisticated iconographies such as silver vessels or silk textiles allowed those who had access to them to distinguish themselves as part of a global, cross-cultural elite. Grabar (2006) called this a ‘shared culture of objects’, which – according to Cormack (1992, 236) – formed a ‘special, coded, common language between courts’. The luxury items thus served as elite markers. Especially widespread were precious silk textiles. A characteristic pattern for these luxury textiles, frequently attested both by actual textiles which have survived (Bier 1978, 132 no. 56, 134–136 no. 59–60)2 and by depictions of such textiles, are medallions encircling single figures. This pattern

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Fig. 12.3: Detail of the mosaic of Justinian I in the presbitary of San Vitale at Ravenna (Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, Abteilung Rom, D-DAI-ROM-58.1042 [Bartl]).

seems to have been of Persian origin, as an early 6th-century Chinese source mentions it as such (Compareti 2003; Feltham 2010, 16–17). Until the 6th century AD, the Sasanians together with the Chinese had a monopoly on silk production, which made these textiles even more precious. Nevertheless, textiles in this ‘medallion style’ (Canepa 2009, 206) were imitated, also in other materials such as wool or linen, in the Late Roman-Byzantine Empire, China, Central Asia and elsewhere (Feltham 2010, 19–20). Although the actual textiles are often hard to date, it is evident that they circulated among the highest elites in different regions of the late antique world, as contemporary depictions show. In the famous mosaic in San Vitale at Ravenna, the Roman emperor Justinian I (ruled 527–565) is portrayed wearing a chlamys with an inserted tablion which is decorated with medallions containing green birds, maybe parrots or ducks (Canepa 2009, 206; Dresken-Weiland 2016, 242–245) (Fig. 12.3). The Great Ayvan of Taq-e Bostan in Iran, an obviously Sasanian structure which most probably can be ascribed to king Khosro II (ruled 590–628) attests to the presence of such textiles at the Sasanian court. One of the hunters in the boar hunt relief is wearing a garment which is decorated with medallions containing duck-like birds and

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flowers (Bier 1978, 120–121 fig. J) (Fig. 12.4).3 Even if we assume that perhaps neither the Roman emperor nor the Sasanian court officials actually possessed the textiles in which they were depicted, the choice to have oneself or one’s entourage portrayed in them is just as significant in signalling the desire to partake in a cross-culturally shared elite culture. Both the mosaic at Ravenna and the rock relief at Taq-e Bostan show the medallion pattern applied in its original context on textiles. Detached from this context, the same pattern is also found in architectural settings. One example is a wall painting from the Buddhist caves of Kizil on the Silk Road in China, now in the Museum of Asian Art in Berlin and dated to the 6th–7th centuries AD (Härtel and Yaldiz 1982,

Fig. 12.4: Detail of the boar hunt relief in the Great Ayvan of Taq-e Bostan, drawing by Ernst Herzfeld (The Ernst Herzfeld papers. Freer Gallery of Art and Arthur M. Sackler Gallery Archives. Smithsonian Institution, Washington D.C., FSA A.06 05.0927).

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82 no. 19; Gasparini 2016, 87, 89). This fresco, which decorated the side of a podium for statues in the largest of the Kizil caves, represents the same medallion pattern with birds as on the chlamys of Justinian or the hunter’s garment in Taq-e Bostan, providing further evidence – apart from the literary sources cited above and actually preserved textile fragments – for the existence or at least the knowledge of such textiles with medallion patterns in China. The preserved painted frieze consists of a row of pearl roundels enclosing antithetically arranged ducks (Plate 12.1). Another example for the pattern in an architectural setting is again found in the decoration of the Umayyad palace at Qasr al-Hayr al-Gharbi. Two slabs of a stucco balustrade from the palace’s interior are each decorated with two intertwined roundels (Schlumberger 1986, pl.  68b, 69c) (Fig.  12.5). Each medallion encloses a bird resembling a chicken which antithetically faces its counterpart in the second roundel as in Kizil. The medallion pattern is also attested on portable objects such as a bronze vase with tin plating found in or near Bonn in North Rhine-Westphalia in Germany, now in the Rheinisches Landesmuseum in Bonn (Müssemeier 2012, 264, 414, pl.  112– 113; Rezania 2018, 53). This vessel has been tentatively attributed to the Eastern Mediterranean and dated to the late 6th/first half of the 7th century. It is decorated with three engraved friezes: The outer two present a grid pattern with lily-like flowers in the spaces, while the central frieze consists of medallions with ducks alternating with acanthus or palmette-like leaves. The grid, like the medallion pattern, is a design which is frequently found on textiles (Meinecke forthcoming); it is also attested among

Fig. 12.5: Stucco balustrade from the palace of Qasr al-Hayr al-Gharbi, Damascus, National Museum (from Schlumberger 1986, pl. 68b).

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the textile patterns depicted in the Great Ayvan of Taq-e Bustan and was thus in use at the Sasanian court.4 The grid pattern is also found on other precious vessels, the most prominent being a silver bucket now in the Metropolitan Museum in New York. This bucket was part of a treasure found in Vrap in nowadays Albania which was most likely assembled in the 8th century. The silver hoard has been associated with the Avars and consequently interpreted as belonging to an Avar chief or silversmith (Bálint 2000; 2010, 274–298; Garam 2000). The bucket which has been dated to the 7th century AD is seemingly of Byzantine manufacture, as it is stamped, but since its stamps slightly differ from official Byzantine examples, it may have been made in the provinces. On the bucket, the grid’s spaces are filled with repetitive motifs – birds, bird cages, vessels, fruit baskets, fruits, and plants – in diagonal rows which are especially reminiscent of preserved late antique textiles.5 The example of the ‘medallion style’ textiles demonstrates a two-step appropriation process: First, a tangible object was appropriated for what it was. This could mean either that the actual artefact was transferred from one region or cultural sphere to another – such as the textiles which were brought from Iran or China to Byzantium – or that an object was depicted in its original function, as is attested by the silk decoration of Justinian’s chlamys in Ravenna. These portable objects could also be imitated in regions other than their place of origin and in other materials, yet still serving their original function, as is exemplified by the imitations of silk textiles in other materials where silk was not available.6 In a second step, the iconographic motifs with which the artefacts were adorned were appropriated and used in a different context that was no longer linked to the object’s original function. Examples are the textile patterns in Chinese wall painting, in Umayyad architectural stucco decoration and on bronze and silver vessels. Following James O. Young’s categories of cultural appropriation, these two steps of the appropriation process can be described as first an ‘object appropriation’ which was then followed by a ‘motif appropriation’ (Young 2010, 6–7). Although Young’s five categories originally deal with the moral dimensions of appropriation in the contemporary arts, and he doesn’t see them as steps building on each other, his categories seem helpful to describe the processes observable in the transfer of images in Late Antiquity. In this process, the bronze and silver vessels take the appropriation to another level: They were themselves luxury items and markers of an elite culture, exactly like the textiles whose patterns they appropriated. On the one hand, they were themselves travelling objects which were transferred from one culture – in the discussed cases the Byzantine Empire – to another – the Merovingians or Avars. On the other hand, they drew upon other prestigious travelling artefacts – textiles – in their decoration.7 In a way, appropriating the textile patterns made them, as objects in motion, twice as prestigious. That the images with which the luxury items were decorated mattered both as allusions to the original objects and as elite markers can be traced in yet another example: ivory diptychs and their ceramic imitations. In the late 4th to 6th centuries, ivory diptychs were distributed by Roman officials to their supporters and friends to

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commemorate certain ceremonial occasions, such as taking the office of consul or providing games, both in the West and in the East (Cameron 2013; see also Guidetti in this volume). Many of these ivories, the so-called ‘consular diptychs’, show the magistrate either standing or seated on the sella curulis while opening the games which are depicted in smaller size below his feet (Delbrück 1929; Cameron 2013; 2015). These ivory panels seem to have been a particularly precious gift, as becomes evident from a law issued by Theodosius I to the senate of Constantinople in 384 which limits the expenses for gifts distributed by Eastern Roman officials giving games, explicitly reserving the ordinary consuls the right to issue ivory diptychs (Cameron 2013, 181–182). Although the group of officials distributing such diptychs seems to have been vaster in the West (Cameron 2013, 179–196), it does seem obvious that the privilege to actually receive one as a gift was available only to a chosen few. Apart from diptychs made of ivory, several redware clay plaques, plates and trays from North Africa show scenes which recall the ‘consular diptychs’ with a sitting or standing magistrate opening or presiding over games (Salomonson 1969, 8–9; Spier 2003; Bauer 2009, 50–58; Cameron 2013, 18). A fragmentary mould in a private collection, made of red clay and shaped like a diptych, was apparently produced by pressing an actual ivory diptych into the clay (Spier 2003, 351, 353; see also Guidetti in this volume, 215 and 232). It shows a magistrate standing in a gabled doorway with open curtains and holding the mappa, a piece of cloth or napkin used to signal the beginning of the games in the circus, in his right hand. Through the inscription on the architrave under which the official stands, he can be identified as the senator Anicius Auchenius Bassus, consul of Western Rome in 408. Another mould made of plaster in the Römisch-Germanisches Zentralmuseum in Mainz dated to around AD 400, which shows a magistrate with mappa and two further officials sitting in the tribunal and watching gladiatorial games, may have been manufactured in the same way (Köhne 2007, 355 fig. 5; Bauer 2009, 54–55 fig. 51). As three fragments of redware plates preserved in Athens, Munich and Vienna with the same depiction of a presiding magistrate demonstrate (Salomonson 1969, 12 fig. 13–14; Bauer 2009, 52–55 fig.  47a–49; Cameron 2013, 182, 184 fig.  7), this iconographic motif seems to have been especially popular. African red slip relief ceramics such as the examples discussed above are undoubtedly among the more prestigious tableware of Late Antiquity. As Jan Willem Salomonson (1969, 8–17) demonstrated, the large North African plates and trays were inspired by and meant to recall contemporary silver plates whose technical details they even copied, yet it is obvious that they were less valuable than the actual silverware and ivory diptychs. Although like their precious models they were probably meant rather for display than for actual use at the table (Salomonsen 1969, 11), very little is known about the context in which these North African ceramics circulated. We can assume, though, that they were available to a larger social group than the silver and ivory models. Therefore, it must have been a desire outside the very limited highest elite of the Roman Empire to surround oneself with this distinguished, representational iconography. Not only the objects themselves, the ivory

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diptychs, were thus prestigious, but – as far as the appropriation of the images on redware plates and trays is concerned – also the iconographical motifs the diptychs were adorned with. As the decoration of redware ceramics recalling ‘consular diptychs’ was produced from moulds taken directly from the ivory reliefs themselves, the actual panels with the iconography of the official opening games have the shape and approximate size of their models, no matter if the final product imitated the diptych’s actual contour or if the image was stamped on round plates or larger trays. Thus the clay artefacts recall their prestigious models both through their iconography and their shape. Although the magistral images are used in a new context on this tableware, the link to their model is still very close, similar to the textile patterns discussed above, which were imitated on textiles made elsewhere and in a different material than their prototypes. As with the textile patterns, the iconographic motif of the magistrate on the sella curulis could also be detached from its original medium and transferred to a new geographical and cultural context. An example is a stone relief panel, 1,70 m in height, from the so-called ‘Stone Building’ in Zafar, the capital of the South Arabian kingdom of Himyar in what is now Yemen (Yule 2013, 126–127, 129, 136 fig. 7.3–7.7; see Japp in this volume, Fig. 10.8). In the only partially excavated building, which may have served ritual purposes, the relief was secondarily set into a wall adorned with friezes consisting of antithetical animals and vine scrolls (Yule 2013, 225–226, table 13.5). The relief shows a male figure with attributes. Due to the crown on his head, the excavators interpreted him as a king. As becomes evident from the pose of the depicted personage’s arms and position of his feet, the image is clearly inspired by depictions of the consul holding the mappa. Although the footstool is missing, the king’s left foot is turned outward as the consul’s feet shown in perspective often are, which reveals the image’s models. The square applications on the king’s garment even seem remnant of the consul’s lorum, an embroidered scarf which was part of the late antique toga costume. In contrast to the depiction’s possible models, the king’s attributes were changed, though, adapting the image to the local context: Instead of the mappa, he is holding a long scepter in his upraised right hand, and in his left hand, he clenches a bunch of leaves instead of the shorter scepter of the consuls. In addition, he is wearing a crown on his head which is reminiscent of the crowns the kings of Axum are wearing on their coins from ca. AD 400–520 (Yule 2013, 127–128). A sword prominently hangs at the left side of the ‘king’s’ body, which of course is not found in the images of the consuls in civil costume. According to the parallels for the overall iconography of the relief on ivory diptychs, the relief has been dated to the 5th or early 6th century AD (Japp 2013, 311 note 64). Again we can trace the same two step appropriation process as for the textile patterns. The relief at Zafar is evidence that either ivory consular diptychs or at least the images with which they were adorned travelled all the way from the Roman Empire to South Arabia. There, the iconographic motif was transferred to another medium, in this case a large-scale stone relief in an architectural setting. In this new context, the significance and prestige of the iconography as an elite representational

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motif was preserved, as the depicted person is clearly of high social standing. Of course it cannot be ruled out that the iconography of the enthroned magistrate was appropriated not from an ivory diptych, but from other precious artefacts which were adorned with the same motif, similar to the silver missorium of Ardabur Aspar, consul of 434, in Florence (Leader-Newby 2004, 46–47 fig. 1.18; Cameron 2013, 202–203 fig. 14), the now lost silver spoon found near Aquileia8 (Cameron 2013, 178–179 fig. 3) or the illustrated Calendar of 354 (Stern 1953, 152–168 pl. 14; Cameron 2015, 256–257 fig. 7). These artefacts, especially in the distant context of late antique South Arabia, are no less valuable and prestigious, though, than ivory diptychs would have been. In addition, they would attest to the same mobility of iconographies and portable objects in late antique Afro-Eurasia as the diptychs. As Franz Alto Bauer (2009, 56–57) remarked in regard to the redware imitations of ivory diptychs, the idea was not to produce exact copies of precious official gifts, but to transfer marks of distinction, iconographic motifs which were linked, in a broader sense, to the emperor, office and elite in general and to display the ability to dispose over them. Even if those who purchased or commissioned these clay artefacts would never be close enough to the officials portrayed on them to be presented with an actual ivory diptych, their clay imitations alluded to the status of these prototypes and the prestige of such a gift, no matter how fictitious. The prestige of the original artefact was thus transferred to the owner of the clay imitations. It becomes evident that what mattered was less the original object itself, but the iconography with which it was adorned and which became a marker of elite culture. Returning to the example of the medallion style textiles, both possessing and representing the actual textiles as in the mosaics in San Vitale or the reliefs in Taq-e Bostan and depicting their patterns in other contexts as in the architectural decoration or on the metal vessels meant visualizing the patron’s participation in the elite culture to which these artefacts alluded. Although the original objects will have remained more precious and awe-inspiring than their copies, through this appropriation process the iconographic motifs gained prestige and were ideologically charged as were the original artefacts. As the clay imitations of the ivory diptychs have already made evident, in addition to their role as elite markers, the prestigious portable objects were linked to legends of their origin, irrespective of whether this association was true or imagined. There are several possibilities how the patrons of the artefacts and architectures where the iconographic motifs were appropriated could have obtained the desired objects in the first step of the appropriation process. Apart from the possibility that they could simply have purchased them – which wasn’t always easy, especially when they were made in official court workshops –, one way how they could have received the luxury items is gift exchange. This was an integral part of the diplomatic protocol between courts in Late Antiquity (see, for example, Engemann 2005; Wickham 2005, 694; Bauer 2006; 2009). Both precious vessels and textiles are often recorded among the exchanged diplomatic gifts. An example for silk is mentioned by Pacatus (late 4th/early 5th century) among the presents brought by an embassy which was sent by the Sasanian king Shapur II (ruled 309–379) to the Roman emperor Theodosius I

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(ruled 379–394) (Cutler 2005, 11). Textiles are also depicted among the gifts brought by Chinese ambassadors to the local Sogdian ruler in the wall paintings from the ‘Hall of the Ambassadors’ in Afrasiab (ca. AD 660), present Samarkand (Gasparini 2016, 84 fig. 2, 87–88).9 Another possibility was that the objects were obtained as war booty. The Persian historian al-Tabari (early 10th century AD) reports that during the conquest of Ctesiphon in 637, two sealed baskets with gold and silver vessels, which had been left behind by the Sasanians, fell into the hands of the Arabs (al-Tabari 1989, 24 [2445]; Shalem 1994, 78). Through further armed conflicts or re-gifting, the portable objects could later be transferred to yet another region and empire. This way, the obtained objects could be linked to the memory of a successful diplomatic negotiation or a military victory. Such an association increased the prestige of both the artefact itself and the iconographic motifs with which it was adorned. Both objects and images acquired a ‘cultural connotation’ (Versluys 2015, 142–143, following Vimalin Rujivacharakul), certain ideas that were connected to artefacts of a certain origin or with a certain origin ascribed to them. This ‘cultural connotation’ forms one step in Miguel John Versluys’ (2015) concept of the material and visual culture of the Roman Empire as a ‘circular system’. He uses the example of china, i.e. porcelain, to explain his concept (Versluys 2015, 141–144): Potters in the country China – the culture – produced china, i.e. porcelain, and exported it to Europe. The product china shaped the European idea of this culture China. These products were perceived as ‘typically Chinese’ and thus acquired the ‘cultural connotation’ of China. The reason they were perceived as such were their specific stylistic and material properties such as blue-and-white decoration that was associated with the culture China and its cultural connotations. When these stylistic and material properties were imitated elsewhere, for example in earthenware decorated with the blue-and-white Willow pattern from late 18th-century England, the newly manufactured products kept the cultural connotation of being ‘typically Chinese’, even though they didn’t originate in the culture China. When the imitations of these artefacts or other kinds of newly produced objects decorated with the appropriated ornaments may have flowed back to the culture where their models once originated, they may again have influenced the visual and material culture produced there, which thus completes the circle proposed by Versluys. The same ‘circular system’ also works for Late Antiquity. The Persian textiles and their patterns, for example, kept their ‘cultural connotation’ of being both from another empire and part of a cross-cultural elite culture, even when they were appropriated into a new context. Yet it becomes increasingly difficult to determine the cultural origin of a certain motif, because of the constant de- and recontextualisation of both objects and iconographies in between geographical regions, as Gunnar Brands (2008, 254) demonstrated for the cross-cultural interaction of images between the Roman-Byzantine and Sasanian cultures. The mingled iconographic repertoire resulting from this de- and recontextualisation shall be exemplified by two Umayyad wall paintings from Qusayr ʿAmra. This small bath house in the Jordanian desert north of Amman, famous for its extensive fresco decoration, was erected in the time of the caliph Hisham in the 2nd quarter of the 8th century by his designated heir

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al-Walid b. Yazid. Among the images in the bath house’s decoration, there are two female dancers which can be traced back to Graeco-Roman Dionysian models of dancing Maenads. The first one is depicted on the vault of a small chamber, presumably the bath’s apodyterium or changing room (Plate 12.2). The dancer’s long dress, which is belted at the waist, and her posture – she is striding, one arm raised above her head – are clearly derived from the depictions of the god’s female followers (Winkler-Horacek 1998, 282–283; Meinecke 2018, 37). Dancing Maenads which are represented in the same pose are known from Greek and Roman representations in different media since the 5th century BC (compare Matz 1968, 22 no.  8, 32 no.  32, 65–66 no. 114) and were still in use in Late Antiquity. A Maenad in a similar pose as the dancer at Qusayr ʿAmra is depicted in the Dionysian thiasos on the large silver dish from the Mildenhall treasure, which was probably manufactured in the Roman Empire in the 4th century AD and brought to Britain as a royal gift (Leader-Newby 2004, 144–146; Hobbs 2016, 18–62, especially 31–32 fig. 41 [scene 11, fig. 23]). Closer to Qusayr ʿAmra, a very similar Maenad is attested on a mosaic in Madaba, Jordan, which can probably be dated to the 6th century AD (Piccirillo 1993, 69 fig. 33, 76–77 fig. 44; Meinecke 2018, 37–38) and confirms that the Maenad motif was known in the Middle East before Umayyad rule. The second dancer at Qusayr ʿAmra is depicted in the large vestibule attached to the actual bath which has been interpreted as an audience hall (Plate 12.3). She is rendered in a very similar posture as the dancer in the changing room, only that she is completely naked – except for some jewellery – and chubbier than her counterpart. The closest parallels for this dancer are found on Sasanian silver vessels, for example on a gilded ewer from the 6th–7th centuries AD in Washington (Gunter and Jett 1992, 194–197) (Plate 12.4).10 The dancer on the vessel is naked – except for a scarf which is wrapped around her arms and hangs loosely behind her back – and she is characterised by pronounced feminine curves. Sasanian metal vessels such as this one, possibly obtained as diplomatic gifts or war booty, will have been familiar to the Umayyads. Thus it seems plausible that Sasanian objects served as models for this image in the bathhouse. The Sasanian dancers as on the ewer in Washington were derived from exactly the same Graeco-Roman-Byzantine dancing Maenads, though, which were identified as possible models for the dancer in the apodyterium. This observation is supported by the fact that the dancer on the silver vessel, like the Maenad on the mosaic in Madaba, is playing small castanets: With the plate in her hand she reaches down to strike the other plate which is attached to her ankle. On other Sasanian silver vessels, the dancers are surrounded by vine scrolls or accompanied by panthers, which further points to their Dionysian origin (see, for example, Ettinghausen 1967–1968, 28–29 fig. 1–4, 32–33 fig. 7. 9, 39, 41 fig. 21; 1972, 4–6, pl.  3 fig.  9, pl.  5 fig.  16, pl.  6–7 fig.  20–22; Duchesne-Guillemin 1971, 384, pl.  9 fig.  2; Meinecke 2018, 49–51). Therefore, the dancers on the Sasanian vases attest to a motif appropriation from the Roman-Byzantine realm by the Sasanian patrons and artisans. In the course of this appropriation, the image was altered: The Maenad stripped off her clothes and gained some weight, apparently to fit the taste of the

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Sasanian patrons. It is unclear, if the dancers also acquired a new meaning in their new Sasanian context. It has been suggested that they were linked to a Sasanian fertility cult (Ettinghausen 1967–1968, 41) or – more convincingly – that they illustrate court celebrations in general (Duchesne-Guillemin 1971, 385–386).11 The motif of the dancing Maenad thus traversed several steps of appropriation, before it arrived in the Umayyad bath house. In a way, it returned to its culture of origin, the Graeco-Roman-Byzantine tradition whose heir the Umayyads were in the Middle East. This Umayyad depiction of the naked dancer is thus the moment when the circle is completed. The Maenad ended up twice in the bath house’s decoration, appropriated from different sources. It is not very likely that the contemporaries recognised the common origin of both dancers, and this is probably more of a concern to today’s academia than to the patrons and viewers in Late Antiquity. In sense of Versluys’ (2015) continuous circular system, the motif, of course, could have spread again from the Umayyad bath house, when it was appropriated by others who saw it, possibly changing again in the process. At the end, all the observations made above result in the following model (Fig. 12.6): The development of Late Antiquity’s visual koiné worked first as a cross-cultural twostep appropriation process in which portable artefacts played a crucial role as a mode of transfer for iconographic motifs. The diagram deliberately begins at an unspecified starting point, because the considerations on an iconographic motif can start at any point in its history. In addition, a modern viewer can never be completely confident to determine the motif ’s actual origin in order to define it as the beginning of the cycle. First an actual object was transferred from members of one culture to another culture in an object appropriation, which was followed by a motif appropriation, when only certain iconographic motifs were appropriated from the artefact’s decoration (Young 2010, 6–7). Central in this process was the relation between the original medium and the iconographic motifs with which it was adorned and which were appropriated from it and transferred to a new context. That the iconographic motifs and patterns depicted on the artefacts mattered becomes evident from the example of the ivory diptychs and the appropriation of their images on ceramic tableware. The boundaries between the medium, on which an image was applied, and the image itself could even be fluent to enhance the prestige of an object, as the metal vessels, which were valuable not only for their material, but also for their decoration with textile patterns, reveal. This appropriation process recurred in a constant cycle of de- and recontextualisation of iconographic motifs between late antique empires. In the course of the process, both the artefacts and the iconographic motifs appropriated from them acquired a cultural connotation and were associated with memories of outstanding events, cross-cultural contacts and – in the examples discussed here – elite status, no matter if these associations were true or fictive. In addition, the transferred images could obtain a new meaning – a process for which Finbarr B. Flood (2001; 2009) coined the term ‘translation’12 – as seems to be the case for the Maenad-like dancers on the Sasanian silver vessels.

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Fig. 12.6: Model of cross-cultural appropriation of iconographic motifs in Late Antiquity (K. Meinecke).

All in all, the appropriation of artefacts and iconographic motifs from a cultural sphere other than patron’s own was crucial in the construction and consolidation of royal and elite identities of sovereigns and dynasties who had access to the portable luxury items. Whoever used these objects and appropriated images could present himself as partaking in a globalised elite culture. This was especially desirable for the highest elite of different late antique empires. For a sovereign, this meant that he could represent himself – to the population of his empire, an internal audience – as a cosmopolite ruler who controlled ‘the other’s’ marks of kingship and was thus superior to his rivals (Canepa 2009, 222), while simultaneously he could show off his qualities as a superior negotiator or victorious commander, if the images were linked to certain events in the empire’s history. To an external audience – the sovereigns of other empires and their embassies – he could appear as an equal, communicating in the same visual code as his rivals. For those who did not partake in this highest elite culture, using appropriated iconographic motifs and their various associations was no less appealing. Through appropriating the same motifs in lesser materials and less prestigious media, they could allude to the same ideals as their elite role models. In a time of advanced political fragmentation, this circular system of iconographic appropriation was not limited to the territory of the former Roman Empire, but went well beyond its borders, and the range of participating courts and cultures became much wider, as I hoped to show in the examples from Afro-Eurasia discussed here.

Notes

1. New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art Acc. no. 50.4: https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/468346 (last accessed: 10/09/2019). 2. Another example is a child’s coat made of silk woven in Iran or Central Asia (8th century AD) in the Cleveland Museum of Art, purchased from the J.H. Wade Fund 1996.2: http://www. clevelandart.org/art/1996.2 (last accessed: 07/08/2019). 3. For further examples of depictions of textiles with the roundels with ducks see Gasparini 2016, 84–88.

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4. One of the oarsmen on the boar hunt relief wears a tunic decorated with an elaborate grid pattern; compare the drawing of the figure by Ernst Herzfeld in The Ernst Herzfeld papers. Freer Gallery of Art and Arthur M. Sackler Gallery Archives. Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C., local number D-307; FSA A.06 05.0307: http://collections.si.edu/search/detail/edanmdm:siris_arc_284635 (last accessed: 10/03/2019). 5. Compare a linen textile possibly from Antinoë in Egypt (6th or 7th century AD), now in the Abbegg-Stiftung in Riggisberg, inv. 23, which features a grid whose spaces are filled with antithetical birds, fruit baskets and what seems to be flowers arranged in horizontal rows; see Stauffer 1992, 231 no. 52. 6. We cannot exclude that the objects’ function, meaning or impact may already have changed through this change in materiality. For the material aspect, compare Marta Ajmar’s (2017, 669, 684–685) concept of ‘material mimesis’, exemplified by Renaissance earthenware, ‘whereby an art engages in the cognitive imitation of another materially and technologically, bringing to light knowledge exchange and cross-cultural interconnectedness in the long durée’. 7. Ellen Swift (2007, 403, 405) proposes a noteworthy alternative interpretation which may have worked out in certain contexts: she links vessels with geometric ornaments to curtains and drapes in domestic contexts and thus sees a connection to the context within which the vessels were used as a motivation for the corresponding design. This may have been the original intention when choosing the textile patterns as decoration for the metal vessels. A comparable grid pattern, very similar to the decoration on the bucket from Vrap, is attested on a pair of curtains in the British Museum said to be from Akhmin in Egypt and also dated to the 6th or 7th century (London, British Museum Museum no. EA29771: Fluck et al. 2015, 106–107). Swift (2007, 405, 407) agrees, though, that also in the domestic context the metal vessels with geometric decoration served as attestations of their owner’s wealth and power which were ‘used by the elite to structure social relations through interaction within the social context’. 8. The spoon shows the consul Eusebius enthroned in a very similar position, but with his right hand in front of his body instead of raised with the mappa. It is rather unlikely that this variation of the motif served as a model for the South Arabian relief. The spoon is included, though, to demonstrate what kind of portable artefacts carried this kind of iconographic motif. 9. On further transactions involving silk see Preiser-Kapeller in this volume. 10. Arthur M. Sackler Gallery Acc. no. S1987.117: http://www.asia.si.edu/collections/edan/object. php?q=fsg_S1987.117 (last accessed: 01/04/2019). 11. For a discussion of the dancers’ interpretation see Meinecke 2018, 50–51. 12. Flood (2001, 11) defines ‘translation’ as ‘the transmutation of a pre-existing visual language within a target culture according to principles and parameters defined by the specific cultural determinants of the source culture’.

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Ettinghausen, R., Grabar, O. and Jenkins-Madina, M. (2001) Islamic art and architecture. 650–1250. New Haven and London, Yale University Press. Feltham, H. (2010) Lions, silks and silver. The influence of Sasanian Persia. Sino-Platonic Papers 206. Flood, F.B. (2001) The Great Mosque of Damascus. Studies on the makings of an Umayyad visual culture. Leiden/Boston/Köln, Brill. Flood, F.B. (2009) Objects of translation. Material culture and medieval ‘Hindu-Muslim’ encounter. Princeton/Oxford, Princeton University Press. Fluck, C., Helmecke, G. and O’Connell, E.R. (eds) (2015) Egypt. Faith after the Pharaohs. London, British Museum Press. Garam, E. (2000) The Vrap treasure. In K.R. Brown, D. Kidd and C.T. Little (eds) From Attila to Charlemagne. Arts of the early medieval period in The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 170–179. New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Gasparini, M. (2016) Sino-Iranian textile patterns in Trans-Himalayan areas. The Silk Road 14, 84–96. Genequand, D. (2012) Les établissements des élites omeyyades en Palmyrène et au Proche-Orient. Beirut, Institut Francais du Proche-Orient. Grabar, O. (2006) The shared culture of objects. In O. Grabar, Islamic visual culture, 1100–1800 vol. 2. Constructing the study of Islamic art, 51–67. Hampshire, Ashgate. Gunter, A.C. and Jett, P. (1992) Ancient Iranian metalwork in the Arthur M. Sackler Gallery and the Freer Gallery of Art. Washington DC/Mainz, Philipp von Zabern. Härtel, H. and Yaldiz, M. (1982) Catalogue. In H. Härtel and M. Yaldiz, Along the ancient Silk Routes. Central Asian art from the West Berlin State Museums, 57–216. New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art. Hobbs, R. (2016) The Mildenhall Treasure. Late Roman silver plate from East Anglia. London, The British Museum. Japp, S. (2013) Cultural transfer in South Arabia during the first half of the first millennium CE. Zeitschrift für Orient-Archäologie 6, 300–319. Köhne, E. (2007) Die Gladiatorenkämpfe in der Spätantike. In A. Demandt and J. Engemann (eds) Konstantin der Große, 351–355. Mainz, Philipp von Zabern. Kröger, J. (1982) Sasanidischer Stuckdekor. Ein Beitrag zum Reliefdekor aus Stuck in sasanidischer und frühislamischer Zeit nach den Ausgrabungen von 1928/9 und 1931/2 in der sasanidischen Metropole Ktesiphon (Iraq) und unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Stuckfunde von Taht-i Sulaiman (Iran), aus Nizamabad (Iran) sowie zahlreicher anderer Fundorte. Mainz, Philipp von Zabern. Leader-Newby, R.E. (2004) Silver and society in Late Antiquity. Functions and meanings of silver plate in the fourth through seventh centuries. Aldershot/Burlington, Ashgate. L’Orange, H.P. (1979) La scultura in stucco e in pietra del tempietto di Cividale. Rome, Giorgio Bretschneider. Mathea-Förtsch, M. (1999) Römische Rankenpfeiler und -pilaster. Schmuckstützen mit vegetabilem Dekor, vornehmlich aus Italien und den westlichen Provinzen. Mainz, Philipp von Zabern. Matz, F. (1968) Die dionysischen Sarkophage 1. Die Typen der Figuren. Die Denkmäler 1-71B. Berlin, Gebr. Mann. Meinecke, K. (2018) Dionysos am Hofe. Mythen(bild)rezeption bei den Umayyaden. In U. Rehm (ed.) Mittelalterliche Mythenrezeption. Paradigmen und Paradigmenwechsel, 27–55. Köln, Böhlau. Meinecke, K. (forthcoming) Umayyad Visual Culture and its Models. In A. Marsham (ed.) The Umayyad world. Abingdon, Routledge. Müssemeier, U. (2012) Die merowingerzeitlichen Funde aus der Stadt Bonn und ihrem Umland. Darmstadt, von Zabern. Piccirillo, M. (1993) The mosaics of Jordan. Amman, American Center of Oriental Research. Rezania, K. (2018) Das Sasanidische Reich und der Aufstieg des Islam (300–800). In M. Bormpoudaki, M. van den Doel, W. Hupperetz, K.-P. Kalafati, L. Morehouse, L. Mulvin and M. Schmauder (eds) Europa in Bewegung. Lebenswelten im frühen Mittelalter, 48–55. Darmstadt, Theiss.

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Salomonson, J.W. (1969) Spätrömische rote Tonware mir Reliefverzierung aus nordafrikanischen Werkstätten. Entwicklungsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen zur reliefgeschmückten Terra Sigillata Chiara ‘C’. Bulletin antieke beschaving 44, 4–109. Schlumberger, D. (1939) Les fouilles de Qasr el-Heir el-Gharbi (1936–1938). Rapport préliminaire. Syria 20, 195–238, 324–373. Schlumberger, D. (1986) Qasr el-Heir el Gharbi. Paris, Geuthner. Shalem, A. (1994) The fall of al-Madaʾin. Some literary references concerning Sasanian spoils of war in mediaeval Islamic treasuries. Iran 32, 77–81. Spier, J. (2003) A lost consular diptych of Anicius Auchenius Bassus (AD 408) on the mould for an ARS plaque. Journal of Roman Archaeology 16, 350–354. Stauffer, A. (1992) Spätantike und koptische Wirkereien. Untersuchungen zur ikonographischen Tradition in spätantiken und frühmittelalterlichen Textilwerkstätten. Bern, Lang. Stern, H. (1953) Le calendrier de 354. Étude sur son texte et ses illustrations. Paris, Geuthner. Swift, E. (2007) Decorated vessels. The function of decoration in Late Antiquity. In L. Lavan, E. Swift and T. Putzeys, Objects in context objects in use. Material spatiality in Late Antiquity, 385–409. Leiden/Boston, Brill. Torp, H. (1977) L’Architettura del Tempietto di Cividale. Rome, G. Bretschneider. Torp, H. (2011) Il Tempietto Longobardo. La cappella palatina di Cividale. Cividale del Friuli, Comune di Cividale del Friuli Assessorato alla Cultura. Toynbee, J.M.C. and Ward Perkins, J.B. (1950) Peopled scrolls. A Hellenistic motif in imperial art. Papers of the British School at Rome 18, 1–43. Vaj, I. (2002) Il tempietto di Cividale e gli stucchi omayyadi. In S. Lusuardi Siena (ed.) Cividale Longobarda. Materiali per una rilettura archaeologica, 175–204. Milan, ISU Univ. Cattolica. Versluys, M.J. (2015) Roman visual material culture as globalising koine. In M. Pitts and M.J. Versluys (eds), Globalisation and the Roman world. World history, connectivity and material culture, 141–174. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Weitzmann, K. (ed.) (1979) Age of spirituality. Late antique and early Christian art, third to seventh century. New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Wickham, C. (2005) Framing the early Middle Ages. Europe and the Mediterranean 400–800. Oxford/ New York, Oxford University Press. Winkler-Horacek, L. (1988) Dionysos in Quṣayr ʿAmra – Ein hellenistisches Bildmotiv im Frühislam. Damaszener Mitteilungen 10, 261–289. Young, J.O. (2010) Cultural appropriation and the arts. Chichester, Blackwell. Yule, P. (2013) Late antique Arabia. Zafar, capital of Himyar. Rehabilitation of a ‘decadent’ society. Excavations of the Ruprecht-Karls-Universität Heidelberg 1998–2010 in the highland of the Yemen. Wiesbaden, Harrassowitz.

Chapter 13 Bracteates with Byzantine coin patterns along the Silk Road

Guo Yunyan Byzantine gold coins and imitations of Byzantine coins found in China and surrounding countries are important evidence for the economic and cultural exchange between the east and the west. The bracteates found mostly in Turfan, in Xinjiang of China, indicate their important role along the Silk Road and in funeral customs there. The classification of patterns on bracteates helps to understand not only the social and economic development, but also the influence of coins further east during the early Byzantine period. The analysis of the style of the patterns on the bracteates shows the variety of social life as well as the excellent skill of the bracteates’ producers in Turfan and in certain places in Central Asia. The examination of the prototypes of individual bracteates also reveals the variety of currencies along the Silk Road. Thus bracteates are also important material for the research on currencies of the Silk Road and on cultural integration in the region. In the past researchers generally analysed both gold coins and imitations together, but, as more and more gold coins and imitations have been found and more information on their contexts has been reported, it has become inevitable to do a classified study. This contribution will thus seek to give an overview of the bracteates found in China and surrounding countries, focusing especially on the iconography and style of their designs as well as the question of their possible models.

Findings and research on the bracteates The gold imitations of Byzantine coins can be divided into two categories: the first group are coin imitations with decoration on both sides and a heavier weight. These coin imitations differ among each other: some are fine enough to be currency, while others are rather obscure, but their thickness and weight are sufficient for circulation. The second group are gold bracteates with a lighter weight, most of which are

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one-sided, although several pieces are two-sided, too;1 they are very thin, light and easily damaged, which is why they cannot be called coin imitations. The decoration on most bracteates is copied from Byzantine gold coins, but there are also some pieces recalling Sasanian Persian silver coins or other coins in Central Asia; therefore, they are classified as ‘coin type bracteates’ or simply ‘bracteates’. This classification is based on observations about the appearance and weight of the known coin imitations and bracteates, and the weight could be the standard for identification: those which weigh less than 1.5 g can be classified as bracteates, while those with more than 1.5 g are coin imitations. Whether they are one-sided or two-sided cannot be used as an indication, because, although bracteates are normally one-sided, there are several pieces which are two-sided. For example the bracteate Ast.i.5 found by Sir Aurel Stein in the Astana Cemetery is two-sided, but weighs only 0.59 g, which is less than most bracteates (Wang 2004, 239). The weight standard is not an absolute rule, but an approximate guideline which helps researchers identify bracteates in order to analyse them separately. The bracteates found in China, most of whose decoration is copied from Byzantine coins, are counted together with Byzantine gold coins and coin imitations unearthed in China as necessary evidence for research on the exchange between the Byzantine Empire and China as well as countries between them. The decorations on bracteates are based on the familiarity and preference of their producers for the themes which reflects how wide-spread Byzantine coins were in the area; this indicates the economic and cultural influence of the Byzantine Empire in the east. The dissemination of bracteates inside of China shows the scope of this influence. Until now 34 bracteates which are undoubtedly from China could be identified: 25 in Turfan of Xinjiang, one in Khotan of Xinjiang, three in Guyuan of Ningxia, three in Xi’an of Shaanxi and one in Loyang of Henan. These were all important trade centres along the Silk Road, which shows that the economic and cultural influence of the Byzantine Empire went eastwards along the Middle Silk Road; this influence is especially obvious in Turfan. The research value of bracteates also lies in the fact that they reveal the customs of nations who settled along the Silk Road at the time. Most of the 25 bracteates from Turfan were found in funerary contexts, in the mouths of corpses, while three bracteates in Guyuan were unearthed from the Shi’s Cemetery where Sogdian descendants were buried (Luo Feng 2004, 49–78). The former, together with Sasanian silver coins found in Turfan, show the specific funerary custom in this place. They provide evidence for such a custom, its spreading and change (Nakao Kotani 1991; 1993; Li Chaoquan 1995; Wang Weikun 2001; 2003; Luo Feng 2005; Yu Xin 2012; Guo Yunyan 2015). Bracteates unearthed in Guyuan indicate that Sogdian descendants were involved in the existence or spreading of bracteates; Lin Ying (2003) suggested that the Sogdians might be the producers of such bracteates based on the frequent findings of bracteates and coin imitations and on the record of ‘gold money’ regarding the Sogdians. Furthermore, some bracteates are pierced once or even more than twice, and some have eyelets attached, which indicates they were used as pendants.

13. Bracteates with Byzantine coin patterns along the Silk Road

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Nevertheless, the research value of these coin type bracteates should go beyond the above mentioned. With the more detailed identification and analysis of the design of the bracteates, new evidence can be found which provides new proofs or suggestions for relevant historical questions.

Categories of bracteates based on face designs The designs of the bracteates unearthed in China are mostly copied from Byzantine gold coins, one from a Sasanian silver coin (Luo Feng 2004, 169–171), and three are profile busts or facing towards the left or the right whose prototypes are hard to identify.2 The same preference for Byzantine models can be concluded from the bracteates unearthed in Central Asia and Mongolia. According to incomplete statistics, the designs of bracteates unearthed in Central Asia vary more strongly, although most are still copied from Byzantine gold coins (Naymark 2001). Among the 28 bracteates unearthed in the Turkic noble tomb of Shoroon Bumbagar in Bayannuur Soum, Bulgan Province in northern Mongolia, seven pieces are copied from Sasanian silver coins and 21 from Byzantine gold coins (Guo Yunyan 2016, 115–123; Ochir and Erdenebold 2017, 219–232). The fact that the copied Byzantine gold coins are all nomismata struck from the 5th century until the first half of the 7th century conforms to the types of Byzantine gold coins and coin imitations unearthed in these places. This reflects the abundance of connections between the east and the west in that period. Since the designs of the bracteates are all different and the prototypes they copied include several types struck by various emperors, a detailed classification of the bracteates’ designs serves to show the influence of the Byzantine Empire on other regions of the ancient world in different periods. According to the images on 29 bracteates copied from Byzantine nomismata, the face designs of the bracteates can be divided into three categories: 1. Bust in three-quarters view. The prototype of this design are the obverses of nomismata issued by the Byzantine Empire from the 5th to the early 6th century. The typical pattern is a bust of an emperor in three-quarters view wearing a helmet with a plume, a diadem whose ties are shown on the left, a tunic and a cuirass. In his right hand he holds a spear behind his head, and on his left shoulder there is a shield which is decorated with the image of a horseman spearing a fallen foe. From the images there are 20 bracteates with such patterns (Table 13.1). The designs of these 20 bracteates all consist of a bust in three-quarters view, among which no. 1–12 copy the type with ties which was used in Byzantium before 498 and no. 13–20 copy the type without ties common from 498 to 538 (Grierson and Mays 1992, 6, 66). 2. Bust in front view. The nomismata issued by the Byzantine Empire after 538 all show a bust in front view. The prototypes copied by the design of the bracteates consist of three different types. The first is found on the obverse of nomismata issued during the Justinian Dynasty (538–602) (Bellinger 1966, 69) which show the emperor wearing a helmet with a plume, a cuirass and a diadem with a trefoil ornament and

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Guo Yunyan Table 13.1: Bracteates with bust in ¾ view3 Tombs

Patterns

1

TAM116.30

With ties

2

TAM191.83

3

TAM222.21

4

Ast. i. 6.03

5

TBM238.5

6

TBM103.1

7 8

TBM234.5 TBM304.5

9

TMNM103.3-1

With ties Obv. OIΛIIΛ - ?ΛO??? Rev. Victory advancing left holding long cross; VΛIII?- T-IVU???O With ties, quite strange With ties , XΠ? – Χ Χ GG (X might be small +) With ties, XΠ? – Χ Χ GG (X might be small +) With ties, DNANASTA-SIVSPPAVG With ties, -ΔΙ-?? With ties, not clear enough With ties, not clear enough With ties, ?? – VVI?

10 TMNM103.3-2

11 TYGXM11.6 With ties 12 a tomb in Tang D. With ties, ??ΠΛIIΛ?? 13 T. Shi Suoyan Without ties, I I– ??VV? 14 T. Shi Hedan Without ties, OIIY? – II?VIC 15 TMNM102.4-11 Without ties, OVVI – VNPVI 16 TAM105.6 Without ties, OVVI – VIIPVI 17 TAM92 Without ties 18 Ast. i. 3 without ties 19 Ast. i. 5 Obv. without ties. Rev. facing Angel with long cross and globus cruciger 20 TBM301.1 Without ties

Diameter Weight (mm) (g) 15 0.35

Notes on bracteates Notes on tombs Pierced (1, top)

17

1.4

Two-sided

20

1.55

16

0.85

A triangular gap on the right side Single-sided

14.5

0.6

Pierced (3, top, right)

Around 640

18

?

Clipped

In mouth

? 11.9

? 0.4

– –

13.8

0.4

Pierced (1, top) Pierced (2, top, left) Pierced (1, top)

Song Fo-Zhu, 627

14

0.4

14 20

0.2 0.8

Pierced (3: 2 top, 1 bottom) 1 mm outer edge 1 mm outer edge

Song-Zhang’s, 632 Kang ?Xiang; 640 Xi’an

19

0.8

–

664

23

2

670

14

1.05

2–3 mm outer edge An inlaid ring

TMNM102:11

17

0.58

Pierced (1, top)

TAM105:6

? 11 16.5

? 0.48 0.59

2 mm outer edge Pierced (1, top) Pierced (1, top)

TAM92 Ast. i. 3 Ast. i. 5

?

?

A round gap on top, pierced (1, bottom)

TBM301:1

Wife of Zhang Yuan-zi, Fan’s 614 After 680

After 671 Found 1915

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13. Bracteates with Byzantine coin patterns along the Silk Road

holding a globus cruciger or Victory in his right hand, while in his left hand is a shield decorated with a horseman. The representation of the cuirass is still divided into two layers, with short vertical lines upwards and long horizontal lines downwards. The second type is attested on the obverse of nomismata during the reign of Focas (602–610), with the emperor wearing a crown with a cross and pendilia, as well as a cuirass and paludamentum. The paludamentum is represented with long horizontal curves or wavy lines, and the buckle is on the right shoulder. The third type is depicted on the obverse of nomismata during the reign of Heraclius, especially Grierson’s (1993, 246–251) class II (613–625) on which Heraclius is shown on the left next to his son Heraclius Constantine who is depicted in a smaller size. Both wear a crown with a cross and pendilia and a paludamentum with the buckle on the right shoulder. Based on the pictures of the bracteates, there are six examples with this kind of decoration (Table 13.2). 3. Reverse type. The patterns on some bracteates copy the designs on the reverse of nomismata other than the above mentioned obverses. For example there is one bracteate, unearthed in Lord Shi’s tomb in Xi’an in 2002, whose one side copies the reverse of nomismata issued by Theodosius II, while the other copies the reverse of nomismata of Anastasius I (Luo Feng 2005, 57–65; Guo Yunyan 2007, 41–44). In addition, in 1897 a one-sided bracteate which shows the image of a winged Victory advancing to the left was bought by Sven Hedin in Khotan (Montell 1938, 95, 112). According to the three types of bracteates mentioned above, it can be concluded that the types with a bust in three-quarters view were copied most frequently. Thus the cultural influence of this type of coin image on the Silk Road was remarkable. Table 13.2: Bracteates with bust in front view Tombs

Patterns

Diameter (mm) 17 14

21 TAM138.10 22 TBM235.1

D?ΛΗΛΗ - ??? I?ΛΙ – ΙPINΛI

23 TMNM214.107 24 TAM213.47

?? 13? 17? Image only, without 17.8 any signs of a legend 21.5? Typical two busts 17 with the bigger one on the left and the smaller one on the right Typical two busts 17.1 with the bigger one on the left and the smaller one on the right

25 TAM116.30

26 TMNM302.1

Weight (g) 0.35 0.7 0.6 0.45

Notes on bracteates Notes on tombs Pierced (1, top) Pierced (1, small, left-top) Three creases 1 mm outer edge

– – – After 640

0.5

t. Qu Sheng, 660

1.15

–

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The types with a bust in front view copied less frequently include three kinds, which indicates that the Byzantine nomismata of these periods were also accepted in the east. This conforms to the political and economic development of the Byzantine Empire which from the end of the 5th to the early 6th century had a period of prosperity with currency stabilisation, economic boom and influential politics. After the victory of Heraclius I’s expedition in the 620s, the influence of the Empire in the east was reestablished.

Diversity and uniformity A more detailed analysis of the bracteates’ patterns revealed that the style and quality of the designs vary strongly even when they were copied from the same prototypes. Certain bracteates are quite close to their models, such as TBM103.1, no. 6 in Table 13.1 (Fig. 13.1). It is a one-sided bracteate with no weight recorded, but in the decoration the diadem, cuirass and shield of the emperor are all clear and precise, and the legend surrounding it, DNANASTA-SIVSPPAVG, is correct. In other cases the image is clear, but the style and details are quite different from the prototypes, such as TAM191.83, no. 2 in Table 13.1 (Fig. 13.2). On this bracteate the helmet and cuirass were clearly outlined with lines of pearls, but the style of the cuirass, the slightly deformed face of the emperor and the apparent upward chin do not correspond to the characteristics of Byzantine coins. In the image of Victory on the reverse of the bracteate, the design of the head is close to that of the angel in profile which was a typical pattern for the reverse of Byzantine coins in the 6th century. Also on the two bracteates found in Guyuan, no. 13 and 14 in Table 13.1 (Fig. 13.3–13.4), the Fig. 13.1: One-sided bracteate 2004TBM103.1, heads of the emperors are quite detailed, while found in the mouth of the corpse in Tomb 103 the cuirasses and shields are only roughly of the Badamu Cemetery in Turfan, Xinjiang represented in some curved lines. No. 25 and of China, in 2004. 18 mm, three-quarters 26 in Table 13.2 (Fig. 13.6–13.7) both copy the bust, legend DNANASTA-SIVSPPAVG (from image of Heraclius I and his son. The left face Tulufan Diqu Wenwu Ju [The Turfan Administration of Cultural Heritage] (ed.) on no. 24 is long and thin with a dotted arch (2019) Tulufan Jin Tang Mudi - Jiaohe xi, which represents the beard, while the left face Munaer, Badamu fajue baogao [The Jin on no. 26 is square shaped without a beard. and Tang Cemetaries - Archaeological While these bracteates imitate the Byzantine Reports on the Finding in the West prototypes rather closely, the images on other of Jiaohe, Munar and Badamu, pl. 41.1. bracteates differ greatly from their models. Beijing, The Cultural Relics Press).

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Fig. 13.2: Two-sided bracteate 69TAM191.83, found in the mouth of the corpse in Tomb 191 of the Astana Cemetery in Turfan, Xinjiang of China, in 1969. 17 mm, 1.4 g. Obverse: three-quarters bust. Reverse: winged figure similar to Victory advancing to the left (from The Administration of Cultural Heritage of Xinjiang Uygur Automonous Region (ed.) (2014) Xinjiang weiwuer zizhiqu disanci quanguo wenwu diaocha chengguo zhan [Integration of results of the third archaeological survey in the Xinjiang Uygur Automonous Region. Turfan], 119. Beijing, Science Press).

Fig. 13.3: One-sided bracteate found in the Tomb of Shi Suoyan (Sogdian descendant) in Shi’s Cemetery in Guyuan, Ningxia of China, in 1986. 19 mm, 0.8 g, three-quarters bust (photos authorized and provided by Guyuan Museum).

Fig. 13.4: One-sided bracteate found in the Tomb of Shi Hedan (Sogdian descendant) in Shi’s Cemetery in Guyuan, Ningxia of China, in 1986. 23 mm, 2 g, three-quarters bust (photos authorized and provided by Guyuan Museum).

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For example, on TAM222.21, no. 3 in Table 13.1 (Fig. 13.5), the crown and helmet of the emperor are very awkward. They are not represented with the usual three arched lines, but with a zigzag line instead, and also the part behind the neck of the emperor is semi-circular, which indicates that he is not wearing the usual cuirass as on the Byzantine coins. The oddest thing is that the ties not only exist on the left side of the head, but also on the right side, which are similar to the pendilia on the frontal bust. Thus, the design of the bracteate mixes the bust in three-quarters view and the frontal bust and adds further new elements, such as the big cheek which might show an eastern face. The styles of the pattern on the bracteates also differ among each other, indicating the variety of the bracteate makers and their ways of producing the bracteates. These phenomena are not unique. As far as the bracteates unearthed in Mongolia are concerned, the images on the bracteates are mostly very shallow, sloppily executed and not easily identified, while only a few are clear (Guo Yunyan 2016, 115–123; Ochir and Erdenebold 2017, 219–232). The designs of the bracteates vary even more when looking at the bracteates found in Central Asia which are posted on the website Zeno.ru.4 Among them are bracteates which copy coins issued in Central Asia and Northern India besides those copied from Byzantine gold coins and Sasanian silver coins. The styles of the designs are even more varied. For example, in the case of the motif of the bust in three-quarters view, some are outlined with several dots, and some are so deformed that the crown and helmet occupy almost half of the image. In general, the designs of the bracteates which appeared in Turfan of China, Mongolia and Central Asia vary strongly, and the styles are quite different. The making and dissemination of the bracteates were the result of the local production and life in that period; thus

Fig. 13.5: One-sided bracteate 72TAM222.21, found in the mouth of the corpse in Tomb 222 of Astana Cemetery in Turfan, Xinjiang of China, in 1972. 20 mm, 1.55 g, a triangle cut on the right, three-quarters bust (photo: Lin Ying).

Fig. 13.6: One-sided bracteate 2004TBM302.1, found in the mouth of the corpse in Tomb 103 of Badamu Cemetery in Turfan, Xinjiang of China, in 2004. 17.1 mm, 1.15 g, three-quarters bust, legend DNANASTA-SIVSPPAVG (from Tulufan Diqu Wenwu Ju [The Turfan Administration of Cultural Heritage] (ed.) (2019) Tulufan Jin Tang Mudi - Jiaohe xi, Munaer, Badamu fajue baogao [The Jin and Tang Cemetaries - Archaeological Reports on the Finding in the West of Jiaohe, Munar and Badamu, pl. 15.3. Beijing, The Cultural Relics Press)

13. Bracteates with Byzantine coin patterns along the Silk Road

Fig. 13.7: One-sided bracteate 69TAM116.30, found in the mouth of the corpse in Tomb 116 (buried in AD 600) of Astana Cemetery in Turfan, Xinjiang of China, in 1969. 17 mm, 0.5 g, three-quarters bust (photo: Lin Ying).

Fig. 13.8: One-sided bracteate 2004TBM238.5, found in the mouth of the corpse in Tomb 238 of Badamu Cemetary in Turfan, Xinjiang of China, in 2004. 14.5 mm, 0.6 g, three holes, three-quarters bust (from Tulufan Diqu Wenwu Ju [The Turfan Administration of Cultural Heritage] (ed.) (2019) Tulufan Jin Tang Mudi - Jiaohe xi, Munaer, Badamu fajue baogao [The Jin and Tang Cemetaries - Archaeological Reports on the Finding in the West of Jiaohe, Munar and Badamu, pl. 42.1. Beijing, The Cultural Relics Press).

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the variety of designs on the bracteates reveals the variety of the social life and technology in these districts. However, despite the variety in styles it has to be considered that bracteates were made in batch production. This becomes evident from the fact that some of the bracteates unearthed in the Turfan area have the same decoration. This is the case for two bracteates, no. 4 and no. 5 in Table 13.1, that is Ast.i.6.03,5 found by Sir Aurel Stein in 1915 in the tomb of the Astana Cemetery in Turfan, and TBM238.5 (Fig. 13.8) excavated in the Badamu cemetery of Turfan in 2004. The bracteate Ast.i.6.03 is single-sided, with a diameter of 16 mm and a weight of 0.85 g. The bracteate TBM238.5 is also single-sided, with three holes pierced on the top and top-right, while the top-left is not penetrated. It is 14.5 mm in diameter and 0.6 g in weight. Regarding the images, the designs of these two bracteates are the same: both show a bust in three-quarters view. The helmet and the crown of the emperor and the shield are outlined with lines of pearls, and there are seven bigger dots above the forehead. The emperor’s cheek is prominently embossed. The right hand is clearly outlined, and the grip position is accurate, but the handle of the spear cannot be seen. The ties of the crown curve down vertically behind the right ear. The legend on the bracteate is hard to read and looks like XΠ? – Χ Χ GG (the first X seems to be a small cross). The only difference between the two bracteates is that the details in the image on Ast.i.6.03 are more clearly discernible, so that the depiction on the shield in front of the left shoulder is clearer, and the head of the horse is obvious. In addition, there is a third bracteate kept in the Chinese Numismatic Museum which shows exactly the same images as these two, no. A in the article of Jin Deping (2004, 53). This bracteate is 18 mm in diameter and 0.67 g in weight. Unfortunately the picture of the bracteate has not been published yet.

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Fig. 13.9: One-sided bracteate 2004TMNM102.11, found in the mouth of the corpse in Tomb 102 of Munar Cemetary in Turfan, Xinjiang of China, in 2004. 14 mm, 1.05 g, one loop attached, three-quarters bust (from Tulufan Diqu Wenwu Ju [The Turfan Administration of Cultural Heritage] (ed.) (2019) Tulufan Jin Tang Mudi - Jiaohe xi, Munaer, Badamu fajue baogao [The Jin and Tang Cemetaries - Archaeological Reports on the Finding in the West of Jiaohe, Munar and Badamu, pl. 14.1. Beijing, The Cultural Relics Press).

Fig. 13.10: One-sided bracteate 69TAM105.6, found in the mouth of the corpse in Tomb 105 of Astana Cemetary in Turfan, Xinjiang of China, in 1969. 17 mm, 0.58 g, one hole, three-quarters bust (after: The Administration of Cultural Heritage of Xinjiang Uygur Automonous Region (ed.) (2011) Silu guibao: xinjiang guancang wenwu jingpin tulu [Silk Road Treasures, the Antique Catalog Kept in the Museums of Xinjiang], 237. Ulumqi, Xinjiang Peaple’s Publishing House).

Another two bracteates, no. 15 and no. 16 in Table 13.1, also carry the same image. No. 15, TMNM102.11 (Fig. 13.9), was unearthed in tomb no. 102 in the Munar Cemetery in Turfan. An eyelet is attached to its upper rim, and it is 14 mm in diameter and 1.05 g in weight. No. 16, TAM105.6 (Fig. 13.10), was unearthed in tomb no. 105 in the Astana Cemetery in Turfan. It was pierced at the top and has a diameter of 17 mm and a weight of 0.58 g. The rendering of the design on no. 16 is much clearer than that on no. 15, but it is obvious that the two images are very similar. From the pictures, the face of the emperor is thin, while the helmet, crown, cuirass and shield are not much different from the prototypes of the Byzantine coins. The helmet and crown are represented by three levels of lines of pearls, and a curve made up of bigger dots is found above the forehead. The cuirass consists of two parts, the upper of which is outlined with short slashes and arches, while the lower part is represented by horizontal lines and two dots. The legend surrounding it looks like OVVI – VNPVI. The quality of the images differs, though, and the image on no. 15 is

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clearer, so that the decoration of the shield is visible, while that on no. 16 is quite obscure. The shape of the shield looks like a triangle. The evidence of these five bracteates demonstrates that batch production of bracteates existed, but the productions met different circumstances which caused the bracteates’ different physical characteristics. In addition, the bracteates were used in different ways and by different people after they were made. Some are pierced, either to be hung onto something or to be integrated into certain jewelleries or even dresses, while others are not. Finally, they were all detached from the ornaments and put inside the mouths of corpses to be buried as part of the grave inventory. It could be suggested that such kinds of bracteates might have been produced in larger numbers and then obtained by different people for different uses. The owners must have been locals in Turfan, where the funerary custom of putting a coin in the deceased’s mouth was so popular that such bracteates were re-used as grave inventory.

Bracteates and imitations As far as the above mentioned five bracteates are concerned, the style of two kinds of decoration obviously differs. While the second design is not distinctly different from the nomismata from the Byzantine Empire, the obviously exotic style of the first design stands out, on which the big cheek show that the design was adjusted (or deformed) in certain places. Therefore, the question is whether the bracteates were directly copied from Byzantine prototypes, the deformation of the motifs thus occurring when the bracteates were made, or if they were copied from coin imitations whose face designs already varied from the prototype. We have seen that the decoration of the bracteates could be very close to the prototype, such as on TBM103.1, no. 6 in Table 13.1 (Fig. 13.1), which indicates that the design did not necessarily have to be deformed in the manufacturing process of the bracteates. In addition, a coin imitation unearthed in the Turkic Shoroon bumbagar Tomb in Mongolia provided new information. This coin, no. 278 (Fig. 13.11) from the Shoroon bumbagar Tomb, is 23 mm in diameter and 2.92 g in weight. It is well preserved and has a distinct outer edge (Ochir and Erdenebold 2017, 232). On the obverse, there is an emperor’s bust in three-quarters view, wearing a helmet and a crown, the top of which is rendered in a zigzag line with a curved line of pearls above it. On each side of the crown, there are pendilia which resemble the curved ties of diadems on 5th century coins. The emperor wears a cuirass, and on the left shoulder a shield with the depiction of a horseman spearing a fallen foe, which is a bit difficult to identify, is visible. The legend is quite small and seems to be ɔΠΟΠc – OΠV. On the reverse the legend looks like –ИOCΛHΛΓΟ, and there is a cross on three steps is in the middle, and COΠO? in the exergue. There is a circular indentation on the lower handle of the cross, and an eight-pointed star is located in the field on each side.

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Fig. 13.11: Imitation of Byzantine nomisma no. 278, found in a bag that was located on a small altar just beside the deceased with the other 39 gold and silver pieces in the Shoroon Bumbagar Tomb in Bayannuur Soum, Mongolia, in 2011. 23 mm, 2.92 g., Obverse: three-quarters bust, reverse, cross potent (photo: L. Erdenebold).

This type of coin is exceptional among the examples discussed in this contribution. The bust in three-quarters view is the usual type found on nomismata from the mid5th to the early 6th century, but the pattern on no. 278 is different from the designs on Byzantine nomismata. The curved line of pearls may be seen as part of the helmet which does not have a plume, the two pendilia are curved like ties of diadems which is atypical for Byzantine coins, and the zigzag edge whose origin remains unclear so far is also very unusual. Probably the design on the obverse of this coin is a mixture of different types of obverse motifs from nomismata of the 5th and 6th century. It was also not possible to identify the model of the circular indentation on the lower handle of the cross, and it is very rare to have two eight-pointed stars both on its left and on its right. The significance of this coin imitation is that it seems to provide a prototype for another bracteate: the above-mentioned bracteate TAM222.21, no. 3 in Table 13.1, which is incomplete and has a triangular breach on the right side (Xinjiang Weiwuer zizhiqu bowuguan 1972, 8–29; 1975, 8–26). From the picture (made by Prof. Lin Ying on July 13, 2016) the decoration on this gold piece is a bust in three-quarters view, wearing a helmet and a crown, the top of which is a zigzag line with a curved line of pearls above it. A pendilium is on the right side of the face, while the other pendilium on the left side is lost with the triangular breach. Comparing this bracteate with the obverse of no. 278 found in the Shoroon bumbagar Tomb, it becomes evident that these two are highly similar: the pattern of the crown helmet, the zigzag edge, the curved line of pearls and especially the pendilium on the right of the face, as well as the fact that the two pendilia have the same 90° curve. Obviously the bracteate from TAM222 copies an almost

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identical coin imitation as no. 278, and only slight variations occurred during the manufacturing process of the bracteates: there is no inscription around the central figure on the bracteates. In addition, all lines of the cuirass and crown, except for the curved line of pearls on the top of crown, are broad, full lines and not rows of pearls. Therefore, in comparison, the design of the latter gold piece appears to be less detailed. This gold bracteate unearthed in TAM222 of Turfan indicates that there are imitations of the same type as no. 278 from the Shoroon bumbagar Tomb during the 6th–7th century in Xinjiang, Central Asia or other districts. The decorations on bracteates could copy both Byzantine gold coins and coin imitations, which indicates that such coin imitations were of similar usage as Byzantine gold coins in those districts. The Byzantine gold coins were used as currency in Central Asia after the 5th century, seemingly until the 7th or 8th century (Guo Yunyan and Chen Zhiqiang 2019, 131–132); Bactrian documents mention that the gold coins used there were grouped as ‘finest’ and ‘not good enough’ (Sims-Williams 2014, 266–267). Thus the coin imitations might belong to those ‘not good enough’, while Byzantine gold coins could have been seen as the ‘finest’. It could be suggested that such high quality Byzantine gold coin imitations were struck and used as currency in certain places of Central Asia or further East. Let us get back to the question whether the deformation of the original designs on the bracteates occurred during the making of the bracteates themselves or during the making of coin imitations which were then used as models for the bracteates. The case of TAM222.21 and the bracteate no. 278 indicates that the prototypes of bracteates could be both Byzantine nomismata, such as TBM103.1, and coin imitations as no. 278 unearthed in Mongolia. It could even be suggested that the various patterns on bracteates might have had many different prototypes, various Byzantine nomismata or coin imitations, and that these bracteates could be evidence that different kinds of coin imitations were made and existed in certain places of Central Asia and further east. In short, studying the bracteates may be difficult, but this type of material is still very important. The bracteates are evidence for the fact that the places where they were unearthed were important stops along the Silk Road and that the funeral custom of putting coins in the mouths of the deceased existed in Turfan. In addition, through the more detailed analysis of the designs on bracteates, the variety, social life and mixture of monetary culture along the Silk Road becomes evident. It could also be argued that the economic and cultural impact of the Byzantine Empire on the east was stronger during two periods, the first of which is from the 5th century to the first half of the 6th century, the second being the years around the 620s. Thus the analysis of the designs on the bracteates enlarges the scope of research questions on coins along the Silk Road and shows the brilliance and the depth of the economic and cultural exchange between the east and the west.

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Notes

1. In English, the term ‘bracteate’ generally means a circular piece with a pattern only on one side, but with these imitations, several pieces, although they are entirely identical to one-sided bracteates, are decorated on both sides. Although it is hard to imagine how they were made, it happened. Therefore, the term ‘bracteate’ is also used for these two-sided pieces in this contribution. 2. They are a two-sided bracteate, unearthed in Loyang in 1931, which is very thin without a documented weight and size, and two bracteates, TBM255.22 and TBM106.1, unearthed in Badamu Cemetery of Turfan in 2004. The weight and size of TBM255.20 were not documented, while those of TBM106.1 are 17.8 mm in diameter and 0.45 g. From the image, the design of TBM106.1 is a bust facing towards the right, the bald head is represented as a cloud, it is bearded, and there is a motif resembling an ear of wheat in front of the face besides the behind the neck; see White 1931, 9–11; Chu Huaizhen et al. 2008, 49–52. 3. References for bracteates unearthed in Turfan in Table 13.1 and Table 13.2: Stein 1928; Wang 2004; Xinjiang Weiwuer zizhiqu bowuguan 1972; Xinjiang Weiwuer zizhiqu bowuguan 1975; Museum of Xinjiang 1978; Xinjiang Institute of Archaeology 2000a; Xinjiang Institute of Archaeology 2000b; Lu Lipeng 2000; Administrative Office of Cultural Relics of Turfan 1990; Tulufan Diqu Wenwu Ju 2006a; Tulufan Diqu Wenwu Ju 2006b; Tulufan Diqu Wenwu Ju 2006c; Chu Huaizhen, Li Xiao and Huang Xian 2008; Museum & Academia Turfanica 2013. Reference for bracteates from Khotan: Montell 1938. Reference for bracteates from Guyuan: Luo Feng 1996; Luo Feng 2002; Luo Feng 2004. References for bracteates from Xi’an: Zhang Haiyun, Liao Cailiang and Zhang Minghui 1986; Zhang Quanmin and Wang Zili 1992. References for bracteates from Loyang: White 1931. 4. https://www.zeno.ru/showgallery.php?cat=11184 (last accessed: 15/01/2020). 5. British Museum no. IA,XII.c.1: https://research.britishmuseum.org/research/collection_online/ collection_object_details.aspx?objectId=931185&partId=1&searchText=gold+astana&page=1 (last accessed: 10/02/2020).

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Chapter 14 Small worlds of long Late Antiquity: Global entanglements, trade diasporas and network theory Johannes Preiser-Kapeller The present chapter connects recent scholarship on long-distance exchange in Late Antiquity with concepts of social theory and network studies in order to explore different contexts and scales of the mobility of people, objects and ideas. On this basis, it argues that sustaining long-distance exchange was based on a chain of small-world networks that together spanned across Asia, Europe and North-/East Africa. These networks were created and used by merchants and other travellers, e.g. religious experts, through a multitude of mostly small-scale and everyday actions and interactions even in absence of large-scale state initiatives. Thereby, they could also be sustained in times of political fragmentation respectively intensified and extended in periods of imperial integration. In the last years, Late Antiquity has experienced another growth period, not only with regard to its temporal extent towards covering the entire 1st millennium (Fowden 2014; Bauer 2018), but equally in its territorial coverage across Afro-Eurasia (see, for instance, Höfert 2015; Kim et al. 2017; Benjamin 2018; Di Cosmo and Maas 2018; Meier 2019). This recent process of ‘globalisation’ has found first mixed, but largely positive receptions (Humphries 2017; Meier 2017). One could comment, however, that the view beyond the Mediterranean has always been more or less obvious when writing late antique history from the non-Western European perspective of Eastern Rome or Persia (Tomber 2008; Canepa 2010; Ritter 2010; or already Pigulewskaja 1969).

Global entanglements, their scales and ranges My own attempt at a global perspective on the centuries from AD 300 to 800 (PreiserKapeller 2018) is based on this latter tradition.1 I have tried to identify various overlapping layers of entanglements across long-distances in the fields of diplomacy and elite culture, religion, commerce and migration (of human and non-human ‘actors’,

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see also Watson 1983; Decker 2009; Lambourn 2018; Spengler 2019). Furthermore, I was interested in what Christopher Alan Bayly (2003) has called the lateral and the vertical dimension of phenomena of global diffusion and exchange: the spatial range of mobility and communication of individuals and objects which connected localities and clusters of localities (see also below), and the vertical dimension of the impact of the material and immaterial artefacts of these exchanges in the respective regional contexts and local societies, especially also beyond the upmost layer of courts and elites. The impact of religious beliefs (Buddhism, Zoroastrianism, Judaism, Christianity, Manichaeism, Islam) spreading across enormous distances in Afro-Eurasia in the 1st millennium AD also within local communities is for instance one of the most enduring vertical results of long-distance connectivity in that period (Xinru 1995; Foltz 2010; Walker 2012; Chaffee 2018). Regarding objects, on the contrast, long-distance connectivity has been interrelated with the exchange of small quantities of luxury goods with an only superficial impact on regional economies (Cutler 2001; Bielenstein 2005; Harris 2007). Chris Wickham (2004, 162–163) for instance stated: ‘Local exchange, between peasants in a village or between two villages at a local market, has always existed in every society. Luxury exchange, too, of scarce goods designed to mark out a political or economic elite, has always existed, often across very wide geographical ranges […], although its context of course varies dramatically from period to period and place to place, according to the tastes of any given elite. Bulk exchange is the main marker of the scale of economic systems. […] Luxury exchange does not tell us about systemic scale, by definition: only bulk traffic does that’ (see also Garraty 2010). Numbers thus matter; in this regard, some of the figures we encounter for exchanges across the frontier between 6th–8th century AD China and the Mongolian and Central Asian steppes, for instance, are impressive. The Zhou and the Qi dynasties of North China provided the Turkish Khanate with 200,000 pieces of silk per year in the 560s. The Tang emperors sent even higher quantities into Central Asia as pay for their garrisons between 640 and 750 (in the 730s and 740s, each year 900,000 bolts of silk). They also traded silk for horses needed for their armies; one transaction in 734/735 included the exchange of 500,000 bolts of silk for 14,000 horses. But these large scale movements for goods were (as the annona in the Roman Empire) actions of the state respectively aspects of a ‘tribute trade’ between the emperor of the Tang dynasty and the Khan of the Turks or Uighurs (Schafer 1963, 58–70; Beckwith 1991; de La Vaissière 2005, 210–211; Skaff 2012, 241–271; Arakawa and Hansen 2013; Hansen 2017, 107, 237). Yet, at the same time, (Sogdian) merchants had an important share in these transactions (sometimes in various roles as negotiators, moneychangers, sub-contractors or administrators), indicating a somehow ‘symbiotic relationships between state and commercial distribution’ as also postulated for the Roman Mediterranean (Ward-Perkins 2005, 102–103; Arakawa 2016; Terpstra 2019). Equally, private commercial enterprises could cover long distances. The oldest documents for Sogdian trade, the so-called Ancient Sogdian Letters from the 4th

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century AD, include the communication between a merchant in Dunhuang midway between Sogdia and China and his business partner in the Sogdian homeland in Samarkand (Fig. 14.1; see de La Vaissière 2018). He reports on the activities of their agents in various Chinese cities and recent political events (the conquest of the Chinese capital of Luoyang in 311 by the Xiongnu) which were disturbing business (Skaff 2003, 508–509; de La Vaissière 2005, 43–50; Livshits 2008; Arakawa 2016; Hansen 2017, 117–121). Furthermore, in the 8th- to 9th-century AD site of Moščevaja Balka in the north-western Caucasus (Fig. 14.1) papers and objects possibly belonging to a merchant coming from China or at least using Chinese language were found, including a Buddhist text, pieces of a small Buddhist votive banner and a list of obviously ‘locally made purchases’ of food (Ierusalimskaja 1996; Knauer 2001; Hermitage Amsterdam 2014, 240–247). Yet these are relatively singular pieces of evidence. As Valerie Hansen (2017, 10) states (on the basis of more general quantitative evidence provided by documents from the 6th–8th century): ‘Few individuals traversed all of Central Asia, covering the distance of some 2,000 miles (3,600 km) between Samarkand and [the Chinese capital of] Chang´an. […] Most travellers moved on smaller circuits [200 km], [or] travelled a few hundred miles [around 500–1,000 km] between their hometown and the next oasis and no further. Because goods were traded locally and passed through many hands, much of the Silk Road trade was a trickle trade. Long-distance caravans with hundreds of animals are rarely mentioned anywhere in the historical record – and usually only when states exchanged emissaries’ (see also Kuhn 1993, 62–78; Skaff 2003; de La Vaissière 2005, 165–167; Arakawa 2016). Relatively small was also the scale of these enterprises; the so-called ‘scale fee tax receipts’ from a checkpoint near Turfan (Fig. 14.1) around the year AD 600 register 37 transactions over the course of one year. They illustrate a pre-dominance of Sogdian traders (41 of 48 names of merchants), the kind of commodities transported (brass, medicine, copper, turmeric and other spices, raw sugar, gold, silver, ammonium chloride, aromatics and of course silk) and the quantities traded. However, ‘even the largest quantity mentioned – 800 Chinese pounds – could have been carried by several pack animals’ (Schafer 1963, 218; Hansen 2017, 98–103; Xinjiang 2019, 377–378). Furthermore, we have evidence for the size of 13 caravans registered in documents from the city of Kucha (now Xinjiang, China; Fig. 14.1) in the years AD 641–644, which fluctuate between two and 40 men with two to 17 animals (Arakawa 2016, 35–36). We also possess information on larger caravans, so for one from the history of the Zhou dynasty (AD 557–581) consisting of 240 merchants with 600 camels, carrying 10,000 bolts of silk, or for the 670s and 680s. These, however, were periods of (temporary) political or military instability; as Hansen explains, ‘when travel was difficult; merchants formed large groups, often hiring guards, to ensure their own safety’. Otherwise, as the documents from Kucha and other evidence indicate, merchants moved in smaller groups (Skaff 2003, 509; de La Vaissière 2005, 186–190; Hansen 2017, 77–79). This highlights interdependences between political conditions and the character of commerce, but with the maybe

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Fig. 14.1: Important locations and sites mentioned in the paper (map: J. Preiser-Kapeller, 2019).

surprising result that the existence of a larger imperial sphere in Central Asia would allow both for large-scale state sponsored movements of goods as well as a fragmentation of private commercial activity. However, further feedbacks can be observed: earlier mercantile activity had intensified the interests of the Chinese elites in the connections to Central Asia; the expansion of the Tang to the west followed these routes – and this phenomenon in turn increased opportunities and spaces of actions for the Sogdian traders and artisans (de La Vaissière 2005; Valenstein 2014; Wertmann 2015; Arakawa 2016). One may also ask what share and impact objects traded across long distances could have in late Roman and post-Roman Western Europe as the westernmost periphery of Afro-Eurasia.2 For some goods this is very difficult to trace in the archaeological evidence, even for the period before the collapse of the Western Roman Empire: while excavations in the harbour of Berenike at the Red Sea (Fig. 14.1) have yielded more than 7.5 kg of pepper from India in a single vessel, the largest find from the rest of the Roman world comes from Straubing at the Danube limes in Bavaria with only 52 peppercorns. At the same time, we learn from Zosimus (5.41.4) that Alaric in AD 408 received 5,000 pounds of gold, 30,000 pounds of silver, 3,000 silk robes and not less than 3,000 pounds of pepper as tribute to stop the siege of Rome (Cappers 2006, 111–119; Nechaeva 2014, 190, 247; Pollard 2013, 9).

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For the later period, we can still observe a relatively widespread diffusion of ‘oriental’ objects in the Merovingian Empire between the 5th and 8th century AD, mostly coming via the intermediation of the Eastern Roman Empire. Archaeometry confirms the ‘exotic’ origin of some of the material used, such as ivory from African elephants or cowrie shells coming from the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean, found in graves of the 6th and 7th century AD. Equally, garnet for gemstones came from deposits in India and Sri Lanka in the 5th and 6th century, before it was replaced with material of lesser quality from Bohemian sources in the 7th and 8th century. This change was explained by an interruption of routes between Byzantium and the Red Sea after the Sasanian and later Arab conquest of Egypt in the first half of the 7th century. Yet other material (ivory, amethyst) coming from the Indian Ocean found its way to the north of the Alps still until around AD 700. Other scholars assumed an impact of political conflicts within India specifically in the regions where garnet originated. Jörg Drauschke (2011), however, in his ground-breaking monograph also considers changes of customers’ taste in the Merovingian areas as a cause for the change in the usage and trade of this gemstone. Among the possible modes of distribution for these materials (exchange, diplomatic gifts, booty) Drauschke advocates a primarily commercial distribution from the Eastern Mediterranean to urban centres in Italy and Southern France (e.g. Marseilles; Fig. 14.1). From there ‘subsequent re-distribution’ (via various modes) took place to further sites along the river routes and beyond – a lateral ‘capillary’ diffusion of objects of long-distance commerce (Drauschke 2007; 2010; 2011; Sorg 2011; Drauschke and Hilgner 2012; see also Hodges 2012, 121–123). As for other regions of the late and post-Roman west, this commerce has been attributed to ‘transmarini negotiantes’ identified as ‘Syri’ in many written sources. This is only one among several commercially active groups in that period to whom a specific ethnic or regional origin was attributed (Morony 2004; García Vargas 2011).

Trade diasporas Another prominent example already mentioned are Sogdian merchants, stemming from the Central Asian region of Sogdia between the rivers Amy Darya and Syr Darya, with the famous cities of Samarkand and Bukhara (Fig. 14.1; see de La Vaissière 2005; Arakawa 2016; Xinjiang 2019). Their mercantile activity and mobility across various spatial scales between the borders of Iran and China depended on the existence of communities of compatriots along these routes (for a map of their trading networks see de La Vaissière 2018; Xinjiang 2019, 376). As Jonathan Karam Skaff (2003, 510, 513) states in his magisterial article: ‘Sogdian settlements in East Turkestan oasis cities were important hubs in a larger Eurasian trade network. They served as home bases and way stations for merchants and even supplied new generations of traders. For example, at Anle Village in Turfan about half of all Sogdian boys left home before the age of fifteen and presumably many joined the ranks of itinerant merchants. Even while retaining this kind of traditional practice, Sogdians integrated into local cities and towns, forming […] an “open” diaspora rooted in the broader framework of society

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rather than congregating in closed communities. Straddling the two cultures allowed Sogdians to serve as liaisons between visiting merchants and local society and government. Many of the traders would have been unable to operate without the services of Sogdian translators and guarantors who were born or had settled in East Turkestan.’ Skaff (2003, 510) uses the term ‘trade diaspora’ as coined by Abner Cohen (1971) and further developed by Philip D. Curtin (1984) for ‘communities of merchants living among aliens in associated networks’. Based on a common social background, such communities maintained long-distance connections among each other. Thereby they provided opportunities for itinerant merchants to find anchor points for mercantile activity as well as to solve the problems of gathering information and of establishing trust (by social control within these communities, as Avner Greif (2006) for instance has analysed in detail) for their businesses over large distances and longer time periods (see also Garraty 2010). Rogers Brubaker (2005), however, has criticised the inflationary use of this term and defined three criteria for a community to ‘qualify as true diaspora: communities must first be dispersed, second be oriented towards a real or imagined homeland, and third preserve a distinctive identity towards host societies’. Accordingly, the Sogdians can indeed by understood as ‘trade diaspora’, while others, more polycentric orientated communities such as the Armenian traders of the early modern period or the Jewish merchants from the Genizah documents in Cairo (10th–12th century AD, see Goldberg 2012) do not. For them, Sebouh David Aslanian (2011) in his monograph on the Armenian merchants from Iran in the early modern period has proposed the term ‘circulation society’. For the Sogdians, the reference point of ‘groupness’ (to borrow a term from Brubaker 2002 and Seland 2014) was common ethnic origin respectively language or even the origin from the same city, highlighted by the – not fully consistent –system of family names attributed to Sogdians in Chinese sources according to their place of origin. This may also indicate that they were not perceived or identified themselves as fully homogenous group. In addition, common religious beliefs (especially Zoroastrianism and Manichaeism) could be of relevance for some groups within the Sogdian diaspora (Skaff 2003; Walker 2012; Seland 2013; Wertmann 2015; Arakawa 2016; Godwin 2018; Xinjiang 2019). A combination of ethnicity, language and (Christian) religion also formed the basis of communication and cohesion among the Armenian ‘diaspora’ (as commanders and warriors, clerics and scholars or traders and artisans) across both the Mediterranean and the Iranian world, whose origins can be traced back to the 6th century (Manandian 1965; Preiser-Kapeller 2019b). Eivind Heldaas Seland (2012; 2013) has analysed the ‘networks and social cohesion’ among ‘trade diasporas’ or ‘circulation societies’ in the Western Indian Ocean since the 1st century AD more generally, including the merchants of Palmyra (until the 3rd century AD) and Christian communities as also described by Cosmas Indicopleustes for the 6th century AD (see also Walker 2012; Andrade 2018). There, in comparison with the Mediterranean (see McCormick 2002a, 444–468), distances and travel times dictated by the rhythms of the monsoon even more necessitated the long-term presence of members of mercantile

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communities in distanced places (see also Ptak 2007; Evers 2018; see Silverstein 2007 for the share of Jewish communities in the maritime long-distance trade of this period). As equally Michael Morony (2004, 178, 184–185) points out, one characteristic of the Late Antique period across Afro-Eurasia in general was ‘the emergence of diasporic trading networks based on place of origin and/or religion […]. Parallel to the network of “Syrian” merchants in the Mediterranean is that of the Sogdians in western China and the Persians in the Indian Ocean from the fourth century onwards. By the sixth century, Christian Persians belonging to the Church of the East should be included, and this trend continued into the Islamic period with the formation and spread of an Ibadi Muslim merchant diaspora from al-Basra to Uman and North Africa in the eighth century, and the Sirafi merchant colonies and Radanite Jewish merchants in the ninth and tenth centuries.’ In all cases, diffusion and expansion of these communities were not exclusively dependent on, but again fostered by the existence of large imperial spheres of Byzantium, Persia, the Caliphate, China or the empires of the Steppe (whose routes of expansion they in turn sometimes also ‘co-determined’ by their earlier activities to a certain degree, as in the case of the Sogdians in eastern Central Asia, see Arakawa 2016). Similarly to religious organisational networks, they in turn were able to survive imperial eclipse or fragmentation respectively, sometimes even to profit from it due to their ability to maintain connectivity over longer distances when state institutions failed (Garraty 2010).

Different scales of maritime connectivity and connections under the ‘radar’ of historiography The Christian traders in the Persian Gulf and later on the Muslim Ibadis spread especially via maritime routes; the Ibadis ‘combined mercantilism with religious movement’ and since the early 8th century ‘developed among the Basra merchant community’. With the expansion of maritime commerce, this actively missionary community spread relatively quickly from Mesopotamia to the regions around the Gulf (especially Oman), India and maybe even China (Potter 2009, 72, 81; Fleisher 2010). As is well studied, in the pre-modern period maritime trade allowed for faster movement of larger numbers of people and bigger quantities of goods across longer distances. In the mercantile world of the Indian Ocean in the 9th century, we also observe the transport of bulk goods (as well as slaves) over thousands of kilometres and the emergence of larger communities of (Muslim and non-Muslim) traders from the lands of the caliph all the way to China (Schottenhammer 2016; Chaffee 2018; Beaujard 2019/II, 37–40). We learn that houses in the port of Siraf in Iran (Fig. 14.1) were built with teak wood transported all the way from India and Zanzibar, for instance, while wine and rice came from more nearby areas around the Persian Gulf. At least for shipbuilding teak from India had already been used in Berenike in Egypt in the Roman period; thus, pre-existing patterns of distribution were intensified (Ricks 1970, 351; Popovic 1999; LaViolette and Fleisher 2009; Seland 2014, 382).

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In 1998, a 9th-century shipwreck (maybe to be dated ca. AD 830) was discovered offshore the island of Belitung in Indonesia (Fig. 14.1). This enormous archaeological assemblage contained more than 60,000 objects, especially ceramics from Tang China intended for sale in the Arab Caliphate. The ship alone documents the far reaching entanglements of the 9th-century Indian Ocean; following the design of an Arab dhow, it was built with East African timber, but later repaired with Southeast Asian lumbers. The lion share of the cargo consisted of 50,000 pieces of ceramics from the kilns of Changsha in southern China, where they were produced in masses for export. These and other ceramics as well as further valuable objects from various sites of production in China had been assembled as cargo of the ship in the famous port of Guangzhou (Canton); further objects hint at commerce with several sites in the Persian Gulf, East Africa and Southeast Asia (Fig. 14.1; see Krahl et al. 2010; Chaffee 2018; Beaujard 2019/ II, 27). However, the results of the quantitative studies of the share of ceramics coming from long-distance trade done by Priestmann (2013) for sites along the coasts of the Western Indian Ocean, even for hubs of the 7th to 9th century AD such as Siraf on the Persian Gulf (with seven percent), are quite sobering. The much larger remainder was made up of local and regional ceramics, which were sold through trading networks geared towards geographically closer markets. However, the increasing density of regional interdependencies was the prerequisite that a location could also serve as a hub of transregional importance. Moreover, even though the total share of ceramics from distant regions did not increase significantly, the finds from the 8th century onwards are much more ‘exotic’, especially with the arrival of several types of Chinese pottery. This growing diversity suggests that in the period of the Abbasid and Tang blooms, compared to the 5th to 7th centuries (Daryaee 2003), not necessarily larger quantities of goods were traded over greater distances, but that during this period the long-distance networks of commerce grew and that the spectrum of goods varied more widely (Preiser-Kapeller 2018; Feldbauer 2019, 133–193). At the same time, maybe with the exemption of the transport of grain from Egypt to Hijaz, no regular major state initiatives for the regular maritime transport of larger quantities of goods over longer distances (as in the case of the Roman grain fleets) in the Indian Ocean can be observed in the Sasanian Empire, the Arab Caliphate or in China (whose ‘imperial ecology’, in contrast, depended on a network of riverine and canal transport, see Lewis 2009a; 2009b; Preiser-Kapeller 2019a). Yet in any case, long-distance connectivity was maintained also in the ‘absence’ of the state. Maybe the most spectacular, but often overlooked (and definitely ‘non-imperial’) result of maritime long-distance connectivity across the Indian Ocean in the (most probably early) 1st millennium AD is the settling of considerable numbers of seafarers and farmers coming from Indonesia on the island of Madagascar (an ‘offshoot’ of the equally impressive Austronesian expansion towards the Pacific), a distance of more than 6,300 km as the bird flies. Unfortunately, this movement of population can only be reconstructed based on archaeological, linguistic and genetic evidence, therefore routes and modes of migration remain unclear (Mitchell 2005, 103–106; Beaujard

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2019/I, 595–642). We have to be aware that many extensive population movements remained below the ‘radar’ of state authorities or the interest of official historiography (Borgolte 2017). As a further example we may mention the long-distance migration movements of nomadic groups who appear in various combinations and with different names in the records of neighbouring empires, such as the Chinese, then disappear from them and eventually re-appear in new composition and with new names, for instance in Roman historiography. The exact links between these ‘peoples’, such as the Xiongnu and the Huns in the 4th century or the Rouran and the Avars in the 6th century remain unclear; at the same time, iconographies and other aspects of material culture hint at wide-ranging connections across the Eurasian steppes (Daim 2000; Pohl 2018). Another example of ‘hidden’ migrations are the movements of Bantu-speaking groups across most of Sub-Saharan Africa in the 1st millennium AD (Fauvelle 2017; 2018).

Small worlds and network theory Despite these long-distance linkages, however, ‘globally’ connected centres such as Siraf at the Persian Gulf relied on the import of foodstuffs from nearby sites for which the city in turn was an attractive market due to the commercial opportunities and demand created by its trans-regional mercantile community (see also above on the evidence of ceramics). As Barendse (2000) has outlined: ‘Thus, even the trade of the most ‘luxurious’ city of the Indian Ocean consisted largely of cheap bulk goods and the surroundings dominated this ‘world-city’ as much as the ‘world-city’ dominated them’ (see also Hodges 2012, 107–115). Thomas Tartaron (2013, 6–7, 80, 88) has highlighted the significance of such short-distance connections often overlooked in the favour of long-distance networks (in his case, for the Bronze Age Aegean): ‘[…] long-distance connections were dwarfed in quantity by dense networks of local and regional maritime connections among […] communities. The latter routes and relationships have received little attention, but they must have dominated the use of anchorages, large and small […]. There were many shades of activity in the spectrum between local and international interaction. Local and microregional maritime networks are best expressed by the concept of the “small world” […], composed of communities bound together by intensive, habitual interactions due to geography, traditional kinship ties, or other factors. […] Small worlds are nested within larger regional and interregional economic and sometimes political networks.’ The term ‘small world’ has also been used for early medieval Western Europe by Michael McCormick (2002a, 797: ‘Europe’s small worlds came to be linked to the greater world of the Muslim economies’) and Richard Hodges (2012, 29, 127, citing Sindbæk 2007). The underlying concept comes from (social) network theory and was mathematically analysed by Steven Strogatz and Duncan J. Watts (1999). Trying to find a relatively simple model to explain the ‘small world’ phenomenon, that in many social networks on average most people (as ‘nodes’) could be connected to each other via

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relatively few ‘links’ (the famous ‘six degrees of separation’), they arranged nodes on a ring and connected them only to the immediate neighbouring nodes (Fig. 14.2). The emerging network is characterised by a high ‘clustering’ (meaning that there is a high probability that two nodes connected to a node are also connected with each other) and relatively high average path length (indicating the number of steps necessary to get from one node to another one on average). Steven H. Strogatz and Duncan J. Watts (1999) now applied a procedure called ‘random rewiring’: one node is selected at random; one of its connecting edges is disconnected from its original destination and ‘rewired’, again at random, with another node. Through this process, more and more ‘short cuts’ are created, which connect nodes also in more ‘distant’ parts of the network. At the same time, while clustering (indicating the ‘local’ density of connections) within the immediate ‘neighbourhood’ of a node on the ring remains relatively high, even a few long-distance links result in a significant decline of the average path length (thus, few ‘degrees of separation’ and a ‘small world’; Fig. 14.2) (Watts 1999; Albert and Barabási 2002; Ball 2005, 458–463; Brughmans 2012; see also Knappett 2013; Preiser-Kapeller 2015; Fuhse 2016, 100–103). If one applies the ‘small world’ model to real geographical space, with settlements as nodes and connections (routes, interactions, exchanges) between them as links in a network, there emerges a multitude of local and regional clusters of densely connected sites in spatial proximity to each other, while some sites within these clusters have connections to more distanced places which are in turn embedded in dense local clusters. In Thomas F. Tartaron’s (2013) terminology these clusters are the ‘small worlds’ (somehow modifying the original meaning of Strogatz and Watts). Furthermore, if we follow the terminology of Mark Granovetter (1973), this dense small worlds clusters would be characterised by ‘strong’ ties (with regard to the frequency and scale of interaction), while the long-distance connections would be ‘weak’ ties of more occasional interaction or exchange. Spatial proximity thus would be an essential parameter to determine the actual ‘strength’ (indicating the frequency or scale of exchange between sites, for instance) of connections. This would also accord with what Leif Isaksen (2008) has called ‘transport friction’, meaning the actual costs of communication and exchange between sites depending on distance and terrain, which would have influenced the frequency and strength of connections (see also Gorenflo and Bell 1991; Barthélemy 2011). Yet as analytical results by César Ducruet and Faraz Zaidi (2012) for maritime traffic in the modern period or by Søren M. Sindbæk (2007) for the early medieval North Sea indicate, dense clusters do not necessarily only emerge among nodes spatially near to each other. Especially ties of long-distance exchange could connect ports more densely with other hubs of commerce oversea than with nearby sites of less mercantile activity. Irad Malkin (2011) in his book on the ‘Small World’ of the Greek colonisation of the 7th–6th century BC has equally illustrated how traditional ties of exchange and identification could connect clusters of colonies with their mother towns over long distances. Similarly, measures of superior political or religious authorities or the desire to connect to sacred places etc.

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Fig. 14.2: A small world network model after Watts 1999 (graph: J. Preiser-Kapeller, 2019).

could ‘rewire’ a considerable amount of the links of localities to more far away sites (Ducruet and Zaidi 2012). In most cases, however, we may assume a considerable amount of impact of the logic of spatial proximity. As mentioned above, also ‘global’ cities and ports relied on the import of foodstuffs from nearby sites, especially if no political authority would provide for regular provisions from the Black Sea (Athens), Egypt (Rome, Constantinople, Mecca) or via the Grand Canal from the Yangzi region (Chang’an in China, see Lewis 2009a; 2009b; Preiser-Kapeller 2019a). Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell (2000, 53–88) equally have highlighted the significance of ‘micro-regions’ and ‘micro-ecologies’ for the Mediterranean. Spatial proximity has also been identified by Ducruet and Zaidi (2012) as one factor for the emergence of port systems. Moreover, Valerie Hansen (2017, 4, 237) has summed up the ‘small world’ phenomenon and the underlying local and regional integration for early medieval Central Asia: ‘the communities along the Silk Road were largely agricultural rather than commercial, meaning that most people worked on the land and did not engage in trade. People lived and died near where they were born. The trade that took place was mainly local and often involved exchanges of goods, rather than the use of coins. Each community, then as now, had a distinctive identity.’ The ‘small world’-approach thus predicts the existence of a multitude of clusters of interconnected nodes on the local as well as the trans-local level across spatial scales and at different hierarchical levels, nested within each other (Watts 1999). In several studies, I have tested this model on ‘real world’ data. I adapted reconstructions of Old World trade routes done by Ciolek (1999–2012) for various regions and

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periods and transformed his data for sites and routes within modern-day Tajikistan and neighbouring regions for the time between AD 400 and 800 into a network model with nodes and links (Plate 14.1). I weighted links according to the distance between nodes (meaning that the quantity attributed to a link in the model is indirectly proportional to the number of miles between two nodes), thereby simulating (in a very rough way) the costs of movement and interaction between them due to geographical space. On this network, I applied one common algorithm for the detection of clusters of nodes more densely connected among each other than with the rest of the network, developed by the physicist Mark E.J. Newman (2010, 371–392). As a result, 13 interconnected regional clusters of sites were identified, meaning that the use of spatial proximity as single parameter for the strength of connectivity between sites results in a grouping also of a core segment of a historical long-distance route network in ‘small worlds’ (Plate 14.1). For another study, I analysed and compared the (more sophisticated) ORBIS geospatial network model of the Roman World (Scheidel et al. 2014) with a similarly conceptualised model of important cities and routes of the Chinese Empire generated by myself (Preiser-Kapeller 2019a; see also Preiser-Kapeller 2020). For the ORBIS-model, with the help of the Newman-algorithm, I identified 25 over-regional clusters of higher internal connectivity. The majority of these clusters owe their connectivity to either maritime connections or riverine routes (see also McCormick 2002a, 77–114; 2002b). In order to test the concept of ‘nested clustering’, I applied the Newman-algorithm also on each of the 25 (over)regional clusters of the ORBIS-network, resulting in the identification of between three and eight regional sub-clusters within each of the larger clusters (Plate 14.2). We may therefore perceive this complex network model of localities and routes in the Roman Empire across several spatial scales as a system of nested clusters, down to the level of individual settlements and their hinterlands (on the Mediterranean as ‘agglomeration’ of micro-regions and the role of connectivity see also Horden and Purcell 2000). The results of the cluster analysis for the network model of the Chinese Empire were similar (Plate 14.3; see Preiser-Kapeller 2019a). In such network structures, speed and cohesion of empire-wide connectivity depends on the trans-regional links between these clusters, which structure the entire system.

The integration and fragmentation of the late antique world The next question is if and how strong these ‘small world’ clusters within empires and along the trans-Afro-Eurasian routes were actually connected. There is an intense debate about the degree of economic integration even within the Roman Empire. Paul Erdkamp (2005, 204, 329–330) in his study on the Roman grain market states: ‘The corn market seems largely to have operated within restricted, sometimes isolated regions. This is not to deny that some goods were distributed over long distances, even Empirewide. […] the degree of connectivity should not be exaggerated, even along the coasts of the Mediterranean. Connectivity and isolation were unevenly spread across the

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Mediterranean world. We may distinguish a core, consisting of a “global” network of commercial centres and those regions that were lucky to be situated along busy shipping lanes, and a periphery that contained economic zones that were at best regionally integrated, at worst underdeveloped and isolated.’ The economist Peter Temin (2013, 10–24, 29–52) draws a different picture: ‘The Romans put considerable effort into unifying the Mediterranean and clearing out pirates that impeded peaceful shipping. One purpose of that effort was to exploit the comparative advantage of different parts of the ancient world’; he therefore sees the Roman Empire as an ‘enormous conglomeration of interdependent markets’ (maybe similar to our small world clusters) whose degree of economic integration resulted also in the interdependence of prices in different regions. Such assumptions are in turn criticised by Peter Fibinger Bang (2008, 31, 73): ‘One might conceivably imagine that some markets had begun to be linked by middleand long-distance trade. But to see the entire economy, spanning several continents, as organized by a set of interlinked markets is quite another matter. […] the extent of regional specialization remained quite limited.’ While there is no consensus on the degree of market integration in the Roman economy, on the basis of archaeological evidence it seems clear that one of its most remarkable features was the ‘widespread diffusion’ of goods (especially pottery), not only geographically (sometimes being transported over many hundreds of miles), but also socially (so that it reached not just the rich, but also the poor)’ (Ward-Perkins 2005, 88, 106–107). According to Bryan Ward-Perkins (2005, 133) the ‘end of complexity’, on the contrast, was indicated by the reduction of the lateral as well as vertical range of connectivity, so that ‘even in the few places, like Rome, where pottery imports and production remained exceptionally buoyant, the middle and lower markets for good-quality goods […] had wholly disappeared’. The ‘dismembering of the Roman state, and the ending of centuries of security, were the crucial factors in destroying the sophisticated economy of ancient times’ (see also McCormick 2002a, 778–783; Mees 2011; Vaccaro 2012). Such an interpretation of the end of the system, in turn, would imply a considerable degree of interdependence in the centuries before, since otherwise its ‘collapse’ would not have affected even relatively peripheral regions such as Roman Britain to such a dramatic degree. On the contrast, after the disappearance of the overarching imperial framework, whose demands and logistics very much determined orientation and scale of the axis of over-regional distribution and exchange both for the public and the private sector, an agglomeration of ‘isolated’, maybe ‘self-sufficient’ clusters or ‘small worlds’ would have re-appeared whose welfare would have depended mainly on their internal socio-economic dynamics. This is, however, the scenario Chris Wickham (2004, 165) draws for the Mediterranean around 800: ‘Long-distance trade is, as a general rule, less economically important than trade inside major economic regions, Egypt, the Aegean, and so on. […] For the great Mediterranean regions, internal exchange was the core commercial activity; and, indeed, long-distance commerce was itself generated, as a spin-off, by the structural coherence and intensity of intraregional exchange. This explains, among other things,

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the cellular nature of long-distance traffic […]. Most really long-distance routes simply linked these smaller interregional groupings together, and few were the boats which went from one end of the Mediterranean to the other.’ As we have seen above, also ‘few individuals traversed all the distance of some 2,000 miles (3,600 km) between Samarkand and Chang’an’ (Arakawa 2016; Hansen 2017, 10). Equally, the apex of Sogdian long-distance commerce was preceded by economic and demographic growth in the 5th–6th century AD in Sogdia proper. New settlements emerged primarily through agrarian colonisation, not as trading posts. In addition, the visual images and objects we have of the elite culture of that period were shaped by a milieu of aristocratic landowners, not so much of merchants (de La Vaissière 2005, 114–117, 161–164). Comparably, Sogdia remained one of the richest regions of the Islamic sphere even after the loosening of long-distance ties to the east of Central Asia and China after 800 and under the reign of the Samanids (de La Vaissière 2005, 253–258, 292–299). Yet it was a different Sogdia. The diffusion and flourishing of the Sogdian diaspora and its networks had depended on its specific position between and within large and rich imperial spheres to the east and to the south respectively west, but also on the relatively loose suzerainty of the empires of the steppe with which it cooperated – hence on the interplay of political and socio-economic factors across Eurasia far beyond the borders of Sogdia (Preiser-Kapeller 2018, 154–157). While the small worlds of the Sogdians as intermediaries thus became an intersection point of developments to the east and to the west, these processes in turn were not linked to such a degree that they can be interpreted as interdependent. Despite diplomatic missions, gift exchange and temporary alliances, political or economic dynamics in Byzantium did not depend on decision-making in Chang’an (to the same degree as it would on decision-making in Ctesiphon or Baghdad) or vice versa (Preiser-Kapeller 2018, 29–57). But what we can observe, when the emergence of the Turkish Khanate at the border of China in the 550s to 570s became entangled with the Persian-Byzantine conflict (Preiser-Kapeller 2018, 36–38), for instance, is a ‘trickling’ of effects (similar to the most common mode of exchange of objects) from one end of the continent to the other (with maybe remains of the Rouran from Mongolia showing up as Avars at Byzantium’s Danube frontier, see Daim 2000; Pohl 2018). And while ‘hard power’ and socio-economic impulses did not make the ‘full distance’ in an unbroken line, the interactions and contacts which took place relied to a significant degree on the long-distance routes and networks established by the Sogdians and others (as in the case of the Byzantine-Turkish negotiations of the 560s–570s, see Preiser-Kapeller 2018, 36–37). A stronger integration of well-connected ‘small worlds’ or even sites within regional spheres over larger distances was possible based on maritime trade, which (as mentioned above) allowed for a larger scale of exchange. Also Chris Wickham (2004, 173) has highlighted this, although again with a strong focus on ‘intraregional’ dynamics: ‘Conversely, the regional wealth in the Mediterranean areas that did exist in 800, particularly in Egypt, was not particularly focused on the Mediterranean as a

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maritime space. What would be necessary for the expansion of bulk trade with Egypt was less the increasing density of the luxury network just referred to, and more the internal development of other regions, so that they became sufficiently complex and open to the sea for Egyptians to be persuaded that they were worth considering as equal trade partners. As other regions did become more internally complex, that is to say, they offered more opportunities for longer-distance bulk trade between them’ (see also Hodges 2012, 7, 11–13; Vaccaro 2012; Curta 2013, 327–328). In Chris Wickham’s (2004; 2005) scenario, a relatively independent development of regional ‘small worlds’ is the pre-condition for the emergence of links, which may lead to inter-dependencies between regions. One supporting case may be the intensification of maritime exchange in the Indian Ocean from the mid-8th century onwards, when both Southern Iraq (due to the foundation of Baghdad by the Abbasids) and Southern China (on the basis of long-term demographic and economic growth) became the most dynamic regions in their respective imperial sphere (Lombard 1992; So 2000; Schottenhammer 2002; 2015; Kennedy 2011; Beaujard 2019/II, 18–70; Feldbauer 2019, 133–150). This intensification of maritime exchange (with regard to the range and spectrum, but maybe not the quantities, see above) of traded commodities, however, did equally require the pre-existence of routes of luxury trade (and the orientations of demands and ‘mental maps’ created thereby) and even more of traditions of long-distance maritime mobility and know-how (of shipbuilding, navigation, commercial practices etc.) (Sen 2003; Whitfield 2018). Socio-economic (but also religious) developments in regions already (weakly) connected before then may induce an increase in the scale, frequency and quality of exchange and mobility along these networks (which, of course, may be augmented with additional routes), thereby eventually resulting in interdependencies and the integration of regions across distances in ‘world systems’ (Abu-Lughod 1989; Beaujard 2005; 2010; 2019).

Stigmergy: the significance of long-distance connectivity Against this background, we may conclude: both in the (post-)Roman world and in late antique Afro-Eurasia, long-distance connectivity did not only allow for the exchange of objects, people, tastes and ideas, thereby contributing to the modification of material cultures or religious believes, also beyond the elite layer of societies (Helms 1993; Flood 2009). It was equally the pre-condition for the diffusion of and cohesion among religious communities and institutions respectively ‘diasporas’ across the Mediterranean, the Indian Ocean or Eurasia. This lateral dimension at the same time provided for connecting factors as well as knowledge on routes, vehicles and organisation of exchange for an eventual intensification of exchange and possible further (or renewed) integration of local and regional small-worlds. These possible feedbacks are inherent to the processes of the emergence, usage or modification of routes: around 1995 a new park area at Stuttgart University in Germany

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was opened for the public. Individuals decided to take a shortcut by selecting paths across grassed areas. Others followed their traces until new trails emerged in disregard of the previously defined and bituminised ways. This particular process attracted the attention of Dirk Helbing, a physicist, who together with two colleagues developed a mathematical model for the emergence of such trail patterns (Helbing et al. 1997). Their paper highlights the actual complexity behind the appearance of seemingly simple patterns of past human activity in space. These structures can emerge due to the sum of individual agency without (or even in negligence of) central planning. Dirk Helbing, Joachim Keltsch and Péter Molnár (1997) also applied a further concept of complexity theory, i.e. ‘path dependence’; in simple terms, it indicates that the trajectory of a system does not only depend on current conditions, but also on the ‘history’ of the system – such as structures established earlier which predetermine the ‘space of options’ of future agency. The park area in Stuttgart illustrates the validity (for the emergence of the new trails) and limits (for the originally planned, but ignored ways) of this concept. Equally relevant in this regard is the concept of ‘stigmergy’, introduced by Pierre-Paul Grasse in the 1950s to describe the indirect communication taking place among individuals in social insect societies; it indicates that a trace left in the environment by an action stimulates the performance of a next action, by the same or a different agent. This way subsequent actions tend to reinforce and build on each other, leading to the emergence of coherent, apparently systematic activity (Hölldobler and Wilson 2008, 479–481). The notion of the ‘Silk Road’ (as epitome of long-distance connectivity in our period) suggests linear routes between two localities, while scholarship has illuminated the ‘multiplexity’ of commercial, political or religious ties among places on the local, regional and trans-regional level, connected through the mobility of individuals and objects. Jason Neelis (2011, 1–2) for instance states: ‘Rather than restricting themselves to a single Buddhist superhighway, Buddhist missionaries followed various itineraries, including major arteries, minor capillary routes, and “middle paths” to travel back and forth between destinations. […] Interconnected networks of arteries and capillaries were used for ancient migrations […], interregional and long-distance trade, and cross-cultural transmission.’ Neelis (2011, 259) maps such a multiplex web of capillary routes for a smaller region between Karakorum and Hindukush; at different times, these routes were used with different frequencies. With regard to their selection, similar dynamics of agency and stigmergy could be assumed – yet, such processes did not only leave traces in the landscape. The usage of routes and the encounter of spatial features (landmarks) as well as communities (with their commercial opportunities, for instance) were combined into ‘mental maps’, which were communicated and passed on within communities of caravan guides, porters and merchants or navigators, seamen and traders and later maybe also visualised in the form of maps or written down and then used by others (Preiser-Kapeller 2013). At the same time, human agency on the individual as well as on the societal level of course did not take place in a vacuum, but in an equally complex interplay with the

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dynamics of the natural environment – geological or climatic dynamics could make earlier routes impassable, for instance (Yang et al. 2019). The determinative impact of environmental factors, however, was also limited due to social complexity. While landscape and contour lines or wind and waves may have suggested ‘ideal’ routes across various regions, factors of socio-economic, political or religious ‘push’ and ‘pull’, for instance, often proved stronger and incited individuals to put up with dangerous detours in order to visit a famous shrine (Preiser-Kapeller 2018, 251–255). In any case the routes that thus emerged, the connections that were created through the mobility of people, objects and ideas conveyed this inherent ‘stigmergic’ impulse for others to follow the traces they had left in the landscape as well as in the imaginations of individuals, communities or empires.

Acknowledgements The present study was undertaken within the framework of the project ‘Moving Byzantium: Mobility, Microstructures and Personal Agency’ (PI: Prof. Claudia Rapp; http://rapp.univie.ac.at/) funded by the FWF Austrian Science Fund (Project Z 288 Wittgenstein-Preis).

Notes

1. The present chapter also contains sections of the unpublished paper Preiser-Kapeller 2014, but revised, updated and augmented with many new findings and bibliographical references. 2. On the relatively marginal position of Europe as ‘actually one of the poorest regions in the world, left well out of the global economy’ and a general criticism of ‘Eurocentric’ approaches toward trans-Eurasian exchange, see Rezakhani 2010, esp. 426. See also Hodges 2012, 119–120.

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