Ancient West & East (3) 9004138005, 9789004138001

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ANCIENT WEST & EAST VOLUME 3, NO. 1

Academic Periodical

ANCIENT WEST & EAST Monograph Supplement: COLLOQUIA PONTICA editor-in-chief

GOCHA R. TSETSKHLADZE (AUSTRALIA) editors

R. Alston (UK) – A. Avram (Romania/France) – Sir John Boardman (UK) O. Bopearachchi (France) – J. Bouzek (Czech Rep.) – A. ÇilingiroÅlu (Turkey) – B. d’Agostino (Italy) – F. De Angelis (Canada) – A. Domínguez (Spain) – O. Doonan (USA) – M. Fischer (Israel) – J.Hargrave (UK) J. Hind (UK) – M. Kazanski (France) – A.Podossinov (Russia) D. Ridgway (UK) – N. Theodossiev (Bulgaria) advisory board P. Alexandrescu (Romania) – S. Atasoy (Turkey) – L. Ballesteros Pastor (Spain) A.D.H. Bivar (UK) – S. Burstein (USA) – J. Carter (USA) – B. Cunliffe (UK) J. de Boer (The Netherlands) – P. Dupont (France) – A. Fol (Bulgaria) – J. Fossey (Canada) I. Gagoshidze (Georgia) – E. Haerinck (Belgium) – V. Karageorghis (Cyprus) M. Kerschner (Austria/Germany) – A. Kuhrt (UK) – I. Malkin (Israel) – F. Millar (UK) J.-P. Morel (France) – R. Olmos (Spain) – A. Rathje (Denmark) – A. Sagona (Australia) A. Snodgrass (UK) – S. Solovyov (Russia) – D. Stronach (USA) – M.A. Tiverios (Greece) M. Vassileva (Bulgaria) – A. Wasowicz (Poland) All correspondence should be addressed to: Aquisitions Editor/Classical Studies Brill Academic Publishers Plantijnstraat 2 P.O. Box 9000 2300 PA Leiden The Netherlands Fax: +31 (0)71 5317532 E-Mail: [email protected] or Gocha R. Tsetskhladze Centre for Classics and Archaeology The University of Melbourne Victoria 3010 Australia Tel: +61 3 83445565 Fax: +61 3 83444161 E-Mail: [email protected]

ANCIENT WEST & EAST VOLUME 3, NO. 1

BRILL LEIDEN • BOSTON 2004

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

ISSN 1570–1921 ISBN 90 04 13800 5 © Copyright 2004 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill Academic Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Brill provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910 Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands

CONTENTS Articles S.L. Dudarev, The Mastering of Iron-Working by the Peoples of the Northern Caucasus in the Early Iron Age (Soviet and Russian Historiography of the Second Half of the 20th Century) .................................................................................................. S. Vassallo, The Stone Casting Moulds from Colle Madore: Evidence of Metallurgy in Sikanie ...................................................... H.G. Niemeyer, Phoenician or Greek: Is There a Reasonable Way Out of the Al Mina Debate? .............................................................. R. Fletcher, Sidonians, Tyrians and Greeks in the Mediterranean: The Evidence from Egyptianising Amulets ........................................ M. Alexandrescu Vianu, Présences nord-syriennes et chypriotes en Mer Noire à l’époque archaïque .......................................................... With a Supplement: A. Baltres, A. Andrei, C. Costea and M.V. Rusu, Two Archaic Casts from Histria: Mineralogy, Paint Composition and Storage Products ............................................................................

1 20 38 51 78

87

Notes D.J. Keenan, Radiocarbon Dates from Iron Age Gordion are Confounded ............................................................................................ 100 A. Apakidze, G. Kipiani and V. Nikolaishvili, A Rich Burial from Mtskheta (Caucasian Iberia) .................................................................. 104 Discussion R. Alston, Writing the Economic History for the Late Antique East: A Review (S. Kingsley and M. Decker [eds.], Economy and Exchange in the East Mediterranean during Late Antiquity) ........................................ 124 N. Pollard, Models, Data or Both? Some Problems of Evidence for the Study of the Late Antique Economy in the East ........................ 137 A. Wilson, Cyrenaica and the Late Antique Economy ........................ 143 R. Tomber, Polarising and Integrating the Late Roman Economy: the Role of Late Roman Amphorae 1–7 ............................................ 155 Book Reviews New Publications on Hittite Archaeology and History: A Review Article (D.P. Mielke) .............................................................................. 167 Two Books on Ancient Frontiers (F. Hartlog, Memories of Odysseus; C. Smith and J. Serrati (eds.), Sicily from Aeneas to Augustus) (F. De Angelis) ...................................................................................... 172 Bosporskie Issledovaniya ( J.G.F. Hind) .......................................................... 177

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CONTENTS

R.E. Blanton, Hellenistic, Roman and Byzantine Settlement Patterns of the Coast Lands of Western Rough Cilicia (F. Kolb) ................................ J. Boardman, The History of Greek Vases (A. Shapiro) .............................. G. Carr and S. Stoddart (eds.), Celts from Antiquity (B. Cunliffe) .......... M. Cruz Fernández Castro and B.W. Cunliffe, El yacimiento y el santuario de Torreparedones (A. Alzola Romero) ...................................... R.H. Hewsen, Armenia: A Historical Atlas (A. Smith) .............................. G. Kitov and D. Agre, Vavedenie v trakiiskata archeologiya (N. Theodossiev) .................................................................................... H. Koch, Persepolis (B. Overlaet) .............................................................. J. Luke, Ports of Trade, Al Mina and Geometric Greek Pottery in the Levant ( J. Boardman) ........................................................................................ N. Luraghi (ed.), The Historian’s Craft in the Age of Herodotus (E. Irwin) ................................................................................................ S.Y. Monakhov, Grecheskie amfory v Prichernomor’e ( J.G.F. Hind) ............ M. Pfrommer, Greek Gold from Hellenistic Egypt (M. Treister) .................. A. Rodríguez Díaz and J.-J. Enríquez Navascués, Extremadura tartésica (E. Sánchez-Moreno) ............................................................................ M. Rousseva, Trakiiska grobnichna arhitektura (N. Theodossiev) ................ J.-P. Roux, L’Asie Centrale (B. Overlaet) .................................................. R.J. Rowland Jr, The Periphery in the Center (P. van Dommelen) ............ P. Ruby (ed.), Les princes de la protohistoire et l’émergence de l’état (K. Vlassopoulos) .................................................................................... S.M.M. Young, A.M. Pollard, P. Budd and R.A. Ixer (eds.), Metals in Antiquity (B. Overlaet) ............................................................................

179 181 183 184 186 189 189 190 192 194 196 197 200 201 201 204 206

New Publications Iberian Archaeology (A. Domínguez) ......................................................

209

Books Received ..............................................................................................

217

In the Next Issue ..........................................................................................

221

THE MASTERING OF IRON-WORKING BY THE PEOPLES OF THE NORTHERN CAUCASUS IN THE EARLY IRON AGE (Soviet and Russian Historiography of the Second Half of the 20th Century) S.L. DUDAREV Abstract The article presents a discussion of the acquisition of iron technology by the ancient population of the northern Caucasus through an investigation of the historiography of relevant Russo-Soviet scholarship. It does not just summarise the historiography but gives a perspective for the future study of this question.

The question of iron-working has an important place in the publications of Russo-Soviet archaeologists investigating the ancient Caucasus. E. Krupnov was the first to draw attention to the importance of the mastering of iron technology in the history of the inhabitants of the region in the Early Iron Age.1 Other scholars have studied it as well, but each has concentrated on a particular part of the region—Karachayevo-Cherkessiya, Dagestan, Chechnya, etc.2 Very few of those writing since Krupnov have made any attempt to study the process and its specific features in respect of the northern Caucasus as a whole or large parts of it,3 and only one dissertation on the topic has been undertaken.4 The greatest interest in the problem was expressed between the 1960s and the early 1980s. It was then that the majority of publications appeared. During the 1990s there was a decrease in interest but, at the same time, Russian archaeologists began to study collections of iron and steel artefacts found earlier, undertaking their metallographic analysis. This led to some original observations and important conclusions. The aim of the present article is to provide Western readers with as much information as possible on the adoption of iron-working by the tribes of the northern Caucasus as examined and debated in the work of Russo-Soviet archaeologists between the 1960s and the 1990s, and to discuss the most important themes and points of interest (Fig. 1).

1

Krupnov 1960; 1965; 1969. Alekseeva 1971, 50–65; Davudov 1968, 3–15; 1974, 29–31, 119–24; Kozenkova 1969, 17; 1977, 17–18; Pikul 1967. 3 Kotovich 1978. 4 Dudarev 1983. 2

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40 3

CASPIAN SEA

45

45

4

2 1 5 6-11

12 13

45

15 20 14 16 22 17 18 19 21 23 24

BLACK SEA

25

40

40

40

45

Fig. 1. Early Iron Age sites of the northern Caucasus mentioned in the article. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

Burial ground Pshish-I. Burial ground Nikolaevskii. Settlement Krasnogvardeiskoe-II. Burial ground not far from the village of Kubanskoe. Burial ground Fars. Burial ground Tereze. Settlement and burial ground Ullubaganaly. Burial ground Belorechenskii 2. Burial ground Klin-Yar III. Burial ground Sosnovogorskii. Burial ground No. 1 in Kislovodsk Furniture Factory. Zmeiskoe settlement.

13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

Tli burial ground. Alkhaste settlement. Nesterovskoe settlement. Bamutskoe settlement. Urus-Martanovskoe settlement. Serzhen-Yurtovskoe settlement and burial ground. Akhkinchu-Barzoiskii burial ground. Alleroevskii 1 burial ground. Zandakskii burial ground. Nizhnayay Sigitma settlement. Arkasskoe city-site. Achi-Su settlement. Shakhsengerskii burial ground.

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The Origins of Ferrous Metallurgy in the Northern Caucasus Most scholars studying the Late Bronze and Early Iron Ages in the northern Caucasus admit that the ferrous metallurgy of Transcaucasia influenced the development of the local iron making in general, particularly in some specific areas of the region, and that there was direct import of iron artefacts from the end of the 10th to the beginning of the 9th century BC.5 However, not all of them agree about the extent of Transcaucasian influence. Thus, some—Krupnov, Pikul, Kozenkova, Dudarev, et al.—contend that the inhabitants of the northern Caucasus owed their first acquaintance with iron to the Transcaucasian tribes. However, they believe that later on the North Caucasian tribes themselves learned to produce iron artefacts on the basis of local iron ore fusion, imitating original bronze prototypes.6 Taking this even further, V. Kotovich, basing his conclusions on the work of the metallurgist A. Baikov, suggested that iron production originated among the tribes with no external help, on the basis of the highly-developed local copper metallurgy: ancient metallurgists could become acquainted with iron found as a by-product of the copper pyrites fusion process.7 This opinion was also supported by O. Davudov.8 Kotovich’s hypothesis finds a degree of support in some archaeological and linguistic studies. According to B. Grakov, ‘the production and use of ore iron everywhere in Europe, Asia and North Africa coincide with the high point of the development of copper fusion; and it is with this process that the first occurrences of regeneration of iron as a by-product might be associated.’9 V. Ivanov notes that early on iron was recovered as slag—a by-product of the production of copper and bronze—as shown by finds in the southern Caucasus from the Kura-Araks period and by the ancient kiln used for copper-fusion in Alaca-Hüyük (Anatolia, ca. 18th century BC). That iron was recovered as slag is also stated in an Old Assyrian letter from a trading colony in Asia Minor (end of the 3rd–beginning of the 2nd millennium BC).10 However, B. Shramko opposes Kotovich’s hypothesis, pointing out that iron recovered as slag could not be used to make artefacts: it was concealed in the slag. He presumes that the ancient inhabitants of the Caucasus had no need to use regenerated iron since their closest neighbours, living in what is

5 Davudov 1974, 30; Kozenkova 1968, 33; 1969, 17; 1977, 17; 1989, 266; Kotovich 1978, 23; Krupnov 1960, 324; Magomedov 1973, 19; Pikul 1967, 15; Tekhov 1971, 209. 6 Krupnov 1960, 324; Pikul 1967, 15; Dudarev 1983, 20; Kozenkova 1989, 266. 7 Kotovich 1977, 70–71; 1975; 1978, 17; 1982, 169–83. 8 Davudov 1974, 29. 9 Grakov 1977, 22. 10 Ivanov 1983, 38–39.

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now Iranian Azerbaidjan, had learned to extract iron from ore by about 2800 BC (furnace from the settlement near Lake Urmiya).11 As another means of acquainting the inhabitants of Dagestan with accidentally-recovered iron V.G. and V.M. Kotovich name the process of siderite firing (which at first had nothing to do with metallurgy) during the production of the mineral paints used widely in the area for rock painting up to the mid-1st millennium BC.12 This suggestion is shared by Davudov, who points out that ‘the possibility of iron-making coming to Dagestan from Transcaucasia cannot be ignored.’ He still leans towards the conclusion that it originated in Dagestan with no external help. This, in his opinion, is confirmed by the earliest iron objects from Dagestan, which imitate local types of bronze artefacts.13 Further proof of the early origins of iron metallurgy in the northern Caucasus is the find of siderite slag in the Late Bronze Age Nizhnesigitminskoe settlement, dated by Kotovich (also by Davudov and Abakarov, both still basing their conclusions on Kotovich’s dating) to the mid-2nd millennium BC.14 However, more and more evidence is coming to light to show that the earliest iron artefacts were, in fact, mainly brought in from Transcaucasia. By the end of the 1960s–1970s V. Kozenkova had concluded that the 9th–7th century BC iron objects from the eastern Kobansk area were of Transcaucasian or Dagestan origin (which can be used to support the hypothesis discussed above). A. Magomedov shared this view.15 Recently it received proof: the study of iron dagger blades from burials 26 and 28 of the SerzhenYurtovskii necropolis revealed the use of the cementation technique.16 At the present time, N. Terekhova and V. Erlikh, basing their conclusions on metallographic analysis, think that the majority of iron objects from the Fars necropolis in Adygei (north-western Caucasus) are Transcaucasian imports.17 Dagestan (the Caspian Coastal route) and the mountain passes of the Great Caucasus form possible routes into the northern Caucasus for Transcaucasian artefacts.18 Of even more interest is some linguistic evidence which shows ancient Near Eastern influence on the emergence of iron in the northern Caucasus. The Hurrian habalgi (‘iron’, ‘steel’) and the Hittite ha-ba-lki (same

11

Shramko 1983, 7–8. Kotovich 1977, 77; 1984, 28–42. 13 Davudov 1968, 8, fig. 2; 1974, 29. 14 Davudov 1974, 28–29; Kotovich 1978, 17; Pikul 1967, 16; Kotovich 1982, 203; Abakarov and Davudov 1994, 52. 15 Kozenkova 1969, 17; 1977, 18; Magomedov 1973, 19. 16 Terekhova et al. 1997, 47; Terekhova and Erlikh 2000, 136. 17 Leskov and Erlikh 1999, 75; Terekhova and Erlikh 2000, 137. 18 Davudov 1974, 28; Kotovich 1978, 23. 12

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meaning) correspond to the variant of the word found in linguistic material from Dagestan—ba-lki/ln.19 Another variant of the word for iron and steel in the north-eastern Caucasian languages—ba-r i-l—goes back beyond Hurrian to the Akkadian parzzill.20 Following the discovery of new evidence, the influence of other metallurgic centres on the development of iron-working in the northern Caucasus has been widely discussed. Some specialists, based on metallographic analysis of some iron and steel artefacts, argue that two traditions had co-existed: one, as might be expected, the Transcaucasian, identified by the use of cementation techniques for both intermediate products and final items, also by the beginnings of thermal treatment of steel objects; the other, the Eastern European, originating in the north Black Sea littoral and based on the use of pure iron, without and subsequent improvements in working practices.21 This would confirm A. Terenozhkin’s theory about ‘Cimmerian’ influence on iron production in the northern Caucasus, long viewed with scepticism by archaeologists studying the Caucasus.22 Methodological Features Determining the Transition from Bronze to Iron in the Northern Caucasus The appearance of iron objects in the material culture of the North Caucasian tribes marks, according to some scholars, the period of transition from bronze to iron. Krupnov firmly dated it for the northern Caucasus to the end of the 2nd–beginning of the 1st millennium BC (precisely, the 11th–10th centuries BC) pointing out that use of iron was still rare in that period.23 B. Tekhov dates the transitional period for the whole area to the 10th century BC.24 Terekhova and Erlikh argue that the Iron Age there began by the mid-7th century BC. They consider the preceding period, starting with the appearance of the first iron artefacts no later than the first half of the 8th century BC, as the transitional period.25 However, determining the transitional period has to be based on clear methodological criteria, and single unconnected finds of iron objects cannot be used for this purpose. B. Kolchin rightly emphasised that ‘the appearance

19 20 21 22 23 24 25

Diakonov 1978, 31. Diakonov 1978, 31. Terekhova and Erlikh 2000, 135–37. Terenozhkin 1976, 200; Dudarev 1999a, 13. Krupnov 1960, 321; 1965, 321; 1969, 16. Tekhov 1972, 18. Terekhova and Erlikh 2000, 135.

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of a single iron item, such as a decorative piece, among many bronze working tools, weapons and household artefacts, cannot prove anything.’26 Archaeologists in Dagestan have paid a lot of attention to the time frame and characteristics of the transitional period. Kotovich pointed out that the presence of iron slag in the Nizhnesigitminskoe settlement does not indicate the beginning of the Iron Age in the northern Caucasus.27 Most interesting is the conclusion of Davudov, based on G. Childe’s opinion that: ‘. . . the first encounter of the ancient Dagestan tribes with iron took place at the end of the 2nd–beginning of the 1st millennium BC.’ However, we cannot securely consider this date as the beginning of the Iron Age. According to Childe, the Iron Age begins with the spread of an effective method of iron fusion, when ‘massive production of iron tools and weaponry became possible. The production date of some pieces of iron arms and decorations [my italics—S.D.] must be viewed as the transitional period from the Bronze Age to the Early Iron Age.’28 Kolchin’s opinion is very similar: ‘We can start talking about the actual beginning of the Iron Age only when iron becomes the construction material of working tools and arms.’29 According to Ivanov, ‘the beginning of the Iron Age in the history of working tools is indicated by production of a whole series of iron (and steel) artefacts with different functions.’ Terekhova and Erlikh, basing their opinion on the works of several Western scholars (Forbes, Snodgrass, Waldbaum), argue that the major characteristics of the beginning of the Iron Age are the technologies of purposive cementation (carbonisation) of ferrous metal objects, and the quantitative prevalence of iron artefacts in the major technological processes.30 All these criteria can be applied to the northern Caucasus. They are obviously very important for the methodological substantiation of the features of the transitional period and are used in our study. Overview of the Spread of Iron Artefacts in the Sites of the Northern Caucasus at the end of the 2nd–beginning of the 1st millennium BC The time frame for the transition from the Bronze Age to the Iron Age and for the early stage of the spread of ferrous metals, suggested by some scholars for the entire region, cannot necessarily be applied to particular areas of the northern Caucasus. Let us turn to the data concerning the presence

26 27 28 29 30

Kolchin 1975, 9. Kotovich 1978, 17. Davudov 1974, 31. Kolchin 1975, 9. Terekhova and Erlikh 2000, 135.

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of iron in sites between Zakuban’e and Dagestan from the end of the 2nd to the first third of the 1st millennium BC. In 1971 E. Alekseeva dated the beginnings of iron-working in the northwestern Caucasus to the 9th century BC (early stage), and to the 8th–first half of the 7th century BC (later stage).31 However, she herself had to admit that complexes from the early stage were characterised by an absence of iron artefacts. Thus, the 9th century had been suggested as a date a priori. Subsequent archaeological investigation of the proto-Maeotian burials has shown, however, that her suggestion was well founded. In the early graves of the Pshish1 burial, dated by A. Sazonov to the 9th–first half of the 8th century BC, iron spearheads and axes were found.32 In addition, single iron objects (spearheads and knives) are known from the Nikolaevskii burial,33 as well as from the upper habitation level of the Krasnogvardeiskoe-2 settlement.34 The dates of both complexes are very close—the 9th–first half of the 8th century BC and the 9th–mid-8th century BC, respectively.35 These finds led A. Leskov and V. Erlikh to conclude that the beginning of the Iron Age corresponds to the emergence of the proto-Maeotian complexes in the foothills of the northwestern Caucasus.36 However, this might be a somewhat hurried conclusion: in Zakuban’e the massive process of mastering iron-working took place in the 8th–first half of the 7th century BC.37 In the central part of the northern Caucasus, characterised by sites of the Koban culture, the transition from the Bronze Age to the Iron Age corresponds to the beginning of that culture (the 11th–10th centuries BC, according to Krupnov). The period from the 9th to the mid-7th century BC, however, is marked by the ‘noticeable spreading around of iron, at that point as working tools and arms’;38 in the second quarter of the 1st millennium BC iron was dominant in the production of every day items in the northern Caucasus.39 Kozenkova, who in her conclusion follows Krupnov, assigns the leading role in the mastering of iron-working in the area of the Koban culture to its central and western variants. While dating the beginnings of iron-working on the southern slopes of the central Caucasus approximately to the end of the

31

Alekseeva 1971, 50. Sazonov 1996, 133. 33 Anfimov 1971, 173. 34 Sharafutdinova 1989, 56. 35 Sharafutdinova 1989, 59; Dudarev 1999, 148. 36 Leskov and Erlikh 1999, 75. 37 Akhanov 1961, 140, 145; Anfimov 1975, 40, 47; Lovpache 1985, 16–64; 1991, 76–102; Beglova et al. 1997, 71–84. 38 Krupnov 1969, 16. 39 Krupnov 1960, 321. 32

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10th–beginning of the 9th century BC,40 she argues that the same phase on the northern slopes started later.41 Significantly, the time when this took place corresponds to the Koban III period (beginning of the second half of the 10th–beginning of the 7th century BC), which is the classical period of development of the Koban culture, according to the periodisation suggested by Kozenkova herself.42 However, she argues that the active production of iron weaponry starts only at the end of Koban III.43 Characteristically, according to O. Bgazhba, the spread of the iron industry to the northern Caucasus was taking place precisely at the end of Koban III, i.e. at the beginning of the 7th century BC.44 Tekhov, who studied finds from the southern slopes of the central Caucasus, mostly confirmed Krupnov’s conclusions, arguing that iron appeared in the central Caucasus at the end of the 11th–beginning of the 10th century BC, or at the end of the 10th century.45 At the same time, the end of the 10th century BC, the Early Iron Age began in the central Caucasus.46 Already in the 10th–9th centuries BC iron objects appear, imitating the shape of bronze ones. In the graves of the Tli burial complex from the end of the 10th–8th century BC one or more iron artefacts was found in each grave, but the majority of items were made of bronze. According to Tekhov, it was particularly during the end of the 10th–8th centuries BC that the tribes of the central Caucasus fully mastered iron-working technology, then from the end of the 8th century BC spreading all through the area: in the Tli burial complex from the end of the 8th–6th century BC the majority of artefacts are made of iron, although bronze had not been completely abandoned.47 An extreme point of view is that of V. Safronov, who dates the Koban culture to the period after the 12th century BC, placing it completely into the Iron Age.48 At the beginning of the 1980s, study of finds from the foothills and the plains area of central Ciscaucasia, where most Koban complexes are located, let us identify three steps in the early stages of mastering iron-working in that

40 In this respect Kozenkova shares the opinion of G. Kossack, who connects with group C monuments (10th–beginning of the 8th century BC) the period when iron was the main material used by the culture which is represented by the Tli burial complex (Kossack 1983, 35, Abb. 14.). 41 Kozenkova 1989, 266. 42 Kozenkova 1996, 96–99. 43 Kozenkova 1996, 97. 44 Bgazhba 1992, 40. 45 Tekhov 1971, 209; 1972, 29. 46 Tekhov 1977, 4. 47 Tekhov 1971, 209; 1972, 36. 48 Safronov 1979, 10.

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area.49 Below we shall describe them, taking into account the evidence which has come to light in the last two decades. Conventionally, the time from the 10th to the first half of the 8th century BC is called the transitional period form the Bronze Age to the Iron Age. To the complexes of that period belong some of the materials from the Terezinskii burial (grave 1), from burial 1 at the Kislovodsk furniture factory (graves 28 and 44), from the 2nd Belorechenskii burial (grave 11-a), from the Klin-yar 3 burial (excavated by A. Belinskii) (graves 192, 303, 325, 362, 280), grave 135 from the same burial complex (excavated by V. Flerov), and part of the finds from the Sosnovogorskie burials.50 None of these groups of finds is homogenous in terms of the presence of bronze and bronze-iron artefacts. In all the groups except Klin-yar 3, these kinds of artefacts are still quite rare. Klin-yar 3 is different since iron objects are already necessarily present there (knives, spearheads, an iron dagger with a bronze handle, a bronze axe with iron inlays).51 Their presence must be a consequence of being left by a population more advanced in iron technology than other groups in central Ciscaucasia. Thus, Klin-yar 3 must be in some way exceptional among local burials, which requires explanation. Very important is the fact that there are no traces of iron production centres in the Koban settlements Ullubaganaly2 in Karachayevo-Cherkessiya (the early layer from the [10th?] 9th–8th centuries BC)52 or Zmeiskoe in North Ossetia (12th–beginning of the 8th century BC),53 which indicates that the first centuries of the 1st millennium BC were transitional to iron technology in central Ciscaucasia. The second half of the 8th–first half of the 7th century BC is a period of a broader process of gaining mastery of the technology. At that time, iron and bimetallic arms to a great extent begin to be substituted for bronze (especially significant in this respect are finds from burial 1 at the Kislovodsk furniture factory and from Klin-yar 3), prevailing quantitatively. The second half of the 7th–5th century BC is when iron completely replaces bronze in the production, first of all, of weapons, except for arrowheads. Finds from the north-eastern Caucasus in the pre-Scythian period are not homogenous in terms of the presence of iron objects in archaeological complexes. Although iron and iron artefacts were known to eastern Koban metallurgists by the beginning of the 1st millennium BC, there are no traces of ferrous metallurgy in the Serzhen-Yurtovskoe, Alkhastinskoe, and Bamutskoe

49 50 51 52 53

Dudarev 1983. Dudarev 1999b, 145–52. Belinskii and Dudarev 2001. Kovalevskaya 1984, 61. Kozenkova 1996, 39.

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settlements: in the first of these, iron artefacts constitute only 4% of all metal finds.54 Iron fusion by the eastern Koban people is documented only from the mid-1st millennium BC (metallic slag from the Nesterovskoe and the Urusmartanovskoe settlements).55 According to Magomedov, the inhabitants of eastern Koban settlements in the pre-Scythian period ‘had some initial knowledge of iron and were on the verge of starting to master iron-working’. However, ‘the tribes of the eastern Koban settlements were in the very last phase of the Bronze Age.’56 The first iron artefacts were discovered in burials of the Serzhen-Yurtovskii complex from the 10th–first half of the 8th century BC (2 iron knives, bronze dagger with iron inlays on handle). In a group of graves dated approximately to the end of the first half of the 8th century BC–first quarter of the 7th century BC some iron and bronze-iron pieces of weaponry appear (spearheads, iron daggers with a bronze handle, decorative pieces—eight in all). In graves of the Serzhen-Yurta burial, which belong to the latest group of graves, only iron weapons and some decorative pieces (19 in all) were found.57 This group was dated by Kozenkova to no later than the second or third quarters of the 7th century BC.58 In complexes from the 10th–8th centuries BC discovered in the rest of the Chechen-Ingush area (the Alleroevskii 1 burial, the Akhkinchu-Barzoiskii burial) no iron artefacts were found.59 By the 6th–5th centuries BC they prevail (the Nesterovskoe and the Khankalskoe settlements; all the burials are from the mid-1st millennium BC).60 These details do not correspond to the conclusions by Kotovich, namely that iron technology was in the process of being mastered in the Chechen-Ingush from the 9th century BC on.61 In my opinion, the 10th–first half of the 8th century BC was still the Late Bronze Age for the foothill-plain area of the Terek river basin, when single iron artefacts were used by the local population as decoration and cult objects. The mid8th–first half of the 7th century BC can be viewed as the transitional period from the Bronze Age to the Iron Age, during which the inhabitants of the Terek basin became more familiar with iron artefacts. There is no unambiguous evidence for the production of local iron objects yet. However, the great matter of mastering iron-working in this part of the northern Caucasus

54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61

Kozenkova 1977, 18; 1968, 32. Kozenkova 1977, 17. Magomedov 1973, 19. Kozenkova 1992, Taf. 78–81. Kozenkova 2002, 133. Dudarev 1983, 14–15. Kozenkova 1977, 18. Kotovich 1978, 19.

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begins from the second half/end of the 7th century BC and reaches its apogee in the 6th–5th centuries BC.62 Sites in the mountainous parts of Chechnya and Dagestan provide the following picture. The beginning of the great expansion of iron use in the area starts, according to Davudov, with the appearance of iron in complexes of the 9th–8th centuries BC in the Zandakskii and Shakhsengerskii burials63— although in arguing this, he contradicts his own opinion of the meaning of the transitional period from the Bronze Age to the Iron Age. In this respect, of interest are pieces of iron ore (siderite) from some pre-Scythian period graves in the Zandakskii burial complex (in the Chechnyan mountain region).64 Apart from finds of iron slag from the Nizhnesigitminskoe and the Achi-su settlements (end of the 2nd millennium BC–8th century BC, according to Davudov), where iron ore was also found,65 some early traces of iron production were discovered in Dagestan and on the territory of the Mugerganskii burial66 from the 9th–mid-7th centuries BC.67 According to M. Pikul, the inhabitants of Dagestan started the mass production of iron artefacts in the 8th–7th centuries BC, and in the 7th–4th centuries BC iron expanded through almost the entire region.68 According to V. Markovin, the first iron artefacts appeared in the mountainous area of Chechnya and in Dagestan in the 10th–9th centuries BC, and the wide expansion of iron began here from the 8th–6th centuries BC onward. The absence of a common name for iron in the languages of Dagestan also points to the relatively late appearance of iron in the mountains of the north-eastern Caucasus.69 However, Kotovich dated the period of wide expansion of iron in Dagestan to the 9th–first half of the 7th century BC.70 Thus, different opinions about the transitional period from the Bronze Age to the Iron Age in the northern Caucasus and about the adoption and mastery of iron-working there often fail to reflect the particular local situation. The reasons are both subjective (absence of a common methodology in defining the transitional) and objective (differences in the speed with which the inhabitants of the northern Caucasus mastered the technology and practices of ironworking).

62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70

Dudarev 1983, 15. Davudov 1974, 31. Markovin 1969, 84. Davudov 1985, 113. Markovin 1969, 104. Davudov 1974, 50. Pikul 1967, 88, 90. Markovin 1969, 104. Kotovich 1982, 117.

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Reasons for the Varying Speed and Circumstances of the Adoption of Iron in the Everyday Life of the North Caucasian Tribes Many problems were encountered connected to the developing of iron fusion technology; these are reflected in attempts at modelling this technology.71 Because of the difficulties in adopting the iron bloom method of production, even such advantages as broad distribution of iron ores and their relative accessibility could not at first play a decisive role in speeding up the adoption of ore fusion technology and of forging iron artefacts.72 Pikul, Kozenkova, Kotovich and other scholars point to the important role of the practical knowledge of bronze-founding as a technological prerequisite for the transition to iron production.73 However, the traditions developed in the preceding period of working with copper alloys were not always applicable to the new metal and could slow down its effective use. For example, the tribes of the central Caucasus used such an important method of manufacturing steel as chilling only in the 7th–5th centuries BC. This might be explained by the fact that the technique could not be used in bronze production: when quickly chilled in water hot copper becomes completely soft.74 Furthermore, in the early period of iron-working, with iron-working tools still far from perfect and the small amounts of iron produced by the wetblown furnace, the well-organised production of high-quality bronze, no softer than the best kinds of soft steel, long retained its competitiveness. This might be why the mass transition from the Bronze Age to the Iron Age took longer in the northern Caucasus than in Transcaucasia.75 Pikul, Tekhov and Davudov see other conditions too which helped or hindered the development of ferrous metallurgy: 1) presence or absence of iron ore deposits close by; 2) relative geographical isolation from Transcaucasia.76 Similarly, according to Y. Voronov, ‘some part of the conservatism of the bronze production in Colchis compared with Tli and, especially, Samtavro, can be explained by its greater distance from Urartu.’77 As Kotovich rightly noticed, first acquaintance with iron is separated by a

71

Kolchin and Krug 1965. Pikul 1967, 14. 73 Kozenkova 1968, 31; Kotovich 1982, 184, 186. 74 Voznesenskaya 1975, 91. 75 Krupnov 1960, 322. However, this process did not take place in the northern Caucasus alone. In Colchis in Transcaucasia, for example, ‘advanced bronze metallurgy, the highpoint of Colchian bronze culture, in particular at the end, resulted in slowing down the massive process of iron production’ (Lordkipanidze 1978, 100). 76 Davudov 1974, 120; Pikul 1967, 16; Tekhov 1971, 209; 1972, 19. 77 Voronov 1984, 9. 72

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significant period of time from the onset of broad use, during which ancient metallurgists adopted the technique of recovering the metal directly from ore and developed many complex technologies that needed to be deployed once large-scale iron-working commenced.78 According to M. Gernes, the length of time between the first appearance of single iron artefacts and well-organised production on a significant scale on the basis of local ores was likely to be no less than 200 years.79 This conclusion corresponds to Thekov’s observations that the process of mastering iron technology in the central Caucasus took from the end of the 10th to the 8th century BC, i.e. about 200 years. According to Krupnov, the acquisition of mastery of iron-working in the Caucasus, in particular in the northern Caucasus, took place one century later than in the ancient Near East.80 The majority of archaeologists studying the Caucasus are of the opinion that iron production among the North Caucasian tribes received a decisive blow during the Scythian campaigns. Krupnov, following B. Piotrovskii, argues that ‘to a certain extent, we owe the mass adoption of iron in the northern Caucasus to the Scythians too, who helped broader contacts between far-distant peoples.’81 Developing this idea, V. Vinogradov suggests that the fact that the elite of some north-eastern Caucasian tribes took part in the Scythian campaigns and ‘through that acquired some military and every-day life experience as well as some production skills, could be one of the reasons for the unusually massive use of iron artefacts’ among the ancient inhabitants of the Chechen-Ingush area.82 Davudov also assigns considerable significance to the Scythian campaigns in terms of the broad mastering of iron by the tribes of Dagestan, pointing out that, first of all, ‘the Scythians erased the established borders,’ which made ‘the technical innovations of the tribes a common possession’; and, secondly that ‘the movement of the Scythians themselves, as well as their attacks, activated the local tribes. The development of iron metallurgy and its working techniques gave them a chance to resist the expansion of the nomads, and in some cases even to join the Scythian campaign.’83 Kozenkova and Voronov associate the active adoption of iron with the movements of the northern tribes.84 G. Voznesenskaya, a specialist in ancient iron-working, agreed with this interpretation of the reasons for the rapid development of iron production in

78 79 80 81 82 83 84

Kotovich 1978, 18. Pikul 1967, 16. Krupnov 1965, 330. Krupnov 1965, 336. Vinogradov 1972, 83. Davudov 1974, 123. Kozenkova 1977, 47; 1989, 266; Voronov 1980, 217.

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the northern Caucasus during the Scythian period.85 Noticeably, according to data provided by V. Abaev, a prominent specialist in the Iranian languages, the predecessors of the Chechen and Ingush peoples adopted the Scythian name for steel (Scythian andan; Chechen ondun; Ingush ondae).86 But one comment has to be made: Chechen linguistic material known to the present writer87 indicates that the Chechen name for steel is ondae echik, which means ‘strong iron’. However, as Terekhova has established, the Scythians were less advanced in terms of iron production than the local inhabitants of the central and northeastern Caucasus.88 Moreover, the studies of L. Khomutova (Rozanova) and Terekhova provide grounds to think that the Caucasus had a considerable influence on the formation of iron production among the Ananino tribes of the Volga-Kama area:89 soft chilling and some other technological features point towards common traditions in ferrous metal working by the Caucasian and Ananino tribes.90 This evidence allowed them to share the opinion of N. Chlenova—of the movement of the North Caucasian population into the midVolga region during the Cimmerian, and then during the Early Scythian period.91 Thus, we can assume that the role played by the Scythians need not necessarily be reflected in the direct influence of their knowledge of ironworking on the North Caucasian people. The political factor was the determining one. In the 7th–6th centuries BC the Scythians were the most powerful people in Ciscaucasia. According to V. Murzin, at the end of the 7th–6th century BC their political centre was located in the area around the Kuban and in Stavropol.92 By their broad use of iron and steel weaponry, they pushed the local population towards the massive process of gaining mastery in ironworking, without which the locals could not have withstood them. The common name for steel shared by some of the predecessors of the North Caucasian peoples with the Scythians could have been the result not only of their close territorial relationship with the Scythians of Ciscaucasia, but also their coparticipation in the Asian campaigns. Interestingly, the huge process of mastering and adopting iron technology in Transcaucasia and Iran, ‘even though an independent one, temporarily coincides with the Assyrians and Urartians advancing into those territories’,93

85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93

Voznesenskaya 1975, 92. Abaev 1971, 12. Grozny in Chechnya is the author’s home town of 40 years. Terekhova 1983. Kvirkveliya et al. 1984, 281. Terekhova et al. 1997, 76. Terekhova 1997, 77. Murzin 1984, 104. Pogrebova 1985, 25.

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which once again indicates the connection between iron-working and political events. Production Technology of Iron and Steel Artefacts No traces of iron production workshops have yet been found in complexes from the pre-Scythian period in the northern Caucasus. Therefore, at present, we lack the means to study all phases of technological development and the organisation of iron production among the local tribes. The only exception is a workshop of the Scythian era at the Arkasskoe settlement in Dagestan,94 materials from which were used by Davudov as a basis for determining the following archaeological features of local ferrous metallurgy: 1) presence of blacksmiths’ workshops; 2) finds of semi-finished products in the form of ingots and half-worked iron pieces; 3) local copies of imported artefacts made by local artisans. (They had to have a specific microstructure, different from the original types.)95 In the last 20 years, as the result of micro-structural analysis of some of the finds from the beginning of the Iron Age from complexes in the northern Caucasus (apart from Dagestan), the possibility emerged of discovering the technological peculiarities of their manufacture. As mentioned above, two traditions can be distinguished. Most interesting is the situation in north-western and central Ciscaucasia in the pre-Scythian period. Data from the complexes of the plains group of the proto-Maeotian burials (the Kuban burial complex) reveal a primitive technology of ferrous metal-working, originating from the Eastern European tradition. The same is true for artefacts from the Klin-Yar 3 burial (in the suburbs of the city of Kislovodsk). Artefacts in both groups are made either of iron or of unevenly carbonated steel. Moreover, a bronze-handled sword made of such steel is similar in its constructive details to a sword from the Subbotovskoe settlement (in the partially-wooded steppe area of the Ukraine). The production technology of the artefacts from the Fars burial complex (in the foothills of the north-western Caucasus) includes various kinds of cementation for both the intermediate and the finished products, as well as thermo-treatment of the finished products. This originates from the Transcaucasian (ancient Near Eastern) tradition of ferrous metal working.96 Products manufactured by the blacksmiths of the North Caucasian tribes in the 7th–6th centuries BC have been studied in great detail. Terekhova,

94 95 96

Davudov 1974, 122; Pikul 1967, 52–53. Davudov 1974, 121. Terekhova 1996, 146; 1997, 64–70; Terekhova and Erlikh 2000, 137.

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using micro-structural analysis, studied about fifty iron artefacts of this period from the burials in Pyatigore, Karachayevo-Cherkessiya and the ChechenIngush areas. Local blacksmiths were very skilled in using different kinds of ferrous metals (pure iron, high-carbonated steel, etc.), applying various technologies to produce them (cementation, etc.) Local specialists also made skilled use of the blacksmith’s welding technique, whenever artefacts were being made of several metal strips of various quality (so-called packeting). They also knew how to improve the quality of an artefact by chilling, i.e. putting it in water (martensite) or oil (sorbite). They used various specialised tools, reflected in the character of the surface finishing of artefacts.97 Terekhova argues that advanced blacksmithing technologies came to the northern Caucasus in the 7th century BC directly from Transcaucasia. According to Krupnov, the large quantity of iron artefacts in the North Caucasian burial complexes from the mid-1st millennium BC points towards specialisation in metallurgy and blacksmith-manufactured products, since mass manufacture of high quality tools and weapons could not have been undertaken by just any member of the community. Production of metal artefacts at that time was an activity performed by families of craftsmen who, on the one hand, did not yet completely break off from agriculture and pastoralism, but on the other, supplied their craft products not just to their families but also the population of the surrounding area. Krupnov attached great importance to specialisation in the manufacture of blacksmith’s products as one of the major prerequisites for differentiating crafts from the agricultural activities.98 According to Davudov, this specialisation in Dagestan began in the 6th century BC.99 Both scholars think that it did not occur before the Scythian period, which has been indirectly confirmed by micro-structural analyses. Important in this respect is the fact that, in her studies of the Ullubaganaly burial complex in Karachayevo-Cherkessiya (end of the 7th–first half of the 6th century BC), V. Kovalevskaya singled out several graves of a ‘distinct professional group of blacksmiths’.100 According to the recent opinion of Markovin, the presence of pieces of slag in the adult and child graves of Zandakskii burial ground in the mountains of Chechnya indicates that the adults were metallurgists and that the children were members of their family.101 What is said above does not encompass all the problems concerning the adoption of iron by the population of the northern Caucasus. For example,

97

Terekhova 1983, 124–127. Krupnov 1960, 325–327. 99 Davudov 1974, 122. 100 Kovalevskaya 1983, 25. 101 Markovin 2002, 110. 98

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such aspects as the influence of this process upon social relationships among the local population, upon their religious beliefs, etc. also deserve attention. The limits of this article do not permit this. In conclusion, it should be said that future study of the topic is connected to new excavations of Early Iron Age complexes in the northern Caucasus (especially its eastern part), and therefore with the collection of new material, new series of iron artefacts (often badly preserved and heavily corroded), and with further metallographic analyses.102 Faculty of History Department of General History Armavir State Pedagogical University 159 Luxembourg Street 352901 Armavir Russia [email protected]

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——. 1991: ‘Mogil’nik Kochipe (Vostochnyi) v Maikope’. In Meretukov, M. and Soloveva, L. (eds.), Kul’tura i byt adygov (Maikop), 76–102. Magomedov, A. 1973: Kul’tura Severo-Vostochnogo Kavkaza v epokhu pozdnei bronzy (na materialakh raskopok Bamutskogo poseleniya) (Dissertation) (Moscow). Markovin, V. 1969: Dagestan i gornaya Chechnya v drevnosti (Moscow). ——. 2002: Zandakskii mogil’nik epokhi rannego zheleza na reke Yaryk-Sou: Severo-Vostochnyi Kavkaz (Moscow). Murzin, V. 1984: Skifskaya arkhaika Severnogo Prichernomorya (Kiev). Pikul, M. 1967: Epokha rannego zheleza v Dagestane (Makhachkala). ——. 1973: ‘Mugerganskii mogil’nik’. In Ataev, D. (ed.), Materialy po arkheologii Dagestana vol. 3 (Makhachkala), 35–50. Pogrebova, M. 1985: Zakavkaze i ego etnicheskie i kul’turnye svyazi s Iranom (XIII–VI vv. do n. e.) (Dissertation) (Moscow). Safronov, V. 1979: ‘Khronologicheskaya sistema bronzovogo veka predgornoi polosy tsentral’noi i zapadnoi chasti Severnogo Kavkaza’. In IX Krupnovskie chteniya (Elista), 10–12. Sharafutdinova, E. 1989: ‘Dvusloinoe poselenie Krasnogvardeiskoe II—pamyatnik epokhi pozdney bronzy—nachala rannego zheleza na Kubani’. In Anfimov, N. and Autlev, P. (eds.), Meoty—predki adygov (Maikop), 46–73. Shramko, B. 1983: Arkheologiya rannego zheleznogo veka Vostochnoy Evropy (Kharkov). Shramko, B., Fomin, L. and Solntsev, L. 1977: ‘Nachal’nyi etap obrabotki zheleza v Vostochnoy Evrope’. SA 1, 57–74. Tekhov, B. 1971: Ocherki drevnei istorii i arkheologii Yugo-Osetii (Tbilisi). ——. 1972: ‘Tliiskii mogil’nik i problema khronologii kul’tury pozdnei bronzy—rannego zheleza Tsentralnogo Kavkaza’. SA 3, 18–37. ——. 1977: Tsentralnyi Kavkaz v XVI–X vv. do n.e. (Moscow). Terekhova, N. 1983: ‘Kuznechnaya tekhnika u plemen kobanskoi kul’tury Severnogo Kavkaza v ranneskifskii period’. SA 3, 110–28. ——. 1996: ‘Chernyi metall iz predskifskikh kompleksov Prikubanya i Pyatigorya: problema kul’turnykh kontaktov’. In Afanasev, G. (ed.), Aktual’nye problemy arkheologii Severnogo Kavkaza (XIX ‘Krupnovskie chteniya’) (Moscow), 145–46. ——. 1997: ‘Rezul’taty metallograficheskogo issledovaniya kuznechnykh izdelii predskifskogo i skifskogo vremeni iz pamyatnikov Pyatigorya i Chechni’. In Dudarev, S. (ed.), Nekotorye voprosy kul’turnykh i etnicheskikh svyazey naseleniya Severnogo Kavakza v epokhu pozdney bronzy—rannego zheleza (Armavir), 64–70. Terekhova, N. and Erlikh, V. 2000: ‘K probleme perekhoda k rannemu zheleznomu veku na Severnom Kavkaze. Dve kul’turno-istoricheskie traditsii’. In XXI ‘Krupnovskie chteniya’ po arkheologii Severnogo Kavkaza (Kislovodsk), 135–37. Terekhova, N., Rozanova, L., Zavyalov, V. and Tolmacheva, M. 1997: Ocherki po istorii drevnei zhelezoobrabotki v Vostochnoi Evrope (Moscow). Terenozhkin, A. 1976: Kimmeriitsy (Kiev). Vinogradov, V. 1972: Tsentralnyi i Severo-Vostochnyi Kavkaz v skifskoe vremya (Grozny). Voronov, Y. 1980: ‘O khronologicheskikh svyazyakh kimmeriisko-skifskoi i kolkhidskoi kul’tur’. In Terenozhkin, A. (ed.), Skifiya i Kavkaz (Kiev), 201–18. ——. 1984: Vostochnoe Prichernomore v zheleznom veke (Voprosy khronologii i interpretatsii pamyatnikov VIII v. do n.e.—VIII v. n.e. (Dissertation) (Moscow). Voznesenskaya, G. 1975: ‘Tekhnologiya proizvodstva zheleznykh predmetov iz Tliiskogo mogil’nika’. In Kolchin, B. (ed.), Ocherki tekhnologii drevneishikh proizvodstv (Moscow), 76–116.

THE STONE CASTING MOULDS FROM COLLE MADORE: EVIDENCE OF METALLURGY IN SIKANIE STEFANO VASSALLO Abstract In this contribution* I present some casting moulds for metals, found at a native Sikan site in central western Sicily. The moulds, datable to around the 11th century BC, pertain to different objects and represent important evidence of metallurgical activity in the Sicilian hinterland. They also document the circulation of tools and arms (axes, swords, and javelins) which in this historical period connects the whole of Sicily, from the seaboard to sites in the interior like Colle Madore.

The recent excavations at Colle Madore have made important contributions to research on the native centres of central western Sicily. The site is located inland from the Greek colony Himera, on a hill-top near present-day Lercara Friddi and midway down the natural road that, through the Torto (to the north) and Platani (to the south) river-valleys, links the northern coast to the Mediterranean one.1 Such a well-chosen geographic position, central in the great road systems of central western Sicily, gave this settlement the opportunity to develop, in addition to the region’s natural resources, among which is sulphur, present in the hill’s geology. At Colle Madore life has so far been attested from the 2nd millennium BC (Rodì-Vallelunga-Thapsos culture) to the 5th century BC. The most recent investigations have been especially significant for the period between the 7th and first half of the 5th century BC, because they clarify some aspects of this settlement in its transition to a period characterised by deep changes owed to contact with and acquisition of Greek culture. Among the most interesting elements, we have metallurgical production, documented by casting moulds, discussed here, from the Late Bronze Age (11th century BC) and the discovery of a room with several little furnaces, probably used for metallurgical activity, of the late Archaic period (second half 6th–beginning 5th century BC)–the first Archaic smithy, so far, brought to light in Sicily.2 The casting moulds were found, by pure chance, on Colle

* English translation is by Riccardo Sapia. Many thanks to Franco De Angelis for his kind support during the drafting of this article. 1 A preliminary overview of the results carried out by Soprintendenza Beni Culturali e Ambientali di Palermo, can be found in Vassallo 1994; 1999a. 2 Vassallo 1999a, 33–36.

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Madore’s southern slope, in an area not yet explored but which certainly belonged to the prehistoric settlement.3 The fact that they were all were concentrated in the same place leads us to believe that they come from the same context, most likely a hoard inside a hut, similar to Sabucina, the widest matrix hoard so far found in Sicily.4 The Moulds5 1. Bivalve casting mould, single (Figs. 1–2). H. 14.3 cm; W. 8.4 cm; D. max 4.5 cm. Whole, slight chips, white coating, partly scraped inside. Matrix of shaft-hole axe, with central ribbing. A little groove, where the element used to obtain the hole was put, was used for just to fix this element. On the upper external surface there are three thin notches for an exact alignment of the two moulds. 2. Fragment of bivalve casting mould, double, symmetric (Figs. 1–2). H. 7 cm; W. 7.6 cm; D. 3.7 cm.6 Chipped surface; traces of white coating on the inside of the two matrices. Side A: matrix of shaft-hole axe with central ribbing; only the upper side with the hole remains; on the right a small groove similar in shape to no. 1 Side B: matrix of sickle blade. 3. Fragment of bivalve casting mould, single (Figs. 1–2). H. 6.5 cm; W. 9 cm; D. 6.9 cm. Chipped surface. Traces of dark coating from burning on the negative surface of the matrix. Matrix of shaft-hole axe with central ribbing. Only part of the upper side with the hole and a little opening for input of molten metal survives. On the upper external surface, there is a little notch perhaps employed for the exact alignment of the two valves. 4. Fragment of bivalve casting mould, single (Figs. 1–2). H. 5.2 cm; W. 4.6 cm; D. 5.8 cm. Chipped surface. Traces of white coating on the negative surface of the matrix. Matrix of shaft-hole axe with central ribbing. Part of the upper side with the hole and the little opening for input of molten metal is intact. 5. Fragment of bivalve casting mould, single (Figs. 1–2). H. 7.7 cm; W. 3 cm; D. 3.7 cm. Poorly preserved. White coating on the negative surface of the matrix. Matrix of shaft-hole axe. A little part of the side with the hole remains. 6. Fragment of bivalve casting mould, single (Figs. 1–2). H. 10.5 cm; W. 3.8 cm; D. 5.5 cm. Poorly preserved. Traces of white coating on the negative surface of the matrix. Matrix of shaft-hole axe. A little part of the central side of the axe and a groove to fix the two moulds survive. 7. Fragment of bivalve casting mould, single (Figs. 1–2). H. 6.8 cm; W. 3 cm;

3 All the casting moulds come from fortuitous finds from the same area, on the southern slope of Colle Madore; the first two (catalogue nos. 2 and 11) were found several years ago (Vassallo 1999a, 85–89). The others were found in the summer of 2001 by Mr Nino Caruso into a cut made, without any authorisation, by a mechanical tool, in order to build a farm road. They were promptly given to the Soprintendenza. 4 The moulds from Sabucina were found near a hut on the periphery of the Late Bronze Age village (Albanese Procelli 2000, 88). 5 Drawings and photos are by the Soprintendenza BB. CC. AA. of Palermo, drawings by Emanuele India. 6 Vassallo 1999a, 85, n. 12.

Fig. 1. Casting moulds nos. 1–7; drawings, profiles and hypothetical restoration of the objects.

22 STEFANO VASSALLO

THE STONE CASTING MOULDS FROM COLLE MADORE

Fig. 2. Matrices from Colle Madore.

23

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D. 3.8 cm. Chipped surface. Traces of dark coating from burning on the negative surface of the matrix. Side A: Matrix of axe. Part of the lower side of the edge remains. Side B: Two holes, Diam. 0.9 cm; D. 0.5. One is whole and the other partially preserved; both are to be interpreted in connection with the mould’s use. 8. Fragment of bivalve casting mould, double, symmetric (Figs. 2–3). H. 7.2 cm; W. 6.2 cm; D. 3 cm.; consists of two fragments, chipped surface. Side A: Matrix of axe. Only the blade is preserved. Side B: Matrix of javelin head with leaf-shaped blade and cannon-shaped handle. What survives is as follows: the lower side with the hole and the little opening for input of molten metal, and the ‘cannon’ part with hole. On the sides are two small ducts for the release of gas produced during the cast and two slight cuts by the base. 9. Fragment of bivalve casting mould, single (Figs. 2–3). H. 8.3 cm; W. 6.4 cm; D. 3.6 cm. Chipped surface. Probably the matrix of a javelin head with cannon-shaped handle, of which only some remains. On one side, there is a little duct for the release of gas produced during the cast. 10. Fragment of bivalve casting mould, double (Figs. 2–3). H. 17 cm; W. 6.3 cm; D. 3.6 cm; consists of two fragments with chipped surface. Side A: Matrix of sword blade with triangular base with three nails. Side B: Matrix of spike (?); along the sides are two small ducts for the release of gas produced during the cast. 11. Fragment of bivalve casting mould, double, asymmetric (Figs. 2–3). 7 H. 11 cm; W. 7 cm; D. 5.5 cm. Chipped surface; white coating on the negative surface of the matrix of side A. Side A: Matrix of sword or dagger blade. Side B: Matrix probably of sword or dagger blade. 12–13. Fragments of casting moulds for unknown objects. W. max, 5–3.5 cm.

All the examples are of calcareous sandstone of the Lower Miocene, found in fields situated not far from Colle Madore.8 It is reasonable to suppose local production, as elsewhere in Sicily.9 The moulds are bivalve, with single (nos. 1, 3, 7, and 9) or double (nos. 2, 8, 10, and 11) matrices. In the case of the latter, they were cut on the opposite sides of the mould (symmetric: nos. 2, 8, and 10) or on the contiguous sides (asymmetric: no. 1). This is in accordance with the methods generally used for casting moulds in Sicily.10 Therefore, we have a total of 15 matrices obtained from 11 moulds. On the whole, the moulds are well preserved: one matrix (no. 1) is whole; all the others are fragmentary. Even so, the purpose of the matrix could nearly be defined. Their condition is good, except for nos. 8 and 9, whose surface is quite worn, probably because of frequent use.

7

Vassallo 1999a, 85, n. 13. For mineralogical analysis on the stone, see Alaimo et al. 1999. 9 Local stone was certainly used for the 37 examples from Sabucina and the five from Pantalica; cf. Albanese Procelli 2000, 85. 10 Albanese Procelli 2000, 76. 8

Fig. 3. Casting moulds nos. 8–11; drawings, profiles and hypothetical restoration of the objects.

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The differences of mould craftsmanship are due to the requirements of the objects for the casting process, such as little grooves on the inner surface (nos. 1, 2, and 6) or linear notches on the upper surface (nos. 1 and 3), probably intended for a firm and exact alignment of the two blocks at the time of pouring the molten metal.11 In some cases (nos. 8 and 10), we still have small ducts for the release of gas produced during the cast. In nearly every mould there is still a thin white coating on the surface of the matrix.12 Here is a list of the documented matrices for the following objects: eight axes (nos. 1, 2a, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7a, and 8a); three sword or dagger blades (nos. 10a, 11a, and 11b); one sickle blade (no. 2b); two javelin or lance heads (nos. 8b and 9); one so-called spike (?) (no. 10b). As in other Sicilian matrix and bronze hoards, we also have axes, arms, a sickle, and a spike (?), which can be interpreted as an arm or tool. We have no matrices of ornaments or pottery. Nevertheless, in view of the accidental discovery of this material, we might suppose the existence of a much bigger hoard at Colle Madore,13 which deters us from attempting to interpret the quantitative data and the different percentage of these typologies. As a result, we will limit ourselves to a brief analysis of this discovery and of its implications for metallurgical production at Colle Madore and for Sicily more generally. Axes All the axe matrices are of the shaft-hole type.14 Only no.1 is intact, while the others, though fragmentary, seem to be of the same kind; therefore, no. 1 can be used to illustrate the kind we found in this group of matrices. The shaft-hole axe, not widely documented in western Europe and Sardinia, is found in Italy and Sicily,15 where it has been traced to the 15th century BC, to the Early Bronze Age, thanks to a matrix found at Filicudi in a stratigraphic context belonging to the last phase of the Capo Graziano culture.16

11

These are well-known aspects of Sicilian matrices; cf. Albanese Procelli 2000, 85. The absence in some fragments is often due to their bad preservation. This coating might be the result of the stone’s reaction in coming into contact with the molten metal at high temperature, or the result of the preparation of stone surface in order to make smooth the surfaces of the object, otherwise of a porous and rough texture. 13 We have already planned to explore the find-spot of the moulds. 14 It is very probable that axes 7a and 8a, of which we have just the blade heads, were of this type. 15 Giardina 1995, 220. 16 Albanese Procelli 1991. 12

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Our axes belong to a later phase in the mould’s evolution, which, in fact, is characterised by elements which make them differ from older specimens: the ‘heel’ is slightly curvilinear and not very expanded, and there is always a more or less marked ribbing, while the blade shape, slightly tapered in the middle, has a rigid side outline and a not very expanded edge. Depending on the finishing touch, the upper button-shaped appendage may or may not be left after casting, as could the presence of a cylindrical hole for input of molten metal in nos. 3 and 4, but not in nos. 1 and 2. Our examples date to the Cuma type delineated by Carancini,17 which are distributed, above all, in the southern Tyrrhenian area, and are attributable to the R8 A-type of the classification suggested by R.M. Albanese Procelli for the axes of the shaft-hole type from Sicilian bronze hoards.18 In particular, it is type R8 A1 which has the characteristic features, though at Colle Madore the type has a straighter blade shape and a less expanded edge and probably represents a final period of this type, which has been dated to the beginning of Late Bronze Age (11th century BC).19 The distribution of this kind of axe in Sicily appeared until recently to have been concentrated in the eastern part of the island.20 However, owing to the latest finds in western Sicily at Colle Madore, Erbe Bianche (near Campobello di Mazara), Mokarta (near Salemi), and Vicari,21 it is now found in the central western parts of the island and attests to a degree of popularity among Sicily’s native peoples during the Late Bronze Age, that is, the period during which we have many examples of this type. Blades Matrices of three blades are known: one of them belongs to a sword (no. 10a), and the other two to daggers (nos. 11a–b). It is only in the case of the first matrix that we possess elements useful for dating them more precisely: the blade with three nailed simple triangular base, without shank. The shape of the base is reminiscent of blades from a Late Bronze Age hoard from Lipari and two swords from Valledolmo, not far from Colle Madore,22

17

Carancini 1984, 200–202. Albanese Procelli 1993, 81–86. 19 Albanese Procelli 1993, 84. Besides the parallels proposed by Albanese Procelli, we can point out similarities with an axe from the hoard at Lipari (Bernabò Brea and Cavalier 1980, 739, n. 1, pl. CCLXXVIII) and Polizzello (Giardino 1987, 53, pl. 9,4). 20 Albanese Procelli 1993, 84, 216 f. 62b. The author herself points out, however, the incompleteness of the picture due to the state of the archaeological research. 21 Three specimens have been found at Erbe Bianche, see Mammina 1997, 178–79. For Mokarta cf. Mannino and Spatafora 1995, 131. 22 For Lipari, see Bernabò Brea and Cavalier 1980, 744, 746, n. 65 and 98; Moscetta 1988, 18

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of the Pertosa type.23 In comparison with these specimens, our blade, with parallel edge in its evolution, has a flat profile and apparently lacks central ribbing.24 Sickle Blade Matrix no. 2b may be for a sickle blade. To date there is a parallel with a specimen from the hoard from Lipari, which is similar in size, profile and blade shape.25 Javelin or Lance Heads26 There are two specimens: nos. 8 and 9.27 The fragmentariness of the former does not lend itself to an exact date. Nevertheless it is likely that we are dealing with a mould similar to the latter, characterised by an oval profiled rib and slightly expanded tongues. The lack of a blade head impedes recognition of the shape, whether oval or triangular. In any case, it is difficult to date them, also in view of the fact that this class often has general types, with a wide and long-lasting distribution.28 Spike (?) Mould no. 10 has on side b the shape of a round cut object which becomes narrower near its head (not preserved). Interpretation is tricky. We could compare it to the type known as ‘Spikes’ or ‘spit heads’, which, at present, includes a few examples in Sicily.29 However, unlike our example, these are characterised by a definitely tapered profile up to the base.30 The date of the moulds is confined to the Late Bronze Age, in particular

65. For finds from the Valledolmo, not far from Colle Madore, see Orsi 1897, 11–22; from this site comes a group of Late Bronze Age bronzes found in a cemetery context (Bernabò Brea 1958, 176). 23 Bianco Peroni 1970, 22–47. 24 For this type of sword, see D’Agata 1986; Tusa 1992, 526–27. 25 Bernabò Brea and Cavalier 1980, 743, n. 51. 26 Because of the difficulty of distinguishing the two types, see Albanese Procelli 1993, 95. Considering the small sizes of our matrices, we might rather suppose that they were javelins. 27 We cannot exclude the possibility that no. 11a may also be related to the same object, although, as already suggested, it is likelier to be a blade head. 28 Cf. what has been said about lance heads from Lipari in Moscetta 1988, 67. A suggested classification of the examples in Paolo Orsi Museum in Syracuse is in Albanese Procelli 1993, 92–96. 29 On the difficulties of interpretation of similar objects, see Albanese Procelli 1993, 87–98. 30 Similar objects have recently been found in two sites in western Sicily, at Erbe Bianche (Campobello di Mazara) and Monte Finestrelle (near Gibellina). See Mammina 1997, 178, 235.

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to the beginning of its final phase of around the 11th century BC. This date is suggested above all by the set of matrices of shaft-hole axes. The other cases have a less precise date, since they are objects which at the moment have a wider chronological margin, though comparison with datable contexts would confirm this dating.31 The discovery of several casting moulds at Colle Madore, in spite of the lack of stratigraphic data, is cause to rethink the historical interpretation of the site, for which there is otherwise no other archaeological evidence. The presence of these objects, made of local stone and in repeated moulds, is a reliable sign of consolidated metallurgical activity, which comprehended the whole productive cycle, from the supplying of raw material from nearby sandstone deposits, through the mould-working, to the bronze-casting for the finished objects.32 Therefore, we can suppose that around the end of the 2nd millennium there was a small and flourishing native settlement on Colle Madore’s southern slope, with an economy probably based on the good natural resource base of the region, primarily of an agricultural and pastoral nature, supported by extensive woodlands nearby and summer grazing, as well as by the presence of sulphur in outcropping veins.33 This metallurgical practice presupposes a stable settlement, capable of earmarking a portion of its proceeds from the primary productive cycle to trade for precious metal. The settlement was also endowed with a structured craft system geared to diversified and technically advanced activities, taking into account the difficulties of establishing and running a smithy for the production of metal objects. But the metallurgical tradition of Colle Madore is not limited to this historical phase. Although investigations are still confined to a very small area, fibulae and other bronze objects are attested from the 9th century BC onwards, with the evidence increasing at the beginning of the 5th century BC. Among these finds there is a remarkable series of bronze blades in relief, with anthropomorphic motifs too, intended for native armour.34 It is likely that through these centuries metal production and use were kept alive. Its essential role in

31 We must remember that the date of the burying of the hoard at Lipari, with bronzes similar to ours, was placed by its first editors in the 12th century BC. A lower 11th-century date was later proposed (Moscetta 1988, 64–69), a revision which has not won the consensus of all specialists. 32 For comments on the productive cycle and the role of metallurgy in Sicilian settlements of prehistoric and protohistoric date, see Albanese Procelli 1993; 1996; 2000; Giardino 1996; 1997. 33 For a general classification of natural resources of the area, see Vassallo 1999a, 7–9. The use of central southern Sicily’s mineral resources in prehistoric times has long been known. Recently, however, there has been important research along the coast of Agrigento province, providing support for the exploitation of particularly sulphur from the Bronze Age (Castellana 1998). 34 For the metal finds known so far, see Vassallo 1999a, 90–116.

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the economic and productive framework of the centre is reflected in the extraordinary discovery of a room, previously mentioned, perhaps used for metallurgical activity. It was built in the second half of the 6th century BC, together with other rooms in the complex which were centred around a little votive building of Greek type. This establishes a substantial link between religion and metal-working in the Hellenised native sphere of central Sicily.35 The presence of this group of matrices at Colle Madore has an important bearing on any attempt to outline the distribution of metal during the Sicilian Bronze Age (Fig. 4). In point of fact, the distribution of metal finds had till now been concentrated particularly in the central eastern area of the island, no doubt because of the late beginning of archaeological investigations in the central western area.36 A coherent picture of bronze finds seems gradually to be emerging through the support of the latest archaeological discoveries in western Sicily. This picture involves all of Sicily, which, even taking account of the specifics of the material, is one of substantial homogeneity of types. The bronzes from Mokarta (near Salemi), from where also comes a matrix of a sword hilt,37 and Erbe Bianche,38 both located in western Sicily, are noteworthy in this connection. Moreover, the casting moulds from the Villaggio dei Faraglioni (Ustica)39 testify to a spreading of products and techniques following different (sea and valley) communication routes. As for our area, we have long known of the bronze hoard from Polizzello, an important native settlement which, in the Archaic period, has many points of similarity with Colle Madore.40 In this extensive part of the island, situated between Platani valley to the south and Torto and San Leonardo valleys to the north, the infrequency of finds may undoubtedly be attributed to the low level of research. Nevertheless, recent investigations are slowly filling the gaps, especially for the Mediterranean side of the island, where numerous data have come to light with regard to the transition from Late Bronze Age to Early Iron Age, an important moment for the development and consolidation of many Sikan settlements, located on the heights of central Sicily. The variety of aggregation and the particularities of the material culture still require definition.41

35

Vassallo 1999a, 71. Albanese Procelli 1993, 212–36; 1996, 116–28. 37 Mannino and Spatafora 1995, 129–31 (dagger blades, javelin head, shaft-hole axe). 38 Mammina 1997, 178–79, V37–V42 (shaft-hole axes, spike, pin?, lance head). 39 Holloway, and Lukesch 1995, 81; 2001, 24. 40 Gabrici 1923; Palermo 1981; Giardino 1987. 41 A recent summary of settlement in western Sicily during these centuries can be found in Spatafora 1999. For a general picture of the Sikans and the relation between archaeological data and historical sources, see the still valid treatment by La Rosa 1989. 36

Fig. 4. Map of Sicily with the location of casting moulds.

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Fig. 5. Axe of the shaft-hole type found at Vicari.

As for the northern, Tyrrhenian side of Sicily, in the large area between the Madonie massif (valley of the northern Imera river), the valley of the San Leonardo river, and Termini Imerese, the data are much more sporadic. In addition to the hoard from Gratteri,42 the only group of metals from the Bronze Age so far known, we now have an unpublished axe of the shaft-hole type found at Vicari, a site not far from Colle Madore (Fig. 5).43 The find circumstances of this axe make us suppose that it might belong to an old, 19th-century discovery, to which another axe, given to the Museo ‘Salinas’ of Palermo, also belonged.44 It is a complete axe of the shaft-hole type, with central appendage, oval eye, trapezoidal blade; and straight sides, not very wide apart towards the nearly straight edge.45 In Albanese Procelli’s classification,

42

Gabrici 1923; Bernabò Brea 1958, 191. The axe, given to the Soprintendenza of Palermo in 2002, had been kept for decades at Vicari, in the former house of Mr Butera, a local scholar, who found it in the 19th century. 44 That is what we can deduce from a citation in Tamburello 1973. 45 Dark green coating. L. 22 cm; diam. heel 1.2 cm; width edge 7.4 cm. 43

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the axe from Vicari has a reliable comparison with type R8 A3, dated to an advanced stage of the Late Bronze Age (10th century BC),46 roughly contemporaneous with one of the casting moulds from Colle Madore. The Vicari hill consists of a characteristic spur which dominates the San Leonardo rivervalley; recent research has demonstrated that human settlements have existed there since the Middle Bronze Age (pottery from Thapsos culture) without a break until today.47 The discovery of this axe provides testimony of the existence of a prehistoric village, probably open to exchanges and integrated in a vital context, linked with the interior in the direction of Sicani Mountains where Colle Madore is to be found, 10 km away as the crow flies, and with the Tyrrhenian coast, which was the likely theatre of intense sea traffic around the 11th or 10th centuries BC, through the San Leonardo and Torto valleys. As regards the northern side of the island, we must recall the site of Mura Pregne, an important stronghold which we hypothesis to have been an important node for traffic from the Tyrrhenian Sea between the outside world and the wealthy world of the interior.48 It is possible that with future investigations in the native settlements of the interior and smaller isles, this picture of the distribution of the casting moulds will widen considerably.49 Nevertheless, as we have already seen in regard to the distribution of metals in prehistoric times, these interesting objects too are found all over the island, supplying evidence of the natives’ great familiarity with metallurgy. This had to be a regular activity since the Early Bronze Age in settlements which had the requisite economic and social conditions, a regular activity that spread above all in the Late Bronze Age and protohistoric period, becoming the common heritage of technical and productive experiences of these local peoples (Figs. 4, 6). Already from the Early Bronze Age the first examples of casting moulds known so far are found in various parts of Sicily, even in the Aeolian Islands (Filicudi50 and Lipari),51 at Camuti in the Catanian hinterland,52 and on the island’s Mediterranean side at Piano Vento.53 In the Middle Bronze Age, too,

46 It is particularly reminiscent of example no. 45, which has a slightly wider heel; therefore, our axe might date to a more recent period (Albanese Procelli 1993, 36, no. 45). Axes very similar to the one from Vicari were found at Erbe Bianche; cf. Mammina 1997, 178, 179, nos. V38 and V40. 47 Vassallo 1999b. 48 A complete bibliography on the site till 1993 is in Ghizolfi 1993. For further contributions, see Vassallo 1999a, 62–63. 49 A complete evaluation of the finds is contained in Albanese Procelli 1993; 2000. 50 Albanese Procelli 1991. 51 Bernabò Brea and Cavalier 1980, 538, f. 97b. 52 Valenti 1997, 144, IV.152. 53 Two axe matrices, dated by their discoverer to the Castellucciano period: Castellana 1997, 49.

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Fig. 6. A selection of casting moulds found in Sicily: 1 Filicudi; 2–3 Piano del Vento; 4 Galia; 5–7 Ustica; 8 Lipari; 9 Camuti; 10 Monte Finestrelle; 11–15 Morgantina; 16–17 Pantalica; 18–27 Sabucina.

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the distribution is different with examples from the Aeolian Islands (at Panarea),54 on the Mediterranean coast at Galia,55 and in the prehistoric village of Ustica with five specimens dated to the period between the Middle and Late Bronze Ages.56 In the Late Bronze Age, the period in which metal production increased dramatically, there was a concomitant increase in matrices, both in quantity and in geographic distribution. We find matrices in western Sicily at Mokarta,57 in the central part at Colle Madore, Sabucina,58 Cannatello59 and Morgantina,60 and in the south-east at Castelluccio di Ragusa61 and Pantalica.62 Rarer are finds of the Early Iron Age, with a sole specimen from Monte Finestrelle.63 We must remember, however, that the matrices from Pantalica and Morgantina could date to this period. Finally, some other casting moulds of Archaic (or unspecified) date were found at Gela, Mendolito di Adrano and Monte San Mauro.64 A significant point that needs to be made is that in some of these places more than one example has been found (Sabucina: 37; Colle Madore: 13, Ustica: 5; Pantalica: 5, Morgantina: 7), something which seems to confirm the existence and adoption of producing systems that strengthened in time. This is perhaps to be brought into connection with the use of bronze as a precious metal for exchange, and thus somehow linked, in the centuries before the advent of coinage in Sicily, with the question of the pre-monetary function of bronze. A. Cutroni Tusa has recently dealt with this subject, with specific reference to the bronze hoards.65 It is undoubtedly a very stimulating topic which, nevertheless, suffers from a lack of study, which would provide the opportunity to establish reliable parameters and method for making a connection, in the commercial sphere, with the great number hoards and

54

Bernabò Brea and Cavalier 1968, 100–01, pl. LXII, 1–2. Castellana 1997, 49. 56 Holloway and Lukesh 1995, 81; 2001, 24. 57 Mannino and Spatafora 1995, 130. 58 Albanese Procelli 2000. 59 Orsi 1897, 114, 122, p. V, 5, 8; Mosso 1907, col. 665; Fiorentini 1993, 719. 60 The seven moulds from Morgantina come from contexts whose date ranges from Late Bronze Age to Early Iron Age: Leighton 1993, 493, 658–61, 668. 61 We are dealing with a now lost mould (Albanese Procelli 1993, 269), from the hoard from Castelluccio di Ragusa (Di Stefano and Giardino 1990). 62 Albanese Procelli 2000, 84–85, for previous bibliography. 63 Mammina 1997, 235. 64 Albanese Procelli 1993, 269. 65 See Cutroni Tusa 1997 for a general discussion of the topic, based primarily on the evidence of Sicilian bronze hoards, and for an up-to-date bibliography. 55

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single bronzes found in the island’s native settlements from the Middle Bronze Age onwards. via V.zo di Marco, n. 41 90143 Palermo Italy [email protected] BIBLIOGRAPHY Alaimo, R., Giarrusso, R. and Montana, G. 1999: ‘Caratterizzazione mineralogico-petrografica di una matrice di fusione rinvenuta sul Colle Madore presso Lercara Friddi’. In Vassallo 1999a, 267–72. Albanese Procelli, R.M. 1991: ‘Matrice di fusione della capanna XIV della Montagnola di Capo Graziano’. In Bernabò Brea, L. and Cavalier, M. (eds.), Meligunìs Lipára VI. Filicudi. Insediamenti dell’età del bronzo (Palermo), 309–14. ——. 1993: Ripostigli di bronzo della Sicilia nel Museo Archeologico di Siracusa (Palermo). ——. 1996: ‘Produzione metallurgica e innovazioni tecnologiche nella Sicilia protostorica’. In Early Societies, 117–28. ——. 2000: ‘Bronze metallurgy in protohistoric Sicily: the stone moulds’. In Studies Macnamara, 75–90. Bernabò Brea, L. 1958: La Sicilia prima dei Greci (Milan). Bernabò Brea, L. and Cavalier, M. 1968: Meligunìs Lipára. Stazioni preistoriche delle isole Panarea, salina e Stromboli. (Palermo). ——. 1980: Meligunìs Lipára IV. L’acropoli di Lipari nella Preistoria (Palermo). Bianco Peroni, V. 1970: ‘Le spade nell’Italia continentale.’ Prähistorische Bronzefunde IV, 1 (Munich). Carancini, G.L. 1984: Le asce nell’Italia continentale II. In Prähistorische Bronzefunde IX, 12 (Munich). Castellana, G. 1997: La grotta Ticchiara e il castellucciano agrigentino (Palermo). ——. 1998: Il santuario castellucciano di Monte Grande e l’approvvigionamento dello zolfo nel Mediterraneo nell’età del Bronzo (Palermo). Cutroni Tusa, A. 1997: ‘I ripostigli di bronzo e la loro funzione pre o paramonetale’. Prima Sicilia I, 567–78. D’Agata. A.L. 1986: ‘Considerazioni su alcune spade siciliane della media e tarda età del Bronzo’. In Marazzi, M., Tusa, S. and Vagnetti L. (eds.), Traffici micenei nel Mediterraneo: problemi storici e documentazione archeologica (Taranto), 105–11. Di Stefano, G. and Giardino, C. 1990: ‘Ragusa. Castelluccio, ripostiglio di bronzi’. Notizie Scavi s. IX, I–II, 489–546. Early Societies 1996: Leighton, R. (ed.), Early Societies in Sicily. Accordia Specialist Studies on Italy 5. (London). Fiorentini, G. 1993: ‘Attività di indagini archeologiche della Soprintendenza Beni Culturali e Ambientali di Agrigento’. Kokalos XXXIX–XL, 717–34. Gabrici, E. 1923: ‘Ripostigli di bronzo della Sicilia’. Atti della Reale Accademia di Scienze, Lettere e Belle Arti di Palermo XIII, 3–11. Ghizolfi, P. 1993: ‘Mura Pregne’. Bibliografia Topografica della Colonizzazione Greca in Italia e nelle isole tirreniche XII, 129–38. Giardino, C. 1987, ‘Il ripostiglio di Polizzello’. Sicilia Archeologica 65, 39–55. ——. 1995: Il Mediterraneo Occidentale fra XIV ed VIII secolo a.C. Cerchie minerarie e metallurgiche. BAR International Series 612 (Oxford). ——. 1996: ‘Miniere e tecniche metallurgiche nella Sicilia protostorica: nuove linee di ricerca’. In Early Societies, 129–38. ——. 1997: ‘La metallotecnica nella Sicilia pre-protostorica’. In Prima Sicilia I, 405–14. Gibellina: Atti delle Seconde Giornate Internazionali di Studi sull’Area Elima, Gibellina 22–26 ottobre 1994, (Pisa/Gibellina 2000).

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Holloway, R.R. and Lukesh S.S. 1995: Ustica I. Excavations of 1990 and 1991 (Providence). ——. 2001: Ustica II. Excavations of 1994 and 1999 (Providence). La Rosa, V. 1989: ‘Le popolazioni della Sicilia. Sicani, Siculi, Elimi’. In Italia omnium terrarum parens (Milan), 3–110. Leighton, R. 1993, The Protohistoric Settlement on the Cittadella (Princeton). Mammina, G. 1997: In Prima Sicilia II. Mannino, G. and Spatafora, F. 1995: Mokarta. La necropoli di Cresta di Gallo. Quaderni del Museo Archeologico Regionale “Antonino Salinas”, supplemento 1 (Milan). Moscetta, M.P. 1988: ‘Il ripostiglio di Lipari. Nuove considerazioni per un inquadramento cronologico e culturale’. Dialoghi d’Archeologia 6.1, 53–78. Mosso, A. 1907: ‘Villaggi preistorici di Caldare e Cannatello presso Girgenti’. In Monumenti Antichi Lincei XVIII. Orsi, P. 1897: ‘Nuovi materiali siculi del territorio di Girgenti’. Bollettino Paletnologia Italiana XXIII, 105–22. Palermo, D. 1981: ‘Polizzello’. In Contributi alla conoscenza dell’età del ferro in Sicilia, Cronache d’Archeologia 20, 103–47. Prima Sicilia 1997: Tusa, S. (ed.), Prima Sicilia, alle origini della società siciliana, Albergo dei Poveri, Palermo, 18 ottobre-22 dicembre. Spatafora, F. 1999: ‘La Sicilia occidentale tra l’Età del Bronzo Recente e la Prima Età del Ferro’. In Architettura arte e artigianato nel Mediterraneo dalla Preistoria all’Alto Medioevo, Atti della Tavola Rotonda Internazionale in memoria di Giovanni Tore (Cagliari), 143–59. Studies Macnamara 2000: Ridgway, D., Serra Ridgway F.R., Pearce, M., Herring, E., Whitehouse, R.D. and Wilkins J.B. (eds.), Ancient Italy in its Mediterranean Setting, Studies in honour of Ellen Macnamara (London). Tamburello, I. 1973: ‘Antichità di Vicari’. In Sicilia Archeologica 21–22, 91–94. Tusa, S. 1992: La Sicilia nella preistoria (Palermo). Valenti, F. 1997: in Prima Sicilia II. Vassallo, S. 1994: ‘I monti sicani orientali in età arcaica’. In Gibellina, 1355–77. ——. 1999a (ed.): Colle Madore. Un caso di ellenizzazione in terra sicana (Palermo). ——. 1999b: ‘Vicari prima del Medioevo’. In Vassallo 1999a, 313–31.

PHOENICIAN OR GREEK: IS THERE A REASONABLE WAY OUT OF THE AL MINA DEBATE? H.G. NIEMEYER Abstract The controversy about the nature of Al Mina—whether it was the earliest Euboean colonial outpost in the East or a Syrian port-settlement (with Phoenician and Greek enclaves)—is re-examined in view of its bearing on the origin and development of the Orientalising horizon in the (eastern and western) Mediterranean. Since the site was discovered and in part excavated (1936/37), the Greek sherds found there have been used in European and especially in German Classical scholarship to demonstrate that it was the Greeks who took the lead in that movement of greatest importance to the ancient world and the cultural appearance of the Occident. The author advocates a slightly more differentiated approach to this problem.

The nature of Al Mina, on the Levantine coast of northern Syria near the mouth of the River Orontes, has aroused considerable and quite deep debate among classical scholars in recent years; and, apparently, it continues to figure at the top of their agenda, witness the first volume of this new periodical Ancient West & East.1 The issue being of some relevance to our understanding of what happened in the eastern Mediterranean in the Early Iron Age, anyone wishing to promote discussion might find it expedient to recall the state of classical studies at the time of the site’s discovery, which is also when the essential parameters of its original interpretation were developed. I may be permitted here to refrain from mentioning or describing every single twist and turn in the discussion, and also from assessing every position adopted by the scholars involved, since in three recent papers John Boardman has recorded in great detail, even if a little polemically, the history of this debate.2 Not having the linguistic and philological competence myself, I shall also avoid discussing here the role of Phoenician writing in the origin of the Greek alphabet. This matter was always an important one on its own merit; besides, I am convinced that it was the Greeks’ ambition to participate in the ‘international’ trade that compelled them to learn and adapt the alphabet, wherever this was feasible, be it within the Phoenician cities of the Levant, from Phoenician craftsmen or trading agents resident in the Aegean, or, giving credit to Herodotus, from the members of a Phoenician enclave (enoikismos) in

1 2

See Boardman 2002a. Boardman 1990; 1999; 2002a.

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Eretria (Herod. 5. 55–58). And from within the broad range of items involved when considering Greek and Phoenician interrelations and/or interactions, I shall not deal in particular with the rise of the Orientalising style in Greek art nor with the emergence of Hellenising features in Phoenician art and civilisation. The first of these phenomena, which comes into being in the Greek world at the end of the Geometric Age in the late 8th and 7th centuries BC, is well known and as a matter of fact universally accepted, leaving aside the particular role the Phoenicians might have played in it. Quite correctly, it has recently been baptised the ‘Orientalising Revolution’.3 The other might rather be described as an intermittent process of particular episodes. They are becoming increasingly manifest as research on Phoenician arts and crafts progresses. In order to exemplify what I have in mind, I may recall the now broad evidence of Greek influence on Phoenician painted pottery. There are above all those Phoenician painted skyphoi which have been found in Carthage, on Sardinia and in southern Spain, and begin to appear already in the late 8th century BC if not earlier.4 Together with this class, the so-called Al Mina ware should be taken into consideration, which significantly was at first taken for the product of Greek potters resident in Levantine Al Mina but has since been proven to be of Cypriot origin.5 Or we might mention the impact of Greek style and patterns in architectural decoration on Phoenician and Punic sacral architecture.6 Both cases testify to close contacts between the civilisations involved, and are the results of an intense transcultural dialogue which has always taken place irrespective of current ideologies or hostile political circumstances. Turning now to Al Mina, there is no doubt that the discovery in 1936 by Sir Leonard Woolley put an end, so it seemed, to an old controversy of fundamental importance to classical studies,7 i.e. the dispute about the origins of the Orientalising style in Greek art. If this apparently could not have been a genuine or at least predominantly autochthonous Greek development, who was it then, so it has repeatedly been debated, that brought the decisive stimulus to the Greeks, the ultimate impulse to abandon the Geometric tradition

3

Burkert 1992. Briese and Docter 1992; Briese 1998, esp. 437–43. 5 Against Boardman 1959; see Snodgrass 1994, 4 (with reference to scientific investigations reviewed by R.E. Jones). 6 See, for example, the capitals and columns of a Hellenistic temple found at Carthage: Rakob 1991, esp. 70–74, figs. 9–11; Rakob 1996 (Doric capitals from Carthage). Evidence for the 5th century BC is produced by a lion gargoyle found at Carthage: Niemeyer and Docter 1993, 237–39, fig. 16, pl. 59,4.5. 7 Woolley 1936; 1937. 4

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and to create the ‘Orientalising’ style which in turn gave birth to the bold and powerful Archaic Greek art and which in art history sometimes—especially when Crete is concerned—is christened ‘Daedalic’ style in order to give the definition a more genuinely Greek ring?8 Was it really the Phoenicians, those cunning peddlers described in Homer’s Odyssey,9 who after the breakdown at the end of the Aegean Bronze Age and late in the subsequent Dark Ages established the first connections with the ancient Orient, inter alia by furnishing the Greek landed aristocracy with those luxurious prestige-goods they would use to store among their keimelia, bury with their dead or set up as offerings in their sanctuaries? Was it those mercantile-minded Levantine people who in search of metal—and profit—allegedly sailed the Mediterranean waters as far as the Straits of Gibraltar and beyond well before the Greeks? I recall that famous critical paper published long ago by Julius Beloch, in which he denied the Phoenicians even this very priority of expansion into the Mediterranean.10 And, to quote but one example, I can point to the extensive monograph which Emil Kunze in 1931 devoted to vindicating the so-called Cretan shields from the Idaean cave as products of the creative Greek genius, even while accepting them to be in their iconography dependent to some degree on Near Eastern models. And at least well into the late 1950s this opinion was almost unanimously accepted, was regarded more or less undisputedly the state of affairs. As late as in 1967, Karl Schefold in his representative art history volume of the ‘Propyläen Kunstgeschichte’ took Greek craftsmanship of even the earliest shields as definitely proven by Kunze.11 And, if ever there had been any doubts about the art-historical intrinsic nature of the Cretan shields, now, after the discovery of a first Euboean colony in the Levant (with more to be expected by future research in the field), things could be arranged again according to traditional conceptions and appeared in a clear-cut manner. The ‘mirage oriental’, against which Georges Perrot had already proclaimed his doubts,12 now definitely seemed to be but the result of an up-to-then existing lacuna in the archaeological record. The Euboean Greeks were the ones who had gone out to discover the legacy of the ancient Orient, and to bring back what would suit the development in Greek art. They were the ones who had established earlier than any other Greek

8 This has recently been worked out with the necessary acumen by Morris 1992, esp. 238–56 (see also the reviews by P. Zimansky, Meditarch 6 [1993], 239–45, and by the author, Gnomon 69 [1997], 627–31). 9 Latacz 1990. 10 Beloch 1994; see discussion in Niemeyer 1981. 11 Canciani 1970, 13–17; Schefold 1967, 18, 58. 12 Perrot and Chipiez 1898, 147–48.

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colony an emporion right on the coast of the Levant at Al Mina, on a most appropriate position for trade with and penetration into the Mesopotamian hinterland, home of the civilisations of the ancient Orient. When almost immediately after the discovery a large amount of early Greek pottery was published,13 everybody was convinced that here a crucial site had been discovered. Al Mina was identified as the decisive point from where to explain the rise of Orientalising art. Soon after World War II the results of Woolley’s excavation at Al Mina became known on the European continent. While Schefold in his review book of recent research barely took notice of them,14 significantly already in 1950 Friedrich Matz was apparently happy to reduce the impact of the Orient on Greek art to Greek ‘contacts with Phoenician traders’ and maintained that ‘already before the mid-7th century competing Greeks had surpassed the Phoenician trade and displaced it even within their own area of settlement.’15 Henri Frankfort, then one of the leading authorities in Near Eastern studies, wrote in 1954: ‘If it is certain that Phoenicians traded in Greece, we now know also that Greeks were settled at Al Mina, at the mouth of the Orontes, on a main route to Mesopotamia and Urartu; and no Phoenician objects were found there, but much Greek pottery from c. 750 or a little earlier, down to c. 600 BC.’ And, a little further on, he added: ‘In the seventh century BC Greece was no longer avid for foreign goods; the oriental themes which had been borrowed in an earlier age had now been transformed into truly Greek designs.’16 Equally, Thomas Dunbabin in 1957 claimed for the same site: ‘. . . there is nothing to differentiate the place from one of the many Greek colonies in Italy and Sicily, or on the Black Sea coast.’17 Demythologising Al Mina began with the publication of the pottery other than Greek from the site, including much Phoenician red slip ware, by Joan du Plat Taylor in 1959.18 But as a matter of fact, classical scholarship apparently did not at first take much notice of this new development. Brigitte Borell in her doctoral thesis written under supervision of Roland Hampe—one of the leading philhellenes in German Classical archaeology at that time—still in 1978 took the excavation results as proving the existence of a true Greek city (‘eine griechische Stadt’) at the mouth of the Orontes.19 Even some 20 years later Jan Bouzek in his useful summarising overview on the cultural

13 14 15 16 17 18 19

Robertson 1940. Schefold 1949, 83. Matz 1950, 130; Schefold 1949. Frankfort 1954, 311, 331 (quoted after the first paperback edition, Harmondsworth 1970). Dunbabin 1957, 25. du Plat Taylor 1959. Borell 1978, 88.

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interrelations in the early Iron Age, took the existence of a Greek settlement at Al Mina for granted,20 as I myself seem to have done so in the second ‘Mommsen-Lecture’ read 1983 in Mayence.21 It is also noteworthy that in the wake of what on that occasion I have called the ‘Al Mina effect’22 scholarly research increasingly produced evidence that quite a few of the Oriental goods that arrived in the Aegean world and the West were of other than Phoenician origin. In support of this new orientation, linguistic research based itself on the analysis of the few and short early Semitic inscriptions found in the West, produced evidence for the presence of other than Phoenician people along with the Phoenicians: North Syrians, Neo-Hittites, Urartians, Aramaeans; even Philistines have been mentioned in both the archaeological and linguistic context.23 Simultaneously, however, the pro-Euboean position in regard to the Orientalising horizon in the Mediterranean came under pressure through further excavation and research. Although the extraordinary richness of Orientalia from the Idaean Cave still awaits final publication,24 the wealth of oriental imports at the site of Lefkandi, dating from the 10th century BC onwards, the evidence of oriental if not genuine Phoenician workshops in Crete in the 9th century and the discovery of a Phoenician baetylic shrine at Kommos/Crete25 of about the same time may already be mentioned as indicative factors for the new shift of evidence and consequently of the general opinion. As far as ‘Classical archaeology’ is concerned, in German research, quite significantly already in 1985 Stephanie Böhm in her thesis on the ‘Naked Goddess’ denied Al Mina a decisive role in the dispersion of the respective iconography in Crete, because of the lack of Cretan pottery among the finds in the Levant in general and at Al Mina in particular.26 At the other end of the Mediterranean in the Far West, as long ago as the 1960s Phoenician settlements dating back to at least as early as the advanced 8th century BC had been excavated,27 and testimonies for a ‘precolonising’ Phoenician impact on the indigenous civilisations on the Iberian Peninsula had been collected.28 Almost as a consequence a tendency arose to reassess the role of Al Mina and even to deny it the character of an Euboean emporion, let alone colony.29 Ten years ago Jacques Perreault in a seminar 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29

Bouzek 1997, 85, 174. Niemeyer 1984, 27. Niemeyer 1984, 27. Cf. also Boardman 1990, 170. Garbini 1999, 163–64. Matthäus 2000. See Shaw 1998 (with references). Böhm 1990, 141–42. Niemeyer 1999, 163–65; 2000, 97–100. Niemeyer 1999, 163–65; see note 38 below. Graham 1986; Martelli 1988, 111.

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organised by the University of Bordeaux III characterised Woolley’s interpretation of Al Mina as being an emporion or a colony as a myth.30 In his summary he adopted the opinion of Paul Riis, expressed by the latter already at the symposium at Cologne in 1979 and reiterated at the 2nd Congress of Phoenician and Punic Studies held in Rome in 1987,31 where he classified Al Mina as an enoikismos rather than an emporion, like two other sites under discussion, Bassit and Tall Sukas. Most recently, in his monograph on the Phoenicians published in spring 2000, Glen Markoe doubts even any Greek settlement there (or in general on Levantine shores) and claims the arrival of the Euboean pottery found by Woolley to be due to ‘Levantine initiative’.32 Meanwhile, on the other side John Boardman, the most fervent advocate of Euboean Al Mina, continued and continues to defend his original position;33 others, like Rosalyn Kearsley, take a more intermediate stand, admitting at most a Euboean ‘pied à terre’ at Al Mina in the 8th century BC.34 In spite of the meanwhile overwhelming bibliography on the issue of a ‘Greek’ or a ‘Phoenician’ Al Mina, a close look shows the controversy was focused on few critical points, some of them deserving special mention here: – The impressive amount of Greek pottery from the site consisting alone of drinking vessels, without being accompanied by cooking pots and other plain wares of the respective fabric. Against this undeniable fact pro-Greek advocates would argue that nonetheless the Greek sherds were outnumbering to such a degree all the Eastern wares (be they Cypriot, Cypro-Phoenician, Phoenician or Syrian) that the settlement could not be but Greek. Moreover, that ‘folk east of Cyprus did not use cups with handles and feet as did the Greeks.’35 But anti-Graeco-centric scholars would stress the fact that imported Greek drinking vessels were on the contrary quite favourites e.g. in the betterknown Phoenician settlements in the Mediterranean, witness the many Protocorinthian kotylai at Carthage and in southern Spain (and elsewhere) found in Archaic tombs and, together with Late Geometric cups of various (including Euboean) provenance in the corresponding domestic quarters.36

30

Perreault 1993. Riis 1982, 244–51, 253; 1991, 205. 32 Markoe 2000, 174. 33 Boardman 1990; 1999, 155; 2002a; 2002b. 34 Kearsley 1995, esp. 80. See also Kearsley 1999. 35 Boardman 2002a, 320. I have some difficulties in understanding his statement that ‘a full cooking service of fired clay was not an absolute necessity for a hot meal in a hot climate’ (Boardman 2002a, 324). 36 Niemeyer and Docter 1993, 226–30; Niemeyer 1985. 31

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– The pottery of local fabric and genuine Near Eastern pedigree (Red Slip etc.) being by far fewer in number than the Greek imported,37 a proportion unparalleled in any Levantine or Western Phoenician settlement. This could be due, so it has been said, to the fact that the excavator did not keep all sherds of these wares, unlike his treatment of the decorated and obvious or presumably Greek pottery (the local and Phoenician imitations and adaptations not yet being identified). Even if this is an argument that could be dismissed reasonably by Boardman, who studied Woolley’s field notes,38 it is obvious that the Greek pottery from the site attracted extreme attention and therefore was recorded entirely and dispersed among many museums and university collections (including the Nicholson Museum at Sydney!), while from the non-Greek material only part was picked up and given to the London Institute of Archaeology (this is the basis of J. du Plat Taylor’s study), ‘extremely little’ to Oxford, none to the British Museum. The sherds kept in Antakya apparently have not even been properly studied.39 Any archaeologist familiar with the subject matter will understand that the exchange of ‘pros’ and ‘cons’ could easily go on for a while. Some of them can be expected to become obsolete in the near future when the new Orontes Delta Survey led by H. Pamir and S. Nishiyama has been successfully concluded40 and may perhaps prove Al Mina to be just a Syrian port with Phoenician (Tyrian) and Greek (Euboean) enclaves. If I have insisted this much on the controversial interpretation of Al Mina, it is because Classical archaeology for a long time has seen in it a ‘focus for all Greco-Phoenician interrelations’41 and a crucial point for the origins of the Orientalising epoch in Greek history and art. Now, as a matter of fact, in this complicated issue there are two lines of argument involved that should not be forgotten. First, there remains the question already alluded to above about the authorship, the generators of the Orientalising style in the Aegean world: can the Phoenician merchants and traders frequenting the Greek shores really be credited to have given the first impulse and stimulus, or were the Greeks themselves the first to leave their homeland eastward and to borrow from there what they found and considered attractive and useful for innovation in art and society? After the archaeological discoveries made in the last two decades, the evidence to my opinion strongly points towards the first alternative—without prejudice to the fact that in this story the Greeks soon

37 38 39 40 41

Boardman 1999, 143–52. Boardman 2002a, 321. Boardman 1990, 172. Pamir and Nishiyama 2002. Muhly 1985, 181.

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played also a very active part, e.g. as partners of the Phoenicians in a joint venture (Hom. Od. 14. 288–91). Second, and closely connected with the first, there is the debate on the early Phoenician expansion into the western Mediterranean, i.e. in that mythical and long period between the breakdown of the Bronze Age-koine and the archaeologically attested foundation dates of the first Phoenician settlements in the West, in the second half or around the middle of the 8th century BC. Again the answer to this particular item would have its bearing on GraecoPhoenician relations, because with such a low chronology we enter the period of the great Greek colonisation of the West. Thus, when arguing along the line of Muhly, who in 1984 disallowed the Phoenicians any serious activity beyond the Aegean in the Far West ‘earlier than the latter part of the 8th century BC’,42 and was supported in this by Boardman,43 we would base our argument exclusively on the excavation results in actual settlements, leaving out of account any ‘pre-colonial’ phenomena in the western Mediterranean (accepting, so to say, only part of the archaeological evidence). By this argument, and simultaneously keeping Greek priority in Tyrrhenian waters, we would return more or less exactly to the position once held by Beloch (see above), prior to archaeological research. Should it really be permitted then to discard entirely the biblical and classical literary records about voyages to Tarshish in the 10th century, about the foundation of Cadiz, Utica, and Lixus at the turn of the 12th/11th centuries BC? I am convinced that this cannot be justified. All the less so as others and I have shown elsewhere that these three to four centuries of interval between the legendary foundation dates and the earliest levels in the Phoenician settlements in the Far West are by no means entirely devoid of archaeological evidence. And if what I would call for the moment ‘sporadic’ and ‘indirect’ evidence is taken into consideration as well, e.g. the introduction of iron technology and the fast potter’s wheel, or first testimony to an early stratification in society, to quote but three examples, and the one or other isolated find, then the story looks quite different.44 I think it was Sabatino Moscati, who was among the first to show a path away from the horns of this dilemma. When in 1984 in Palermo he opened a Congress on Phoenicians and Greeks in Sicily, he focused on Thucydides 6.2.6, where the Greek historian recounts how the Phoenicians withdrew from their earlier trading posts in the east of Sicily to the West owing to the arrival

42

Muhly 1985, 184, 187 (‘not much before ca. 700 BCE’). Boardman 1990, 170–71, cf. also his remarks in note 1 (p. 187). 44 Schauer 1983; Niemeyer 1984, 3–22; Almagro Gorbea 1993; 1996a; 1996b; Torres Ortiz 1999. 43

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of the conquering Greek colonists. Summarising previous research on the subject matter, he reminded his audience of the different nature of the Phoenician commercial outposts as opposed to the Greek (emporia and) apoikiai.45 On the same line I myself repeatedly have had the opportunity to underline the ‘nonGreek’ model of Phoenician expansion in the Mediterranean.46 This indeed explains the difference we observe in the archaeological record for the two expansionist movements under consideration: Greek colonisation and Phoenician commercial expansion, the latter being subdivided in two periods, viz. the first, of pioneering long-range trade, and the second, of really small settlements established to secure and maintain the trade routes against competing Greek colonisation. It is the particular historical setting in the East that accounts for the phenomenon of Phoenician expansion and its characteristic features. Starting at the dawn of European history, it shows many traits of experiment as is natural in a pioneering phase: after the breakdown of the Bronze Age world and its well established trading networks, the once prospering Phoenician citystates on the Levantine coast had, in order to maintain their living standard and wealth, either to reopen the old trans-Mediterranean trade routes or to look for new ones and new resources. Apparently, they did both. Above all it was felt necessary to obtain metals, as a supply of raw material for their highly developed own metal industry. Ores were at the same time required to provide them to the great Mesopotamian power of Assyria, for whom the Phoenicians served as middlemen and, as time went by, as tributaries.47 As has already been implied, Phoenician expansion was not a movement to cope with the pressure of overpopulation, as was the case most often in Greek colonisation. Above all in this respect Phoenician expansion followed a non-Greek model. And it is the particular permanence of the Phoenicians’ corporate and cultural identity, an identity encompassing Late Bronze Age as well as Early Iron Age cultural patterns, viz. the late 2nd and the early 1st millennium BC, that distinguished this expansion movement to the West and shaped its bearing on European history. The eminent role played by the Phoenician city-states in the dissemination of urban civilisation, in the propagation of technical innovations and in the distribution of new lifestyle paradigms manifesting themselves in Mediterranean civilisations after the start of the Iron Age can only be understood when taking into account the Phoenicians’ Bronze Age and Near Eastern heritage. Finally, an obvious difference should not be ignored when comparing

45 46 47

Moscati 1984/85 (with references). Niemeyer 1990; 1993; 1999. Niemeyer 1999, 170–72; 2000, 103–04.

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Phoenicians with Greeks in the Mediterranean world: we know of only two city-states, Tyre and Sidon, to have taken part in the Phoenicians’ expansion movement. Greek colonisation in the Mediterranean and in the Black Sea was promoted and supported by some 20 metropoleis, that is ten times as many! Among these were quite a number of agrarian poleis with territories suffering from overpopulation. Thus, for the Greeks colonisation right from the beginning was, or at least soon after a short prelude of trade-oriented ‘precolonisation’, became, an enterprise of acquiring arable land. For the Phoenicians, on the other hand, the founding of permanent settlements was in essence an enterprise prompted by the necessity to secure approved trade routes and prospering commercial interrelations. Thus I think that additionally the simple lack of manpower on the side of the Phoenicians should be given greater weight in our assessment. It is this, it seems to me, that at least partly also accounts for the different archaeological record. At the same time it could perfectly well account for the many Aramaeans and other Syrian and Levantine people taking part in the Phoenician branch of the trans-Mediterranean enterprise. On the part of the Phoenicians, these people were badly needed, from wherever they came. For the Greeks, they all came along under the same flag, inscribed with only one cumulative (and Greek!) name: Fo¤nikew. In summing up, may I be permitted to add one final remark. Semitic Phoenicians and Indo-European Greeks for a long time have been conceived as competing rivals in conquering the Mediterranean in the 1st millennium BC. In the dispute about who was first and who was the winner in setting the cultural parameters of the ‘Orientalising’ epoch, the discovery of Al Mina and its—misleading—interpretation as a Euboean colony in the Levant was extremely welcome: now at last there was the foothold from where entrepreneurially-minded Greeks could have conquered and acquired the cultural heritage of the Near East necessary to unleash the Orientalising Revolution (in turn of prime importance at the outset of European development). I hope to have made clear that in my opinion this is a pattern of explanation which is valid only when two rivals of the same level are concerned, rivals acting under the same conditions and according to the same paradigms. But Greek and Phoenician civilisations are essentially distinct from another: distinct in their tradition, distinct in the respective cultural profiles and identities, distinct in their historical activities and economic parameters, distinct in their respective abilities and achievements, distinct in their demographic power and respective political aims. On the Greek side, this dissimilarity led to much misunderstanding of their eastern neighbours, and in the wake of the Greeks it has led to much misunderstanding on the side of European Classical scholarship. Sabatino Moscati gave his inaugural speech in 1984 with good reason the subtitle ‘Alle origini di un confronto’. Those misunderstandings, so it seems, at least in part are the reason for the alleged confrontations.

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Only more attention paid to the structural particularities of the civilisation of the Phoenician city-states will help to make them vanish and lead to a better understanding.* Acknowledgments A first version of this paper was read at the Fifth International Congress of Phoenician and Punic Studies at Marsala/Palermo in October 2000 and will appear in the Acts. B.B. Shefton, to whom I am very much obliged, then helped me with my English. I am most grateful to Gocha R. Tsetskhladze for offering me the opportunity to revise the text according to several new and relevant publications that have appeared since, and to republish it in his new periodical Ancient West & East. Eppendorfer Landstrasse 60 D—20249 Hamburg Germany [email protected] BIBLIOGRAPHY Abbreviations AA Archäologischer Anzeiger AnatSt Anatolian Studies AntJ Antiquaries Journal AWE Ancient West & East HBA Hamburger Beiträge zur Archäologie JHS Journal of Hellenic Studies JRGZM Jahrbuch des Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseums (Mainz) Meditarch Mediterranean Archaeology (Sydney) MM Madrider Mitteilungen OJA Oxford Journal of Archaeology RhM Rheinisches Museum für Philologie RM Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Römische Abteilung SIMA Studies in Mediterranean Archaeology Almagro Gorbea, M. 1993: ‘La introducción del hierro en la Península Ibérica: contactos precoloniales en el periodo protoorientalizante’. Complutum 4, 81–94. —— 1996a: ‘Peines de marfil pre-coloniales en la Península Ibérica’. In Acquaro, E. (ed.), Studi in onore di Sabatino Moscati (Pisa), 479–93.

* Since the manuscript was sent to the Editor-in-Chief several new works on Al Mina have appeared: J.-P. Descoeudres, ‘Al Mina Across the Great Divide’. Meditarch 15 (2002), 49–72; J. Luke, Ports of Trade, Al Mina and Geometric Greek Pottery in the Levant (Oxford 2003)—see J. Boardman’s review in the present issue of AWE, pp. 189–91; J. Boardman, ‘Copies of Pottery: By and for Whom?’. In K. Lomas (ed.), Greek Identity in the Western Mediterranean. Papers in Honour of Brian Shefton (Leiden/Boston 2004), 149–62.

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—— 1996b: Ideología y poder en Tartessos y el mundo Ibérico (Madrid). Beloch, K.J. 1994: ‘Die Phoeniker am aegaeischen Meer’. RhM 49, 111–31. Boardman, J. 1959: ‘Greek potters at Al Mina?’. AnatSt 9, 163–69; ——. 1990: ‘Al Mina and History’. OJA 9, 169–90. ——. 1999: ‘The Excavated History of Al Mina’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. (ed.), Ancient Greeks West and East (Leiden/Boston/Cologne), 135–61. ——. 2002a: ‘Al Mina: The Study of a Site’. AWE 1.2, 315–31. ——. 2002b: ‘Greeks and Syria: Pots and People’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. and Snodgrass, A.M. (eds.), Greek Settlements in the Eastern Mediterranean and the Black Sea (Oxford), 1–16. Böhm, S. 1990: Die Nackte Göttin (Mainz). Borell, B. 1978: Attisch geometrische Schalen (Mainz). Bouzek, J. 1997: Greece, Anatolia and Europe: Cultural Interrelations during the Early Iron Age ( Jonsered). Briese, C. 1998: ‘Die Chapelle Cintas—das Gründungsdepot Karthagos oder eine Bestattung der Gründergeneration’. In Rolle, R., Schmidt, K. and Docter, R.F. (eds.), Archäologische Studien in Kontaktzonen der antiken Welt (Göttingen), 419–52. Briese, C. and Docter, R.F. 1992: ‘Der phönizische Skyphos: Adaption einer griechischen Trinkschale’. MM 33, 25–69. Burkert, W. 1992: The Orientalizing Revolution. Near Eastern Influence on Greek Culture in the Early Archaic Age. (Cambridge, Mass.) Canciani, F. 1970: Bronzi orientali e orientalizzanti a Creta nell’ VIII e VII sec. a.C. (Rome). du Plat Taylor, J. 1959: ‘The Cypriot and Syrian Pottery from Al Mina, Syria’. Iraq 21, 62–92. Dunbabin, T.J. 1957: The Greeks and their Eastern Neighbours (London). Frankfort, H. 1954: The Art and Architecture of the Ancient Orient (Harmondsworth). Garbini, G. 1999: ‘Le origini di Cadice’. Rivista di cultura classica e medievale 41, 159–66. Graham, A.J. 1986: ‘The Historical Interpretation of Al Mina’. Dialogues d’Histoire Ancienne 12, 51–65. Kearsley, R. 1995: ‘The Greek Geometric Wares from al-Mina Levels 10–8 and Associated Pottery’. Meditarch 8, 7–81. ——. 1999: ‘Greeks Overseas in the 8th Century B.C.: Euboeans, Al Mina and Assyrian Imperialism’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. (ed.), Ancient Greeks West and East (Leiden/Boston/Cologne), 109–34. Latacz, J. 1990: ‘Die Phönizier bei Homer’. In Gehrig, U. and Niemeyer, H.G. (eds.), Die Phönizier im Zeitalter Homers (Exhibition Catalogue) (Mainz), 11–21. Markoe, G. 2000: Phoenicians (London). Martelli, M. 1988: ‘La Stipe Votiva dell’Athenaion di Jalysos: un primo bilancio’. In Dietz, S. (ed.), Archaeology in the Dodecanese (Copenhagen), 104–20. Matthäus, H. 2000: ‘Die Idäische Zeus-Grotte auf Kreta’. AA, 517–47. Matz, F. 1950: Geschichte der griechischen Kunst I (Frankfurt). Morris, S.P. 1992: Daidalos and the Origins of Greek Art (Princeton). Moscati, S. 1984/85: ‘Fenici e Greci: alle origini di un confronto’. Kokalos 30/31, 1–22. Muhly, J.D. 1985: ‘Phoenicia and the Phoenicians.’ In Biblical Archaeology Today ( Jerusalem), 177–91. Niemeyer, H.G. 1981: ‘Anno octogesimo post Troiam captam . . . Tyria classis Gadis condidit? Polemische Gedanken zum Gründungsdatum von Gades (Cádiz)’. HBA 8, 9–33. ——. (ed.) 1982: Phönizier im Westen. Die Beiträge des Internationalen Symposiums Köln 1979 (Mainz). ——. 1984: ‘Die Phönizier und die Mittelmeerwelt im Zeitalter Homers’. JRGZM 31, 3–94. ——. 1985: ‘Cerámica griega en factorías Fenicias. Un análisis de los materiales de la campaña de 1967 en Toscanos (Málaga)’. In Ceràmiques gregues i helenístiques a la Península Ibèrica 27–36. [A German version, without full references, appeared in Ancient Greek and Related Pottery. Proceedings of the International Vase Symposium in Amsterdam 12–15 April 1983 (Amsterdam), 212–17]. ——. 1990: ‘The Phoenicians in the Mediterranean: A Non-Greek Model for Expansion and Settlement in Antiquity’. In Descoeudres, J.-P. (ed.), Greek Colonists and Native Populations (Oxford), 469–89. ——. 1993: ‘Trade before the Flag? On the Principles of Phoenician Expansion in the Mediterranean’. In Biran, A. and Aviram, J. (eds.), Biblical Archaeology Today 1990 ( Jerusalem), 335–44.

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——. 1999: ‘Die frühe phönizische Expansion im Mittelmeer. Neue Beiträge zu ihrer Beschreibung und ihren Ursachen’. Saeculum, Jahrbuch f. Universalgeschichte 50, 153–75. ——. 2000: ‘The Early Phoenician City-States on the Mediterranean: Archaeological Elements for their Description’. In Hansen, M.H. (ed.), A Comparative Study of Thirty City-State Cultures (Copenhagen), 89–115. Niemeyer, H.G. and Docter, R.F. 1993: ‘Die Grabung unter dem Decumanus Maximus von Karthago. Vorbericht über die Kampagnen 1986–1991’. RM 100, 201–44. Pamir, H. and Nishiyama, S. 2002: ‘The Orontes Delta Survey: Archaeological Investigation of Ancient Trade Stations/Settlements’. AWE 1.2, 294–314. Perreault, J.Y. 1993: ‘Les emporia grecs du Levant. Mythe ou réalité?’. In Bresson, A. and Rouillard, P. (eds.), L’emporion (Paris), 59–83. Perrot, G. and Chipiez, C. 1898: Histoire de l’art dans l’antiquité vol. VII (Paris). Rakob, F. 1991: ‘Ein punisches Heiligtum in Karthago und sein römischer Nachfolgebau. Erster Vorbericht’. RM 98, 33–80. ——. 1996: ‘Dorische Architektur in Karthago’. In Alle soglie della classicità. Il Mediterraneo tra tradizione e innovazione. Studi in onore di Sabatino Moscati (Pisa), 925–34. Riis, P.J. 1982: ‘Griechen in Phönizien’. In Niemeyer 1982, 237–60. ——. 1991: ‘Les problèmes actuels de l’établissement pré-hellénistique de Grecs sur la côte phénicienne. Lieux, dates, modalités’. In Atti del II° Congresso Internazionale di Studi Fenici e Punici (Rome), 203–11. Robertson, C.M. 1940: ‘The Excavations at Al Mina, Sueidia, IV. The Early Greek Vases’. JHS 60, 2–21. Schauer, P. 1983: ‘Orient im spätbronze- und früheisenzeitlichen Occident’. JRGZM 30, 175–94. Schefold, K. 1949: Orient, Hellas und Rom in der archäologischen Forschung seit 1939 (Berne). ——1967: Die Griechen und ihre Nachbarn (Berlin). Shaw, J.W. 1998: ‘Der phönizische Schrein in Kommos auf Kreta (ca. 800)’. In Rolle, R., Schmidt, K. and Docter, R.F. (eds.), Archäologische Studien in Kontaktzonen der antiken Welt (Göttingen), 93–104. Snodgrass, A.M. 1994: ‘The Nature and Standing of the Early Western Colonies’. In Tsetskhladze, G.R. and De Angelis, F. (eds.), The Archaeology of Greek Colonization. Essays Dedicated to Sir John Boardman (Oxford), 1–10. Torres Ortiz, M. 1999: Sociedad y mundo funerario en Tartessos (Madrid). Woolley, C.L. 1937: ‘Excavations near Antioch in 1936’. AntJ 17, 1–15. ——. 1938: ‘The Excavations at Al Mina, Sueidia, I, II’. JHS 58, 1–30; 133–70.

SIDONIANS, TYRIANS AND GREEKS IN THE MEDITERRANEAN: THE EVIDENCE FROM EGYPTIANISING AMULETS RICHARD FLETCHER Abstract This paper deals with the question of trade in the Early Iron Age Mediterranean and a possible relationship between Phoenicians and Greeks. It is based upon a catalogue of Egyptian and Egyptianising artefacts and shows that distribution patterns of amulets support the idea that there were two major groups of Phoenician traders operating: a northern (Sidonian) group and a southern (Tyrian) group. It contends that these groups not only distributed objects differently, but used different methods and that a Sidonian-Greek era of co-operation before the destruction of Sidon in the 7th century was decisive in both the impetus to trade and the directionality of trade.

Despite more than a century of fairly intensive study, amulets and scarabs of Egyptian manufacture or inspiration in the central Mediterranean have never really been accorded the significance they probably deserve. All Egyptica, from vessels to amulets and ivories to scarabs are seen as little more than indicators of the presence of ‘Phoenician’ trade.1 It is a nonsensical supposition, since it ignores several important issues. First, to suggest that every scarab or amulet signifies a Phoenician is as fallacious as the once widespread belief that every sherd of Euboian or Corinthian pottery indicated a Greek presence.2 Second, it fails to allow any room for a more detailed study of these objects or of the significance these objects may have held for both trader and recipient. Third, it makes quite unjustifiable assumptions about whom or what were the ‘Phoenicians’. The purpose of this paper is to point out some peculiar patterns of distribution of a number of objects thought to be of Egyptian or ‘Phoenician’ manufacture and to make some suggestions for an explanation of these patterns. In doing so, this paper will attempt to address the imbalances and misunderstandings aforementioned by taking up the suggestion recently made that we should be looking much more closely at Tyrians and Sidonians, rather than ‘Phoenicians’ and exploring possible divergences in their methods, their trade routes, and their alliances.3

1 2 3

Markoe 1996; 1992. Papadopoulos 1996; 1997, 195–201; Graham 1986; Waldbaum 1997. Peckham 1998.

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Distribution Patterns Some excellent work on scarabs in the central Mediterranean, notably that of Gunter Hölbl and Andree Gorton, has given us some useful ideas about patterns in the Early Iron Age.4 Notwithstanding the incredible detail and expertise of their work, however, it can only go so far. What Gorton calls Egyptian and Phoenician types are preponderant in Sicily and Sardinia, while in these areas the ‘mass-produced’ scarabs of Naucratis are few or entirely lacking.5 On mainland Italy, the ‘mass-produced’ dominate in the south, while the ‘Egyptian’ and ‘Phoenician’ are more numerous in Etruria.6 The only surprising thing about all this is the presence of scarabs in rock-cut inhumation burials at Syracuse probably dating to the early 7th century, and the relatively small numbers in Sardinia and, in particular, Sicily.7 Amulets, on the other hand, can show some intriguing results. The first of these is the distribution of amulets as a whole. In Sardinia, Tunisia (Carthage) and coastal Spain, amulets of Egyptian type or inspiration are, as we might expect, quite numerous and widespread. However, in Sicily and peninsular Italy we have distinctly different patterns. In Sicily, there are very few amulets at all in the eastern half of the island and even, in comparison with Sardinia, relatively few in the west. For peninsular Italy, there are, again, very few in the south and the Adriatic seaboard, none in Puglia, and a concentration only in Tyrrhenian Italy from Campania to Etruria. This suggests, quite clearly, that a source for these objects from western Greece is unlikely and implies the use of the southern trading route often discussed in this context.8 More interesting still are the distributions of these amulets by type. If we look for Wedjat-eyes in the central Mediterranean, we find them on Sardinia and in Sicily. Not a single example, however, has been found in peninsular Italy.9 The same can be said for a number of reasonably popular types on the islands: Thoeris, Thoth, Anubis and Shu remain unrepresented on peninsular sites. However, those figurines representing the Memphis triad of Sekhmet, Nefertem and Ptah are represented by some 214 examples in peninsular Italy, but with less than a dozen in Sardinia, and only seven in Sicily. Why should Sekhmet, Nefertem and Ptah have been so popular in Tyrrhenian Italy? An investigation of the distribution of these types of amulets throughout 4

Gorton 1996; Hölbl 1979; 1986. Gorton 1996, 158. 6 Gorton 1996, 160–62. 7 Gorton 1996, 157–60. 8 See Appendix I. 9 No Wedjat amulets have been found on an Italian site to date, but a curious figurine found at Pithekoussai has four Wedjat-eyes inscribed upon it. Buchner and Ridgway 1993, 332, Tomb 272, no. 1. Also Hölbl 1979, Cat. 750. 5

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the Mediterranean would be quite useful. Below are shown some distribution maps, by no means representing all discoveries of amulets in the Mediterranean, but depicting in a GIS platform a database of some 6750 amulets and scarabs collected from published sources.10 Such a sample, it is hoped, will be reasonably indicative of trends. The above figures illustrate the points made above about the lack of material in eastern Sicily and, particularly in terms of amulets, a similar absence is apparent in South Italy. Most striking is the distribution patterns evident from Figs. 2 and 3. The patterns noted above for Wedjat-eyes and the Memphis triad of Sekhmet-Nefertem-Ptah are more widespread. There are only 20 Wedjateyes to be found in Greece, and 18 of these are from East Greek sites. On the other hand, there are a total of 289 examples of Sekhmet, Nefertem, or Ptah, of which 200 are from East Greek sites. For Spain and North Africa the situation is reversed: 61 Wedjat-eyes in Spain and 168 in North Africa in comparison with four Sekhmet, Nefertem, or Ptah in Spain and six in North Africa.

Fig. 1. Distribution of amulets and scarabs (Log scale).

10 Naturally, it is not possible to include every scarab and amulet that has been found in the Mediterranean. Such a task would be huge and take a considerable time. Nevertheless, it is hoped that this database is large enough to be indicative.

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Fig. 2. Distribution of major amulets types (Log scale).11

Fig. 3. Distribution of the Memphis triad amulets and Wedjat-eyes (Log scale).

11

See Appendix II for a list of sites.

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The Amulets The amulets which make up the so-called Memphis triad are quite distinctive. Nefertem is a male figure, usually in the classic standing pose of Egyptian figures and wearing a short kilt, wearing on his head a lotus with tall plumes. The origins of Nefertem amulets went back to the Third Intermediate period, but are reflective of an ancient creation legend in which the lotus first appeared on the waters of primordial chaos—only when its petals opened was the sun god revealed. Nefertem was linked as the son with Sekhmet, the mother, and Ptah, the father, to form the divine family of the Memphite area (thus the term ‘Memphis triad’) and plaques with the three together appear to have been particularly popular during the 26th dynasty. Ptah was the ancient creator-god of Memphis itself and was regarded as the patron of craftsmen. He is usually depicted as a mummiform figure holding a sceptre to his body. Sekhmet on the other hand, was a lionessheaded figure of infamous ferocity—also of the Memphis area and in the form of a seated or standing female figure—who symbolised the burning heat of the sun and could be the bringer of plague as the sun-god’s vengeance. Sekhmet figurines can easily be confused with several other lion-headed goddesses as well as Bastet and are often of poor quality, but when headdress can be determined Sekhmet usually wears either a sun-disc on her head or a uraeus.12

Fig. 4. Sekhmet amulets.13 Fig. 5. Sekhmet amulet. 12 13

Andrews 1994, 18–19. From Veii. Hölbl 1979, Taf. 38.

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Fig. 6. Nefertem amulet.14

Fig. 7. Ptah amulet.

The Wedjat-eye is a well known form. Wedjat was one of the eyes of Horus, one being the ‘sound’ eye of Sun and the other the ‘injured’ eye of moon. It was used as a protective amulet and was regarded as so powerful that it could suffice instead of the food offering in daily ritual.15 Pataikos amulets were also for protection or aversion. They are figures of the naked dwarf god, often standing on crocodiles or snakes. They are often confused with Bes figurines.16 Possible Explanations There are two possible explanations for the distinctive distribution patterns for these amulets: the first is that they are an indication of chronological change in traded commodities, and the second is that they indicate differing configurations and arrangements of traders and/or consumers. The former, until now, has been accepted as the only credible rationalisation by scholars such as Hölbl, since it is quite clear that throughout the Mediterranean (out-

14 15 16

From Rome. Hölbl 1979, Farbtaf. IV. Andrews 1994, 43–44. Andrews 1994, 39.

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Fig. 8. Wedjat-eye.

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Fig. 9. Pataikos.

side Egypt) the majority of the Sekhmet, Nefertem and Ptah amulets are to be dated in the 8th century and the first half of the 7th.17 Moreover, the amulets such as the falcon amulets would seem to date from after the middle of the 7th century, though no other amulets may be dated with any confidence to any particular date within the period of this study.18 However, by accepting a chronological explanation for the patterns one is forced into the difficult position of assuming that Phoenician presence in Sardinia, Spain and North Africa was slight: ‘der nur sehr spärlichen Präsenz phönikischen Kulturgutes auf Sardinien vor der Mitte des 7. Jhs.v.Chr.’19 To thus posit Phoenician ‘cultural objects’ mainly in Greece and Italy before the middle of the 7th century defies all that we have discovered thus far about trade in the Early Iron Age in the Mediterranean. The latter explanation, therefore, is far more attractive. Accepting the proposition that our evidence is a reflection of particular circumstances regarding either traders or consumers leads us, however, to another set of possibilities: first, that there were consumers requiring or choosing these amulets either as traded items per se, or as items worthy of being votives, or to accompany burial; and second, that these amulets were brought for particular reasons by traders or travellers. Looking at the first possibility, a consumption-oriented approach would seem to offer some solutions. Crielaard, for example, has shown how Greek

17 18 19

Hölbl 1986, 108–109. Such as those in Dunbabin 1962, cf. D 787. Hölbl 1986, 108.

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pottery, along with eastern exotica, had a social and symbolic dimension and how particular consumption practices helped to ‘establish and recreate hierarchies by means of distinction and domination’.20 What he proposed was that Greek pottery and eastern exotica were seen as exotic imports, valued by the elite as a means of distinguishing themselves and while this may not have been the means of social change, it was certainly a means of maintenance of the social structure. To illustrate his point, Crielaard contrasts the distribution of Greek Proto-Geometric and Geometric pottery in Cyprus, where it is found almost exclusively in rich burials and sanctuaries,21 with the situation in the Levant, where we find such pottery in wide variety of contexts, domestic as well as funerary.22 A similar pattern of behaviour may have transpired in the Aegean and the western Mediterranean, though that is hardly likely in the Phoenician colonies. Such an idea is also useful for explaining why the patterns change after the middle of the 7th century. It is possible that we are simply not seeing these objects after this date because they are no longer being buried; it is possible that with changes in the structure of societies, possibly as a result of foreign contacts, such gifts were no longer necessary. But it is also possible that, as I. Morris suggests, ‘Greeks had come to terms with the east. . . . feeling little need to impress one another by piling up Syrian bowls or Egyptian figurines in their graves,’ and much the same may be said for Italy and for votive contexts.23 However, the patterns of distribution do not quite allow for quite so simple an explanation, at least not in isolation. Why, for instance, did amulets continue to be dedicated at sanctuary sites well into the 6th century in East Greek areas such as Samos, Chios and Rhodes?24 Why were there so few amulets in Greek colonial sites? Why were scarabs and amulets still imported to so many places in the Mediterranean area, though different in type and context, in the Archaic period? Above all else, founding any explanation upon changes in consumption fails to adequately account for why the Memphis triad (of Sekhmet, Nefertem and Ptah) should have been so popular in certain parts of Italy but not in others, or why they failed to appear in any numbers in Sardinia or Spain. Nor is it likely in the context of display that these small figurines would have been of particular importance to Greek or Italian consumers—other types of Egyptian amulets would, presumably, have been of equal value as items of display—and a lioness-headed goddess, a

20

Crielaard 1999, 263. Crielaard 1999, 273, 275. Crielaard makes a similar point elsewhere, though he suggests that Euboean trade with Cyprus was limited to aristocratic gift-giving. Crielaard 1993. 22 Crielaard 1999, 280–82. 23 Morris 2000, 254. 24 See Skon-Jedele 1994. 21

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youth and a Ptah figure are by no means the most exotic of Egyptian amulet types. The most likely reason, therefore, for the distribution patterns as we see them are that the carriers of these objects were a people—or were trading and/or exchanging with a people—who had a particular relationship with Memphis or had a particular liking for these amulets or for what they believed they represented. To propose a link between particular groups of people and sets of artefacts such as these Egyptian and Egyptianising amulets is not without risk—particularly when we are speaking about ‘Phoenicians’—but a careful examination of the evidence that we have points to considerable support to the claim that northern Phoenicia (particularly Sidon) may have been home to just such a people. It is quite unfortunate that we have relatively limited knowledge of the Phoenician homeland, particularly so for the Early Iron Age, in terms of its material culture.25 But the evidence we do have—both literary and archaeological—points to there being a distinct difference between northern and southern Phoenician cities. To begin with, it is evident that Sidon and Byblos were aligned with the coastal cities of northern Syria, while Tyre looked to Egypt, Arabia and the south.26 There is some evidence that Aramaeans took their alphabet from Sidonians, and for Sidonian interest in Cilicia.27 Tyrian trading interests in the south are similarly well documented.28 This is by no means to say that such divergences were exclusive, since it is quite evident that even the northern Phoenician cities retained strong contacts with Egypt, and Tyrian ventures north are well attested.29 The balance of the evidence, however, would seem to point towards a Sidonian-dominated northern Levantine area and a Tyrian-dominated south. Sidonians, Tyrians and Greeks To explore this idea a little further, we should take note of Brian Peckham’s suggestion that there was an apparent closeness of Euboean and Phoenician enterprises in the west and that this was due to a Sidonian lead. There is some evidence that Sidonians were the first among the peoples of the Levantine coast to travel widely in the Mediterranean and that, furthermore, they had a close connection with the Euboeans.30 Such ideas must be compared to

25 26 27 28 29 30

It is a well-known lament, Markoe 2000, 143; Moscati 1999, 42. Peckham 1998, 348; 1992. Peckham 2001, 19–20; Dankwarth and Müller 1990; Naveh 1987. Peckham 2001, 19–20. Puech 1992; Peckham 2001, 19–20. Peckham 1998, 351–54.

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those of John Boardman, who long ago pointed to strong Euboean and East Greek commercial interests in North Syria.31 The Sidonians, moreover, would appear to have kept a relatively low-profile and to have been content to work with locals wherever they went: ‘they did not establish colonies or even build settlements, but merely settled among the natives’—what Papadopoulos calls ‘commodity’ driven colonisation.32 Thus Euboeans in the Aegean, in North Syria in the east and possibly also the west at sites such as Pithekoussai, may have been working in co-operation with Sidonians and to have been following their method of discretion in their trading ventures.33 This may be contrasted with Tyrian ventures which were characterised by little or no assimilation, a more eclectic style, a deliberate maintenance of their individuality and the foundation of colonies.34 If joint ventures of various Greeks with various northern Phoenicians can be taken as a possibility, we have found what may be an explanation for our distribution patterns of amulets. To begin with the Memphis triad, it should be noted that the best examples we have of these amulets along the Levantine coast are from Sidon, Sarepta and Byblos.35 Furthermore, the Wedjat-eyes most numerous in Sardinia are noted by Hölbl to be virtually absent from Byblos.36 The evidence from Sarepta is inconclusive with six examples of Nefertem, Sekhmet or Ptah and two Wedjat-eyes, but since the numbers of Egyptian and Egyptianising amulets from Sarepta are so small, such a result is hardly surprising. Moreover, Sarepta, located as it was almost equidistant from Tyre and Sidon on the Phoenician coast, is very difficult to place in either the northern or the southern Phoenician sphere.37 It may also be possible that these Sekhmet and Nefertem figurines were, in the religious sense, connected with the dual city hierarchies of the major Phoenician cities, with the female Sekhmet and male Nefertem being associated with Eshmun and Astarte at Sidon, Melqart and Astarte at Tyre and Baal (Adonis) and Baal’at at Byblos. Otherwise, regarding the religious beliefs of Phoenician centres, the older idea of a family triad at each city being related to the Memphis triad is also possible.38 However, the notorious difficulties

31 It has recently been discovered that Al Mina cannot be accorded the importance it has been given in the past and that the pottery densities were similar to those of other North Syrian sites. Descoeudres 2002; Boardman 1990a; 1990b; 1994. 32 Papadopoulos and Lyons 2002; Peckham 1998, 349. 33 Winter 1995. 34 Peckham 1998, 353. 35 Hölbl 1986, 37, 43, 109. 36 Hölbl 1986, 37. 37 Anderson 1988, 34–36. 38 Xella 1986; Markoe 2000, 115–17; Peckham 1998, 347–48; Moscati 1999, 30–32.

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of understanding differences between Phoenician cities in this respect and in the identification of representations of even the pre-eminent gods from the Levantine coast means that it is extremely difficult to connect any particular type of Egyptian amulet securely with a particular god or goddess. This is not to say that preferences for particular amulets in the different cities of ‘Phoenicia’ may not have been linked to a devotional predilection, but which particular gods were involved is beyond our ability to decide.39 We are therefore left with the probability that northern Phoenician peoples had some predilection for these amulets, as to why this should be so, it would seem too difficult at this stage to be sure. One way or the other, the distribution of the amulets takes a very familiar shape. Indeed, it is almost precisely the same as that of Lyre-Player seals shown to us by Boardman and agrees almost exactly with his suggested map of ‘trade flow’ made on that basis.40 It also agrees reasonably well with the two main trade routes assumed to have been used in this period.41

Fig. 10. Distribution map of Lyre-Player seals.42

39 40 41 42

Markoe 2000, 40; Falsone 1986; Lemaire 1986. Boardman 1990a, 180, fig. 2. See Appendix I. After Boardman 1990b, 11, fig. 20.

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Fig. 11. Map of ‘trade flow’.43

But at this point, we may remind ourselves of Boardman’s exhortation made in 1994: ‘We need to be discriminate in our accolades for easterners and as precise as we can in identifying them.’44 Along these lines, however, it is here proposed that the focus put on North Syria by Boardman should be brought a little south, and that it was the northern Phoenicians of Sidon and Byblos, also trading extensively in North Syria, who were aligning themselves with Greeks from the Aegean in trading ventures in the Mediterranean. There is considerable evidence in favour of this proposition. First, the basic distribution follows Boardman’s with a Greek-Syrian-Phoenician pattern and another pattern in Southern Phoenicia and the Tyrian colonies of the western Mediterranean, which may be called a Phoenician-Tyrian pattern. Second, it fits with Greek and Phoenician interest in Syrian sites such as Al Mina, Tell Tayinat, Ras el Bassit and Sukas.45 One may disagree about the details of just what was happening in North Syria between Greeks and locals, but the consensus seems to be that not a great deal of interaction occurred between Greeks and Levantines on North Syrian soil and that ‘this observation is valid for the much over-rated al-Mina as well’.46 Furthermore, Al Mina and the mix of Greek and Phoenician evidence there can be shown to have been mirrored at other North Syrian sites, and to have been ‘just one of many places in the Eastern Mediterranean where Greeks made contact with the Orient’.47

43 44 45 46 47

After Boardman 1990a, 180, fig. 2. Boardman 1994, 99. Boardman 1990a; Courbin 1990; Riis 1969. Röllig 1992, 95. Treister 1995, 159.

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Several commentators have criticised the proposition that Greeks were present at Al Mina and North Syria generally at this early date. In particular, John Papadopoulos and Jane Waldbaum have pointed out the inconsistencies in the arguments for Greek presence. They have shown that amounts of Greek pottery are relatively small in comparison with local and Phoenician wares and that there is an often unjustified assumption that Greek pots are equivalent to Greek presence.48 Papadopoulos can be scathing in his condemnation of ‘false precision’ and makes the suggestion that if Al Mina was a Greek emporion then Lefkandi must have been a Phoenician settlement.49 Papadopoulos also poses the problem that Greek pottery from Al Mina derives from a number of different Greek sources. This is true, but it is true only for the second half of the 8th century; before this time there is little doubt that Euboea was the main source of Greek pottery at Al Mina.50 Papadopoulos and Waldbaum have also brought to our attention that Greek pottery in North Syria and the Levant is always far outnumbered by Phoenician and local ceramics and that we must be careful with arguments based upon statistical evidence. Nevertheless, there are considerable quantities of Greek pottery reported to have been found at several sites in the inland Amuq plain—including Tell Tayinat, Çatal Hüyük and Tell Judaidah—and on the upper Orontes in the royal city of Hamath.51 Whatever the interpretation one puts upon the evidence from North Syria (for or against Greek presence), it is evident that we have material which illustrates considerable interaction between Phoenician, North Syrian and Aegean traders.52 When one considers the position of North Syria in the important Mesopotamian and Anatolian trade networks, interaction in this part of the Mediterranean is not surprising—it was always a focus of trade routes from the east to the west.53 Certainly in the Middle and Late Bronze Age, Ugarit was the principal outlet to the Mediterranean for the Syro-Mesopotamian hinterland.54 Until the foundation of Seleucia and Laodicea by Seleucus I, this trade had to make its way west through the small ports of North Syria.55 One aspect of this trade, of the utmost importance to trade in Geometric Greece, was tin. We must keep in mind that Greece had no sources of tin, and it is

48

Waldbaum 1997; Papadopoulos 1997, 195–201. Papadopoulos 1997, 196, 205–06. 50 Crielaard 1999, 281; Coldstream 1988. 51 Crielaard 1999, 281–82. 52 See the article on this subject in the present issue by H.G. Niemeyer (pp. 38–50). 53 Winter 1973, 432. 54 Cline 1994, 50–51. 55 Seyrig 1968; Riis has suggested that Greeks were interested in a range of goods including wood, flax, textiles, iron, copper and olive oil. Riis 1970, 164 and 166. 49

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generally believed that the only possible source for tin in the Aegean world, until later contacts with the western Mediterranean were made, must have been from the east and channelled through the Levant.56 Moreover, there is evidence to link the adoption of high-tin bronze technology in Corinth around 760–750 BC with the work of North Syrian bronze founders.57 Finally, the importance of North Syria in regional trade in the Early Iron Age is illustrated by both the adoption of Aramaic as the official scribal language from the time of Tiglath Pilesar III on (745 BC), and in the use of the ‘Carchemish mina’ as the official weight standard of Assyria.58 Such a proposition is also backed up by recent arguments for Greeks learning alphabetic writing from Aramaeans in North Syria, spreading from Euboea to the rest of the Greek world—a suggestion made all the more interesting in light of evidence for Arameans learning their script from Sidonians.59 The evidence, if we would care to examine it carefully, is consistently in favour of northern Phoenician-Greek co-operation in early ventures. For example, the earliest and most sustained contact between the Aegean and the east, after the fall of Mycenaean civilisation, was in Euboea with the numerous finds of eastern material at Lefkandi. There are several significant points to be made about this material. First, the material is Phoenician and Cypriot of the 9th century. Second, as Coldstream points out, ‘these oriental luxuries imply more than a single chance visit; their contexts, spread as they are over a whole century, surely indicate regular commercial exchange.’60 Third, the Lefkandi finds coincide with a time of revival in the Aegean bronze industry after a lapse during the earlier part of the Greek Dark Age.61 Lastly, there strong and convincing arguments that the material in the late 9th century BC owes more to North Syrian influences than elsewhere.62 The ‘Phoenician’ presence speculated upon for Rhodes (with a Phoenician unguent factory at Ialysos) is considered to be early.63 And it is probable that Rhodes served as a regional production centre for Phoenician goods, including ‘trinkets’ and luxury items in faience, scarabs, incised vessels and anthropomorphic unguent vases.64 It should be noted that even in Homer we find references only to ‘Sidonians’

56

Muhly 1985. Treister 1996, 99–102. 58 Winter 1973, 437. 59 See n. 21. Marek 1993. 60 Coldstream 1982, 265. 61 Coldstream 1982, 265. 62 Boardman 1990a, 178–79; Popham et al. 1982. 63 Coldstream 1969. 64 Coldstream 1969; Rathje 1976, 98–99; Markoe 2000, 171. Rhodes is also the only site in the Aegean where we find the most distinctive Phoenician glass beads, the so-called ‘birdbeads’. Frey 1982, 33–35. 57

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rather than to any other group of ‘Phoenicians’. Homer refers in the Iliad to ‘Sidon’ (6. 291) and ‘Sidonians’ (23. 743) twice. In the Odyssey, ‘Phoenicia’ or ‘Phoenicians’ are mentioned eight times, but ‘Sidon’ (15. 425) and ‘Sidonians’ (13. 285, 4. 84, 4. 618, 15. 118) a total of five times. No mention of Tyre or ‘Tyrians’ is made in either book. In addition to such Aegean sites, Pithekoussai for one must now be seen as a site of a co-operative venture between Phoenicians (of some kind) and Greeks.65 The Aramaic inscriptions at Pithekoussai are perhaps most interesting because they raise the important question: what is the difference between a North Syrian and a Phoenician? It is clear that scholars are rather confused about whether to separate these two groups or keep them as one— which is why we usually talk of ‘Levantines’ rather than ‘Phoenicians’ and ‘North Syrians’. When Ridgway talks about amphora 575–1 from Pithekoussai with its Aramaic inscriptions he speaks of it as possibly being made at either Al Mina or at Ialysos, ‘held by later Rhodian historians to be the most important Phoenician settlement’.66 Annette Rathje describes Al Mina as Phoenician.67 Thus, a rather loose terminology results in Aramaic inscriptions pointing to Phoenicians and a North Syrian site becoming Phoenician. Chronologically there is also considerable supporting evidence for the theory of Greek-northern Phoenician co-operation. First, it has already been noted that Hölbl considered Sekhmet and Nefertem amulets to be datable to the period before 650 BC,68 but while there is evidence for co-operation between Greeks and Phoenicians before this date, there is very little indeed after it. Second, it seems too much of a coincidence that Sidon, the chief city of the northern Phoenicians, was destroyed in 677 BC when Esarhaddon overcame the revolt of Levantine cities after the assassination of Sennacherib.69 It is to be noted that while Sidon was destroyed and all the cities of the Levant and eastern Anatolia were brought under Assyrian control, Tyre was rewarded with the southern portion of Sidon’s mainland territory (including Sarepta) and added these to holdings in the Akko plain.70 Quite clearly, Tyre had by the middle of the 7th century become the dominant Phoenician city. Tyre’s policies of colonisation in the western Mediterranean meant that ‘the Phoenicians . . . began to go overseas’ and the region of greatest importance to them became the western Mediterranean.71

65 66 67 68 69 70 71

Ridgway 2000; Boardman 1999, 194–95. Italics added. Rigdway 1992, 113. Rathje 1979, 181; cf. Culican, 1982, 79. See above, n. 11. Markoe 2000, 43. Markoe 2000, 43. Peckham 2001, 37.

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The middle of the 7th century is also the date for a change in the type of Egyptian and Egyptianising material in the Aegean. Before this date, we find material much like that of Italy: Sekhmet and Nefertem amulets, as well as the ubiquitous Bes and Pataikos figurines (found all over the Mediterranean, from the 8th century onwards), but after about 650 BC we find large numbers of other types. The distribution map of Fig. 2, above, shows that there are very large numbers of falcon figurines in the Aegean; these date mainly to after the middle of the 7th century.72 Distribution of material in the western Mediterranean, however, is entirely different: there are still very few Wedjat-eyes in the Aegean and there are relatively few falcon figurines in the west. Thus it cannot have been that carriers simply had a change in fashion for amulets: the distribution patterns suggest rather a change in carriers. In this case, it would seem, Sidonians and northern Phoenicians and Syrians lost contact to a large extent with Greece and the Naucratis factory filled the void. Conclusions All in all, it can be suggested that from at least the 9th century until the middle of the 7th there was an apparent co-operation of some kind between ‘Greek’ (probably mainly Euboean) and Phoenician (mainly Sidonian and northern Levantine) enterprises both in the East and in the West, and that this was due to a Sidonian lead. The Sidonians would appear to have been content to work with natives wherever they went: ‘they did not establish colonies or even build settlements, but merely settled among the natives’ and traded in their own distinctive wares.73 Thus the earliest Greeks to travel the Mediterranean after the Mycenaeans—the Euboeans—were in the Aegean, the East and possibly also the West, working in co-operation with Sidonians and following their method of discretion in their trading ventures. This may be contrasted with Tyrian ventures which would appear totally different—not least in the foundation of colonies—and where one finds a quite different set of artefacts.74 The evidence of amulet distributions certainly supports the idea of Sidonian-Euboean (or Greek) co-operation in early ventures to the West, eventually supplanted by competition between Greeks and Tyrian-dominated Phoenician colonies in the West. Even in Etruria, Ingrid Strøm believes that South Etruscan goldwork was subjected to more than one wave of Near

72 73 74

See above n. 18. Peckham 1998, 349. Peckham 1998, 353.

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Eastern influence: North Syria then Phoenician, which may be adapted in terms of Sidonians-North Syrians then Tyrians.75 Classical Archaeology, MacCallum Bldg A17 University of Sydney, NSW 2006 Australia [email protected] Appendix I: Trade Routes If we are to look more closely at the question of trade routes, we need to inform ourselves in some detail about those factors which effect how seafarers managed their boats in the Early Iron Age, namely: ships, sailing seasons, currents, winds, landfalls and harbours. To begin with the most difficult: ships. It is most unfortunate that between the end of the Bronze Age and the end of the Orientalising period we have few shipwrecks. Indeed, all the wrecks known from before 500 BC amount to only 39, almost all of which are known only from scattered remains of their cargoes.76 Therefore what we know about ships and their construction has been based upon very slight remains from wrecks such as those at Uluburun (ca. 1350–1300 BC), Cape Gelidonya (ca. 1250–1150 BC), the Ashkelon ships (8th century), Kyrenia (ca. 310–300 BC) and Giglio Reef (ca. 600 BC). We must assume that ships in the Early Iron Age were more or less similar to those just before and after. These tell us that ships were generally rather small, with the Cape Gelidonya ship being about 9 m,77 the Kyrenia and Ashkelon ships about 14 m,78 the Giglio ship at 11 m,79 and the Uluburun ship about 15 m.80 With the exception of the Giglio wreck,81 they were constructed shellfirst by the so-called mortice-and-tenon technique using a variety of woods, including cedar, fir, pine and oak, giving them considerable strength. 82 Studies of the original Kyrenia ship indicated that it could make 4–5 knots and sail quite close to the wind, that it displaced 14 tons, and was carrying about 20 tons of cargo. A replica of this ship sailed 600 nautical miles in three weeks, rode out three gales, and sailed well at 50–60 degrees off the wind.83 What these wrecks tell us is that Early Iron Age ships could be large, but were probably more of the size of the Cape Gelidonya or Giglio ships. Even so, they could

75

Strom 1990, 97; Winter 1988, 210–11, 212. Parker 1992, 10. In 1999, two further shipwrecks were found off the coast of Israel, claimed to be Phoenician and dating from the 8th century (with cargoes of wine). Ballard, et al. 2002. 77 Parker 1992, 109. 78 Parker 1992, 232; Ballard 2002, 166. 79 Bound 1991. 80 Pulak 1998, 210. 81 The Giglio ship was constructed by ‘stitching’ or ‘sowing’, thought to be the more ancient technique but demonstrably used at the same time as mortise-and-tenon construction. Blue 1997, 77. 82 Blue 1997, 77; Parker 1992, 232. 83 Parker 1992, 232. 76

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still carry a considerable cargo. However, there is one point about them that must be made clear: despite what may have been said about the Kyrenia II, ships in antiquity did not sail well close to the wind.84 They sailed best with the wind abeam or astern and would have had great difficulty sailing into any sort of head wind.85 As for sailing seasons: there was a generally accepted season from late March through to late October, since this is when the Mediterranean experiences clear skies, moderate winds and slight seas.86 Shipping was generally brought to a halt in this way right up to the 16th century.87 That is not to say that sailing was impossible in winter, but those who did so knew that they were ‘at the mercy of the elements [and] had to be alert’.88 Although March to October was the general sailing season, there were other restraints upon sailing, namely the winds and the currents. For example, in Phoenicia it was best to set out on voyages westerly from March to May and to return before mid-October, since easterly winds generally blew from mid-October through to May, while from June to mid-October winds were generally westerly.89 This has important ramifications for Phoenician activity in the rest of the Mediterranean. This is because the rest of the Mediterranean, other the central and southern Levantine coast, is dominated by northerly winds, particularly north-westerly winds.90 If a ship set out from Phoenicia on a two to three month voyage to the western Mediterranean,91 they would have to do so in late March or find themselves with the considerable problems of facing prevailing head winds in the final run back to Phoenicia. However, they would not have this problem in the rest of the Mediterranean; they could sail right up to Cyprus on the north-westerlies prevailing through most of the year. The implications for colonisation and for the presence of Phoenician ‘craftsmen’ in locations throughout the Mediterranean should be obvious. Currents and winds would also seem to have been of considerable importance to the situation in the Aegean. Although it has been claimed that currents are of little importance in maritime trade routes,92 if we look at currents in the Mediterranean we will find that this is certainly not the case. Currents in the Mediterranean run generally counter-clockwise and range from about 6 knots through the Straits of Gibraltar and the Straits of Messina, 3–6 knots through the Sicilian channel to around 2 knots along the Levantine coast and around Crete.93 The current in the Aegean is also basically counter-clockwise and is helped along by the 4-knot current through the Dardanelles from the Black Sea. The Aegean current can thus run at 2–3 knots.94 A similar current is present in the Straits of Messina. If we look at the ship mentioned earlier with an average speed of about 3 knots,95 a current of 2–3 knots must

84

Roberts 1995. See also Pryor 1988, 6–9. 86 Pryor 1988, 12–13. 87 Braudel 1972, 248–50. 88 Braudel 1972, 248–50. 89 Pryor 1988, 1–3. 90 Pryor 1988, 14–15. 91 Braudel estimates 70–80 days sailing in the 16th century from the eastern and western ends of the Mediterranean. Braudel 1972, 355. 92 McCaslin 1980, 88. 93 Only 0.5–1.5 knots along the coast of Italy. Pryor 1988, 13. 94 Pryor 1988, 13. 95 See above, n. 76. 85

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surely be an important factor. What is important about this current in the Aegean is that skilful sailors would have been able ‘to claw their way along the coasts by using the currents . . . as well as by taking advantage of the cycle of morning and evening sea breezes’.96 What were the routes then? Sailing from the Levant, the most likely route is certainly to use the easterly winds of March to May to sail towards Cyprus, which as Patricia Bikai has pointed out, is certainly one of the easiest routes in the Mediterranean.97 It may be supposed that it would be easier to sail along the North African coast. However, sailors have always avoided this route for two reasons: first, the prevailing northerly winds in the Mediterranean make the North African coast a dangerous lee shore; second, very strong northerly winds can appear quite suddenly throughout the Mediterranean and are given various names (meltemia, mistral, Etesian winds). These winds are often so strong that they have in the past regularly driven shipping from the northern Mediterranean onto the North African coast.98 If the ship was already on the North African coast, there is a serious risk of shipwreck.99 Sailing along the southern coast of Cyprus can be eased by using near-shore winds, which begin in the SE and by afternoon swing to the SW.100 From Cyprus, the best route would have been to have used these southerly near-shore winds and then the usual northerly winds (NE from the Near East early in the year, to the NW in summer)101 to sail towards the coast of Anatolia. Since the eastern part of the south Anatolian coast was rocky and reef-strewn, it was usual to make for the area around Cape Gelidonya.102 Sailing along the coast of Anatolia would be simple enough until one reached Rhodes, where one would have to choose whether to sail the easy route with the prevailing north-westerlies abeam and sail SW towards Crete, or to use currents and evening sea-breezes to push up into the Aegean against the north winds. The best route to do so is to sail up the coast, using the currents, the light land breezes which come from each inlet at night,103 and the occasional north-easterly.104 However, winds are usually from the west to north-west.105 Upon reaching Samos, the sailor can then choose to use even north-westerly winds to sail into the Cyclades, though any move NW requires the use of night-time land breezes.106 There is some support for such a route. First, this is basically the route taken by the fleet sent by Darius to invade the Greek mainland in 490 BC.107 Second, the distribution of Phoenician artefacts even in the 7th century seems to go no further north along the Anatolian coast than Samos, certainly not into the northern Aegean.108

96

Pryor 1988, 15. Bikai 1987, 126. 98 Braudel gives several examples. Braudel 1972, 250. 99 Pryor 1988, 20–23; Braudel 1972, 106–08; Liritzis 1988, 239. There is the added problem of the Saharan scirocco, or what is known as the shlouq in Palestine. These fierce southerly storms are particularly dangerous along the North African coast. 100 Denham 1964, 175. 101 Pryor 1988, 17. 102 Pryor 1988, 90, 98. 103 Denham 1975, 146. 104 Called the Poyras. Denham 1975, 145. 105 Denham 1975, 145. 106 McCaslin 1980, 89, note 5. 107 Herod. 6. 95. 2. 108 Kilian-Dirlmeier 1985. 97

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As for those ships which sailed towards Crete, the route along the north shore is probably the better except that sailing further west may have been hampered by prevailing westerlies until July, when the wind generally changes to the NE.109 Sailing along the south coast is possible, where there were probably reasonable harbours in antiquity, but strong gusts that came down from the mountains mean that it is best to sail at least 5 miles offshore.110 It should be evident that sailing into the Aegean poses some problems for the mariner. However, sailing from the Aegean to the east, is quite simple. Sailing from Attica or the Peloponnese SE to Crete is a simple run, though returning would probably require a counter-clockwise circuit up through Rhodes and Samos. From the Aegean to Rhodes and then on to Cyprus would have been a simple matter of putting the prevailing NW astern and riding them all the way. Sailing to Sicily is a necessary and relatively simple voyage for any mariner travelling to the west. The greatest difficulty was choosing the route from Crete—which could involve the more daring direct route across the open sea to the east coast of Sicily, or alternatively turning north against the prevailing winds and inching up the coast of the Peloponnese and then across to the harbours of the Ionian seaboard. Although neither of these routes was without risk, the difficult part came once the mariner had reached Sicily. Sailing along the south coast of Sicily and then turning gently north-west towards Sardinia (and then on to Ibiza and Spain) is considered the safest route because of the sometimes dangerous northerlies that can force a ship onto any northern shore. But these prevailing northerlies could also make the run across to Sardinia very difficult from the eastern tip of Sicily or Carthage. Therefore, some use could be made of shore breezes to sail up through the Straits of Messina (a notoriously difficult task), then using currents and—again—coastal winds go north up the coast of Italy or across to Lipari, and then sailing well north of the coast of Sicily run due west to Sardinia. One could also, it should be pointed out, actually keep going north and sail along the coast all the way to Spain—this was, at least, the preferred route in the 16th century.111 A note of caution should be made at this point. It is not being suggested here that Early Iron Age sailors were entirely at the mercy of their environment, but that voyages were most probably made in harmony with the forces of nature rather than in spite of them.112 Nevertheless, it must be understood that environmental and technological factors would not have been the only ones that were considered: other considerations—most notably profit—would have constantly induced ships to sail from the most common and easiest routes.113 In other words, if the profit had been there, sailors would certainly have made their way against northerlies. Another factor to take into consideration is time. The time taken to make a voyage may be just as important as distance and ease of sailing, particularly when one

109

Actually they tend to be north-easterly in the west and north-westerly in the east! Denham 1978, 105. 110 Denham 1978, 105. Sailing from Crete westwards could also involve taking the west or WSW route through to Sicily or Malta or North Africa. Running on northerlies towards Africa is even attested in the Odyssey 14. 290–310). 111 Braudel 1972, 250. 112 Pryor 1988, XIV. 113 Horden and Purcell 2000, 139.

SIDONIANS, TYRIANS AND GREEKS IN THE MEDITERRANEAN

71

takes into consideration how ancient seafarers may have thought about their voyages. We are too quick to look to our maps and draw lines across them in two dimensional space and we often fail to realise that an ancient seafarer may not have thought so much of distance as of time taken.114 As a result, we may consider that the Aegean could have been a destination more attractive for short trips, or for the tramping of small vessels. One can imagine the master of a vessel at Rhodes having to make the decision between the long haul west, or the difficult haul north. The voyage west may have offered greater rewards, but a simple athurmata cargo could still have been traded anywhere from the Aegean to the west. Appendix II: Sites Site

Total

Palestrina 22 Cerveteri 61 Francavilla M. 15 Pyrgi 1 Tarquinia 147 Populonia 6 Veii 66 Vulci 93 Pontecagnano 132 Cumae 82 Vetulonia 35 Fabriano 1 Qunito 2 Marzabotto 1 San Severino Marche 2 Palo 1 Roma 11 Bomarzo 5 Bologna 8 Este 19 Comeana 1 Novilara 2 Castelbellino 5 Numana 1 Pitino 1 Cortona 1 Chiusi 4 Campovalano 1 Atri 1 Coppa Nevigata 1 Melfi 1 Calatia 2 Suessola 50 Velia 1 Taranto 187

114

Other Bes Falcon Isis- Nefertem Pataikos Ptah Sekhmet Sekhemt- WedjatEgyptica Horus Nefertem eye 22 61 14 1 48 6 43 42 132 82 26 1 2 1 2 1 6 5 3

1 1

29

3

20

4 1

4 1

11 49

4

4

3

1

1

1

4

1 1

1 2

46

3 11

5

1 2 5 1 1 1 4 1 1 1 1 2 49 1 187

Horden and Purcell 2000, 124.

1

72

RICHARD FLETCHER

Appendix II (cont.) Site

Total

Policoro 5 Amendolara 27 Sibaris 1 Torre del Mordillo 17 Crichi 3 Locri 8 Val Canale 6 Vibo Valentia 2 Torre Galli 4 Sovana 1 Pitigliano 2 Orvieto 5 Terni 1 Marsiliana d”Albegna 8 Vetralla 1 Corchiano 1 Ferento 3 Bisenzio 28 Civita Castellana 10 Capena 22 Narce 63 Santa Marinella 1 Monteroni 2 Cava delle Volpelle 1 Marino 5 Lanuvio 2 Pratica di Mare 2 Satricum (Conca) 47 Castello di Decima 6 Colle delle Crocette 1 Pithekoussai 147 Etruria 22 Sarno Region 34 San Marzano 48 Samos 173 Perachora 853 Carthage 847 Alicante 2 Crevillente 1 Villaricos 27 Ampurias 21 Cadiz 13 Caceres 1 Ibiza 281 Gibralta 5 Almunecar 17 Pinos Puente 1 Huelva 4

Other Bes Falcon Isis- Nefertem Pataikos Ptah Sekhmet Sekhemt- WedjatEgyptica Horus Nefertem eye 5 27 1 16 3 8 6 2 4 1 2 5

1

1 8 1 1 2 15 3 7 20 1 2

3 1 4

1

1 4 2 2

7

4

4 7 11

1 17

1 2

1

6 9

1

47 6 1 137 22 34 25 62 832 406 6 17 7 1 121

5 1 9 13 78

79 5 7

6

1 1

11 2

3

2 22

23

17 1 61 2

1

1

1

5

167

2 95

1 3 1 22

4

1

12 1 1

4 3

48

1

44 2

17 1 4

SIDONIANS, TYRIANS AND GREEKS IN THE MEDITERRANEAN

73

Appendix II (cont.) Site

Total

Churriana 1 La Aliseda 1 Torre del Mar 6 Torre d’En Gaumes 1 Cruz del Negro 2 Trayamar 5 Malaga 1 El Cigarralejo 1 Verdolay 5 Puerto de Santa Maria 1 El Acebuchal 1 Setefilla 3 Valencia 2 Argos 60 Sarepta 39 Byblos 41 Athens 15 Eleusis 19 Sunium 56 Aegina 52 Paros 36 Lindos 717 Tharros 446 Cagliari 143 Nora 44 Sulcis 73 Olbia 3 Syracuse 1 Sparta 35 Camirus 200 Agia Irini 4 Sukas 1 San Giusta 1 Palermo 214 Mozia 2 Cyprus 3 Mostagedda 3 Tell Defenneh 1 Kition 4 Tell Keisan 2 Tell Abu Hawam 1 Atlit 1 Tyre 1 Lachish 1 Naukratis 2 Tell el Ajjul 2 Gaio 1 Alenquer 1 Matmar 3 Sardinia 1 Utica 1 Malta 2

Other Bes Falcon Isis- Nefertem Pataikos Ptah Sekhmet Sekhemt- WedjatEgyptica Horus Nefertem eye 1 1 6 1 2 5 1 1 1 1 1 3 2 57 12 39 14 17 51 44 29 463 239 51 24 45 2 1 33 99 4 1 1 163 2 3 3 1 4 2 1 1 1 1 2 2 1 1 3 1 1 2

1 8 1 1

1 1

1 1

1

1 2

5

10

1 9 1 1

1 2 93 34 11 6

6

7

6

8

6

18

2 4 3 90 13 1 2

4 2 55 14 12 1 3 1

1 1 7 7 6 1 2

62 3 1

1 14

20

38

1 9

7

1

4

1 2 16 68 31 7 9

13 1 1 1

74

RICHARD FLETCHER

Appendix II (cont.) Site

Total

Thera Anavyssos Corinth Isthmia Tegea Ithica Pherai Philia Chios Delos Lefkandi Eretria Lemnos Naxos (Aegean) Siphnos Thasos Amnisos Arkades Gortyn Idaean Cave Inatos Knossos Kommos Tarra Trapeza Cave Kos Ialysos Taormina Solunto Lilibeo Selinus

2 1 10 3 2 4 4 2 41 15 61 5 9 3 1 3 14 2 1 3 77 16 4 1 1 2 441 1 3 1 1

Other Bes Falcon Isis- Nefertem Pataikos Ptah Sekhmet Sekhemt- WedjatEgyptica Horus Nefertem eye 1 1 10 3

1

1 4 4 2 33 11 6 3 3 1 2 1 2 1 58 12 2 1 1 247 1 3

2

1

6 1

1 1

1 9

1

1 1

53

1

1 2 1 1 7 1

2

5

6

1 5 1 1

1 1 60

25

6

47

16

1

3

1

1 1 1

31

8

1 1

BIBLIOGRAPHY Abbreviations AJA American Journal of Archaeology BASOR Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research MeditArch Mediterranean Archaeology (Sydney) OJA Oxford Journal of Archaeology Anderson, W.P. 1988: Sarepta I: The Late Bronze and Iron Age Strata of Area II, Y (Beirut). Andrews, C. 1994: Amulets of Ancient Egypt (London). Ballard, R., Stager, L.F., Master, D., Yoerger, D., Mindell, D. Whitcomb, L.L., Singh, H., and Piechota, D. 2002: ‘Iron Age Shipwrecks in Deep Water off Ashkelon, Israel’. AJA 106, 151–68. Bikai, P.M. 1987: ‘Trade Networks in the Early Iron Age: The Phoenicians at Palaepaphos’. In Rupp, D.W. (ed.), Western Cyprus: Connections (Gothenburg), 125–28. Blue, L. 1997: ‘Conference Report: VIth Symposium on Ship Construction in Antiquity, Lamia, Greece, 28–30 August 1996’. The International Journal of Nautical Archaeology 26, 75–77. Boardman, J. 1988: ‘Trade in Decorated Pottery’. OJA 7, 27–33. ——. 1990a: ‘Al Mina and History’. OJA 9, 169–90. ——. 1990b: ‘The Lyre Player Group of Seals, An Encore’. Archäologischer Anzeiger 1990, 1–15.

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——. 1994: ‘Orientalia and Orientals on Ischia’. In Ridgway, D. (ed.), Apoikia. Scritti in onore di Giorgio Buchner (Naples), 95–100. Bound, M. 1991: ‘The Pre-Classical Wreck at Campese Bay, Island of Giglio. First Season Report’. Studi e Materiali. Scienza dell’antichità in Toscana VI, 181–98. Braudel, F. 1972: The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II vol. I, Trans. S. Reynolds (London). Buchner, G. and Ridgway, D. 1993: Pithekoussai I. La necropoli: tombe 1–723 scavate dal 1952 al 1961 (Rome). Cline, E.H. 1994: Sailing the Wine-Dark Sea. International Trade and the Late Bronze Age Aegean (Oxford). Coldstream, J.N. 1969: ‘The Phoenicians of Ialysos’. Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies 16, 1–8. ——. 1982: ‘Greeks and Phoenicians in the Aegean’. In Niemeyer, H.G. (ed.), Phönizier im Westen: die Beiträge des Internationalen Symposiums über ‘Die phönizische Expansion im westlichen Mittelmeeraum’. (Mainz), 261–75. Courbin, P. 1990: ‘Bassit-Posidaion in the Early Iron Age’. In Descoeudres, J.-P. (ed.), Greek Colonists and Native Populations (Oxford), 503–10. Crielaard, J.P. 1993: ‘The Social Organization of Euboean Trade with the Eastern Mediterranean during the 10th to 8th Centuries BC’. Pharos I, 139–46. ——. 1999: ‘Early Iron Age Greek pottery in Cyprus and North Syria: a consumption-oriented approach’. In Crielaard, J.P., Stissi, V. and van Wijngaarden, G.J. (eds.), The Complex Past of Pottery (Amsterdam), 261–90. Culican, W. 1982: ‘The Repertoire of Phoenician Pottery’. In Niemeyer, H.G. (ed.), Phönizier im Westen: die Beiträge des Internationalen Symposiums über ‘Die phönizische Expansion im westlichen Mittelmeeraum’ (Mainz), 45–82. Dankwarth, G. and Müller, Ch. 1990: ‘Zur altaramäischen “Altar”—Inschrift vom Tell Halaf’. Archiv für Orientforschung 35, 73–78. Denham, H.M. 1978: The Ionian Islands to Rhodes: A Sea-Guide 2nd Ed. (London). ——. 1975: The Aegean: A Sea-Guide to its Coasts and Islands 3rd Ed. (London). ——. 1964: Southern Turkey, The Levant and Cyprus: A Sea-Guide (London). Descoeudres, J.-P. 2002: ‘Al Mina Across the Great Divide’. MeditArch 15, 49–72. Dunbabin, T.J. 1962: Perachora II: the sanctuaries of Hera Akraia and Limenia (Oxford). Falsone, G. 1986: ‘Anath or Astarte? A Phoenician Bronze Statuette of the «Smiting Goddess»’. In Bonnet, C. et al. (eds.), Religio Phoenicia (Namur), 53–76. Frey, O. 1982: ‘Zur Seefahrt im Mittelmeer während der Früheisenzeit’. In Müller-Karpe, H. (ed.), Zur geschichtlichen Bedeutung der frühen Seefahrt (Munich), 21–44. Gorton, A.F. 1996: Egyptian and Egyptianizing Scarabs. A typology of steatite, faience and paste scarabs from Punic and other Mediterranean sites (Oxford). Graham, A.J. 1986: ‘The Historical Interpretation of Al Mina’. Dialogues d’Histoire Ancienne 12, 51–59. Hölbl, G. 1979: Beziehungen der Ägyptischen Kultur zu Altitalien, V.1–2 (Leiden). ——. 1986: Ägyptisches Kulturgut im phönikischen und punischen Sardinien, V.1–2 (Leiden). Horden, P. and Purcell, N. 2000: The Corrupting Sea (Oxford). Kilian-Dirlmeier, I. 1985: ‘Fremde Weihungen in griechischen Heiligtümern vom 8. bis zum Beginn des 7. Jahrhunderts v. Chr’. Jahrbuch des Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseums Mainz 32, 215–54. Lemaire, A. 1986: ‘Divinités égyptiennes dans l’onomastique phénicienne’. In Bonnet, C. et al. (eds.), Religio Phoenicia (Namur), 87–98. Liritzis, V. 1988: ‘Seafaring, craft and cultural contact in the Aegean during the 3rd millennium BC’. The International Journal of Nautical Archaeology 17, 237–56. McCaslin, D.E. 1980: Stone Anchors in Antiquity: Coastal Settlements and Maritime Trade-routes in the Eastern Mediterranean ca. 1600–1050 BC (Gothenburg). Marek, Ch. 1993: ‘Euboia und die Entstehung der Alphabetschrift bei den Griechen’. Klio 75, 27–44. Markoe, G. 1992: ‘In Pursuit of Metal: Phoenicians and Greeks in Italy’. In Kopcke, G. and Tokumaru, I. (eds.), Greece between East and West. 10th–8th Centuries BC (Mainz), 61–84. ——. 1996: ‘In Pursuit of Silver: Phoenicians in Central Italy’. In Niemeyer, H.G. and Rolle,

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R. (eds.), Interactions in the Iron Age: Phoenicians, Greeks and the Indigenous Peoples of the Western Mediterranean (Mainz), 11–31. ——. 2000: Phoenicians (London). Moscati, S. 1999: The World of the Phoenicians (New York). Morris, I. 1998: ‘Archaeology and Archaic Greek History’. In Fisher, N. and van Wees, H. (eds.), Archaic Greece: New Approaches and New Evidence (London), 1–92. Muhly, J.D. 1985: ‘Sources of Tin and the Beginnings of Bronze Metallurgy’. AJA 89, 275–91. Naveh, J. 1987: ‘Proto-Canaanite, Archaic Greek, and the Script of the Aramaic Text on the Tell Fakhariyah Statue’. In Miller, P.D., Hanson, P.D. and McBride, S.D. (eds.), Ancient Israelite Religion. Essays in Honor of Frank Moore Cross (Philadelphia), 101–13. Papadopoulos, J. 1996: ‘Euboians in Macedonia? A Closer Look’. OJA 15, 151–81. ——. 1997: ‘Phantom Euboeans’, MeditArch 10, 191–219. ——. and Lyons, C.L. 2002: ‘Archaeology and Colonialism’. In Lyons, C.L. and Papadopoulos, J. (eds.), The Archaeology of Colonialism (Los Angeles), 1–23. Parker, A.J. 1992: Ancient Shipwrecks of the Mediterranean and the Roman Provinces (Oxford). Peckham, B. 1992: ‘Phoenicia, History of’. The Anchor Bible Dictionary vol. 5 (New York), 349–63. ——. 1998: ‘Phoenicians in Sardinia: Tyrians or Sidonians?’. In Balmuth, M.S. and Tykot, R.H. (eds.), Sardinian and Aegean Chronology: Towards the Resolution of Relative and Absolute Dating in the Mediterranean (Oxford), 347–54. ——. 2001: ‘Phoenicians and Arameans: The Literary and Epigraphic Evidence’. In Michèle Daviau, P.M. et al. (eds.), The World of the Arameans II ( Journal for the Study of the Old Testament, Supp 325), 199–244. Popham, M.R., Touloupa, E. and Sackett, L.H., 1982: ‘The Hero of Lefkandi’. Antiquity 56, 169–74. Pryor, J.H. 1988: Geography, technology, and war: Studies in the maritime history of the Mediterranean, 649–1571 (Cambridge). Puech, E. 1992: ‘La stèle de Bar-Hadad à Melqart et les rois d’Arpad’. Revue Biblique 99, 311–34. Pulak, C. 1998: ‘The Uluburun shipwreck: an overview’. The International Journal of Nautical Archaeology 27, 188–224. Rathje, A. 1976: ‘A Group of “Phoenician” Faience Anthropomorphic Perfume Flasks’. Levant 8, 96–106. ——. 1979: ‘Oriental Imports in Etruria in the Eighth and Seventh Centuries B.C.: Their Origins and Implications’. In Ridgway, D. and F.R. (eds.), Italy Before the Romans: The Iron Age, Orientalizing and Etruscan Periods (London), 145–83. Ridgway, D. 1992: The First Western Greeks (Cambridge). ——. 2000: ‘The first Western Greeks revisited’. In Ridgway, D. et al. (eds.), Ancient Italy in its Mediterranean Setting (London), 179–91. Riis, P.J. 1969: ‘The First Greeks in Phoenicia and their Settlement at Sukas’. Ugaritica 6, 435–50. ——. 1970: Sukas I: The North East Sanctuary and the First Settlement of the Greeks in Syria and Palestine (Copenhagen). Roberts, O.T.P. 1995: ‘An explanation of ancient windward sailing—some other considerations’. The International Journal of Nautical Archaeology 24, 307–15. Röllig, D. 1992: ‘Asia Minor as a Bridge between East and West: The Role of the Phoenicians and Aramaeans in the Transfer of Culture’. In Kopcke, G. and Tokumaru, I. (eds.), Greece between East and West. 10th–8th Centuries BC (Mainz), 93–102. Seyrig, H. 1968: ‘Seleucus I and the Foundation of Hellenistic Syria’. In Ward, W. (ed.), The Role of the Phoenicians in the Interaction of Mediterranean Civilizations (Beirut), 53–63. Skon-Jedele, N. 1994: “Aigyptiaka”: A Catalogue of Egyptian and Egyptianizing Objects Excavated from Greek Archaeological Sites, ca. 1100–525 B.C., with Historical Commentary (Pennsylvania). Strøm, I. 1990: ‘Relations between Etruria and Campania around 700 BC’. In Descoeudres, J.-P. (ed.), Greek Colonists and Native Populations (Oxford), 87–97. Treister, M.Y. 1995: ‘North Syrian Metalworkers in Archaic Greek Settlements?’. OJA 14, 159–78. ——. 1996: The Role of Metals in Ancient Greek History (Leiden).

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Waldbaum, J.C. 1997: ‘Greeks in the East or Greeks and the East? Problems in the Definition and Recognition of Presence’. BASOR 305, 1–17. Winter, I.J. 1973: North Syria in the Early First Millennium BC with Special Reference to Ivory Carving (Michigan). ——. 1988: ‘North Syria as a Bronzeworking Center’. In Curtis, J. (ed.), Bronzeworking Centres of Western Asia, c. 1000–539 B.C. (London), 193–225. ——. 1995: ‘Homer’s Phoenicians: History, Ethnography or Literary Trope? A Perspective on Early Orientalism’. In Carter, B.J. and Morris, S.P. (eds.), The Age of Homer. A Tribute of Emily Townsend Vermeule (Austin), 247–72. Xella, P. 1986: ‘Le polythéisme phénicien’. In Bonnet, C. et al. (eds.), Religio Phoenicia (Namur), 29–40.

PRÉSENCES NORD-SYRIENNES ET CHYPRIOTES EN MER NOIRE À L’ÉPOQUE ARCHAÏQUE MARIA ALEXANDRESCU VIANU1 Résumé L’auteur reprend le commentaire des statuettes syro-chypriotes d’Histria, à propos de l’attribut que la figure féminine assise serre dans ses mains et que, dans la première publication, elle avait interprété comme un objet cultuel ou une grenade. L’analyse de l’image agrandie de l’objet sur ordinateur suggère plutôt la morphologie d’un scarabée. Elle s’appuie ensuite sur les analyses de laboratoire (voir plus loin, Baltres et al.) pour préciser la nature du matériau et la technique utilisée. L’auteur verse également au dossier deux autres pièces: un petit fragment de tête masculine (de la même technique de modelage massif, séchée et non pas cuite) et une tête de statuette en terre cuite. Les graffiti de Bérézan et d’Olbia, attestant un culte d’Aphrodite d’origine syrienne, les fragments de céramique chypriote White Painted IV d’Histria (peut-être aussi de Bérézan), ainsi que des fragments d’amphores levantines du type ‘à anses de panier’, suggèrent un horizon nord-syrien archaïque en mer Noire.

Dans le premier tome de la revue Il Mar Nero,2 j’ai présenté pour la première fois la figure féminine mince, assise sur un siège sans dossier ni accoudoirs, les bras repliés sur la poitrine, tenant un objet oblong, partagé en deux hémisphères par une raie médiane surmonté par deux semivolutes (voir la photo du détail, Fig. 1 détail et le dessin Fig. 2). Dans la première publication des statuettes, nous n’avions pas avancé de détermination de l’objet, supposant qu’il s’agissait d’une pièce de culte ou d’une grenade. Découverte à Histria, dans le sanctuaire d’Aphrodite, cette étrange statuette s’écarte des types attestés à des degrés divers à Histria ou à Olbia. Un second spécimen, issu du même moule, se trouve dans une collection privée de Bucarest. Les deux pièces représentent une divinité féminine de type égyptisant, ce qui m’a conduit à la classer comme une production de Syrie du Nord. Deux autres pièces sont à verser au dossier des importations levantines et chypriotes. Je reprends le sujet afin d’y apporter quelques éléments archéologiques nouveaux, et rendre compte des résultats d’analyses effectuées par les géologues et physiciens de la dynamique et compétente équipe d’Albert Baltres. Je reviendrai d’abord sur la statuette déjà publiée avec quelques commentaires supplémentaires.

1 2

Traduction française revue par Pierre Dupont. Alexandrescu Vianu 1994, 137 suiv., figs. 1–9.

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79

Statuettes féminines assises (Fig. 1)

Il s’agit de deux spécimens fragmentaires, dont l’un (a)—partie supérieure de la statuette3—fut découvert au cours des fouilles de la Zone Sacrée en 1956, dans un sondage sur les autels F et G, et l’autre (b)—partie inférieure4— provient des anciennes fouilles de Scarlat et Marcelle Lambrino. Les deux pièces s’adaptent parfaitement et permettent de restituer le personnage dans son intégralité, sans provenir nécessairement de la même figurine. Un autre exemplaire,5 trouvé probablement aussi à Histria, est strictement identique, comme sorti du même moule. Il se trouve dans une collection privée (Ion Minulescu).6 On peut supposer que les deux parties de ces statuettes ont été travaillées séparément, en grande série, et assemblées ensuite. Ceci expliquerait que les deux exemplaires présentent le même système d’emboîtement. Les statuettes ont été exécutées selon la technique du modelage massif,7 à en juger d’après les trous de mortaises visibles sur les deux fragments (voir aussi la radiographie de la pièce, Fig. 1). Comme l’attestent les résultats d’analyses, les statuettes n’ont pas subi de cuisson, mais ont été seulement mises à sécher. Le matériau est constitué par de la mélitite, une roche que l’on trouve au contact du magma8 et qui n’est certainement pas d’origine locale. Le revers est plan et lissé à la spatule. L’analyse des pigments révèle l’emploi d’une sous-couche sur laquelle on a appliqué une laque translucide à base de résine, selon un procédé en cours d’étude au laboratoire.9 La chronologie des pièces de ce genre est assez floue, s’agissant de productions de série d’un certain conservatisme. Une datation dans le courant du VIe siècle paraît assez probable.10 Une figure féminine mince, assise sur un siège sans dossier ni accoudoirs, les bras repliés sur la poitrine, serrant un objet arrondi et oblong, partagé en deux hémisphères par une raie médiane surmontée de deux semi-volutes (voir la photo de détail et le dessin, Fig. 2).11 Dans la première publication des statuettes, nous ne nous étions pas prononcée sur l’identification de l’attribut en question, penchant pour un objet cultuel ou une grenade. V. Karageorghis,

3

H fragment a: 0,06m. H fragment b: 0,05m. 5 H: 0,12m. 6 Alexandrescu Vianu 1994, 137–38, figs. 7–9. 7 Muller 1996, 76. 8 Baltres et al. 9 Baltres et al. 10 Webb 1978. 11 Je tiens à remercier Cristina Georgescu, restauratrice à l’Institut d’Archéologie de Bucarest, pour son travail de restitution de la forme de cet objet d’identification difficile. 4

Fig. 1. Statuette féminine d’Histria.

Fig. 2. Détail agrandi de la Fig. 1. Photo et dessin.

80 MARIA ALEXANDRESCU VIANU

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lors de sa reprise de la discussion sur les statuettes féminines chypriotes porteuses d’un attribut arrondi, a abordé également le cas de la statuette d’Histria.12 Réfutant l’hypothèse de O’Bryhim,13 identifiant dans certains cas cet objet comme un bétyle, il croit que l’explication la plus appropriée est celle d’un tambourin. Toutefois, dans le cas de la statuette d’Histria, une telle interprétation est à exclure, car une analyse de l’image agrandie de l’objet sur ordinateur a permis d’en préciser la morphologie, qui se rapproche de celle d’un scarabée (Fig. 2, dessin agrandi de la Fig. 1). Le visage est arrondi, aplati, avec d’épais sourcils unis, des yeux allongés vers les tempes, un nez large, des lèvres charnues et des oreilles décollées.14 Le bas du corps est revêtu d’une longue jupe droite, ajustée et plissée. Un trait mince allant du haut du sein gauche au bas du sein droit pourrait correspondre à une bavure de moulage. Les pieds sont nus, allongés et parfaitement parallèles. Le caractère pseudo-égyptien de ces pièces oriente notre attention vers le monde de la Syrie du Nord-Phénicie, où s’est créé un art hybride, fortement influencé par l’Egypte. Une telle attribution nous est suggérée tant par le style de ces pièces que par leurs caractéristiques techniques particulières. Les traits du visage, renflés et mous, les sourcils unis, la silhouette légère et élancée, la jupe au plissé serré, les bras ramenés sur la poitrine et serrant un attribut suggéreraient plutôt, comme aire d’origine, la Syrie du Nord. En effet, un oushebti pseudo-égyptien de la région de Damas au Musée du Louvre (AO 4536 B),15 de même que la statuette en bronze B 342 de Samos16 présentent certains traits apparentés. Le geste des deux bras ramenés sur la poitrine pour tenir un objet est une posture propre à l’espace anatolien et nord-syrien.17 Kurt Bittel en a dressé une liste, incluant aussi les statuettes de Kültepe (avec une déesse trônante particulièrement intéressante), Alishar, Karkemish et du sanctuaire rupestre de Yazilikaya.18 Les relations entre l’art de la Syrie du Nord et celui des Hittites ont été étudiés par R.D. Barnett,19 et plus récemment par Irene J. Winter.20

12

Karageorghis 1998, 30. O’Bryhim 1997, 39 suiv. 14 Les traits du visages, plus épais et massifs, sont caractéristiques de la production syrienne. Cf. Winter 1976, 7. 15 Alexandrescu Vianu 1994, 138, note 9. 16 Jantzen 1972, B 372, pl. 66. La statuette représente une figure féminine debout, reconnaissable à sa coiffure, aux traits de son visage, à son corps svelte et à sa jupe étroite. 17 I ik 1986, 75 a mis récemment en évidence le caractère oriental du geste. 18 Bittel 1963, 9, note 12. 19 Barnett 1935, 190–91. 20 Winter 1976, 9. 13

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2. Petit fragment de tête masculine (Fig. 3) Cette trouvaille inédite, provenant, elle aussi, des fouilles anciennes de Scarlat et Marcelle Lambrino et retrouvée par nous dans les réserves du chantier d’Histria, peut être versée au dossier. Il s’agit de la moitié inférieure d’une tête d’homme aux grosses moustaches carrées et à la barbe rendue par une série de stries fines. La pièce ne provient pas d’une statuette, car elle n’est pas prévue pour s’adapter à un corps ou à un cou. On peut penser à une amulette ou à une applique. Les examens de laboratoire ont révélé que le matériau utilisé pour sa confection est le même que celui des statuettes précédentes.21 D’un point de vue technologique, elle n’entre donc pas non plus dans la catégorie des céramiques. Le matériau ainsi que la technique de fabrication—la facture des stries notamment—sont identiques à ceux des statuettes précédentes, ce qui nous incite à penser que l’on a affaire aux productions d’un même atelier. Cette pièce peut être rapprochée d’une tête en ivoire de Samos (Fig. 4) provenant d’un dépôt de l’Héraion, où elle était associée à une plaque en ivoire du type de Nimrud, d’origine probablement nord-syrienne. La ressemblance nous paraît étroite: même barbe droite rendue par des stries minces; même rendu spiralé de la moustache carrée, plus grande sur notre exemplaire; même rendu des sourcils que sur la tête de Samos. La bouche présente les mêmes lèvres en bourrelet et la paupière inférieure le même bourrelet. Ces raisons nous conduisent à attribuer également une origine nord-syrienne à notre pièce. Fin VIIe—début du VIe siècle av. J.-C. 3. Tête de statuette en terre cuite, découverte en 1973 dans la Zone Sacrée (Fig. 5)22 Argile brique claire, compacte. La partie antérieure de la statuette est modelée. Il n’y a pas de revers. Le visage est aplati et ses traits à peine visibles. La face, aux contours en U, présente de grands yeux globuleux, surmontés de sourcils fortement arqués, un nez pointu, un menton fuyant, une coiffure avec deux anglaises aux spires lâches. Dépourvue de relief, la bouche était sans doute peinte, de même que les sourcils. On retrouve ces traits sur une curieuse tête de Colophon en forme de masque, avec des yeux arrondis, des traits à peine marqués, un visage circulaire, une bouche sans relief.23 La technique de la matrice et l’absence presque complète de relief pour le visage, en particulier pour la bouche, destinée à être peinte, est une caractéristique des terres cuites chypriotes du Chypro-Archaïque I.24 G. Schmidt date ce type du début du VIIe siècle. Le 21 22 23 24

Baltres et al. Alexandrescu Vianu 1997, 23 fig. 7 a–b. Mollard Besques 1954, 52, cat. B 337, pl. XXXVI. Voir les terres cuites T 339 et 376 de l’Héraion de Samos; cf. Schmidt 1968, 14, 17, pl. 18.

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Fig. 3. Fragment de tête masculine.

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Fig. 4. Tête d’ivoire du Héraion de Samos.

Fig. 5. Tête de statuette en terre-cuite d’Histria.

groupe auquel se rattache cette figurine est celui des terres cuites du Musée de Chypre à Nicosie, rassemblées par V. Karageorghis dans son groupe I (i) no 6–1025—notamment le no 826 et la statuette inv. C 461 du musée de Nicosie.27 Ce groupe est composé de figurines féminines aux bras levés, trouvées pour la plupart dans des sanctuaires de la contrée de Paphos consacrés au culte d’Aphrodite paphienne. Karageorghis date son groupe du début du VIe siècle. Ce groupe présente des affinités avec un autre groupe de la région de Paphos: celui de Yeroskipou-Monagri,28 très proche des pièces de Samos.29 Début du VIe siècle av. J.-C. Dernièrement, Jan Bouzek a dressé l’inventaire des trouvailles phéniciennes de mer Noire:30 perles de verre à yeux et scarabées en faïence. Pour ma part, je voudrais introduire dans cette discussion le cas des tessons chypriotes White Painted IV découverts à Histria,31 et datant du VIIe siècle. Petre Alexandrescu m’a informée que, selon le témoignage de Xenia Gorbunova, des tessons similaires, restés inédits, auraient été exhumés à Bérézan.32 De son côté, Pierre Dupont a identifié plusieurs fragments d’amphores levantines du type ‘à anses de panier’—probablement chypriotes—d’époque archaïque parmi les trouvailles de Bérézan.33

25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33

Karageorghis 1998 5, cat I 6–10, fig. 6, pls. I–II. Karageorghis 1998, pl. II 1. Karageorghis 1998, fig. 6 dans le texte. Karageorghis 1998, 10 suiv. Ohly 1940, pl. 37, T 339, T 376; Schmidt 1968, T 339 p. 14, pl. 18 et T 376, pl. 18. Bouzek 2000, 134–37. Alexandrescu 1978, 63. Alexandrescu 1978, 63. Dupont 2001, 86; 2003, 142–148, fig. 1.

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John Boardman, à partir de l’étude des sceaux ‘aux joueurs de lyre’ d’Ischia, a dressé, pour une époque plus ancienne que celle dont nous nous occupons (autour de 700), une carte des zones d’influence respectives des Syriens du Nord et des Phéniciens. L’aire de diffusion des objets nord-syriens a été plus restreinte que celle des objets phéniciens34 qui s’est étendue plus à l’ouest. Chypre a été une escale importante dans la diffusion des marchandises nordsyriens et une possible voie de leur arriver en Mer Noire. Resterait à préciser le rôle de Samos dans l’acheminement des objets parvenus à Histria, compte tenu de la présence de pièces apparentées dans cette île. Un dernier volet de ce problème est constitué par les graffiti découverts à Olbia et Bérézan. Le plus ancien, trouvé à Bérézan, est gravé sur un tesson du VIe siècle ÉAyhnÒma[n]drÒw mÉ éan°y9eken ÉAfrod¤thi Sur¤hi,35 le deuxième, en provenance d’Olbia, sur le pied d’une coupe à vernis noir du Ve siècle: [ÉA]frod¤thi Sur¤hi Mhtr–.36 Ces deux graffiti attestent la présence d’un culte d’une Aphrodite d’origine syrienne—peut-être Atargatis—à une époque très reculée, antérieure à son introduction dans le monde grec vers la fin du IVe ou même le début du IIIe siècle.37 Nous croyons pouvoir établir un lien entre toutes ces découvertes qui se relient à un horizon syro-chypriote du VIe siècle présent dans les deux colonies milésiennes Olbia et Istros. Dès lors, la question se pose de savoir si l’implantation d’un culte syrien, à aussi haute époque dans l’histoire des colonies pontiques, a pu s’effectuer sans la présence sur place d’une communauté de fidèles, d’origine vraisemblablement nord-syrienne? Le culte d’Aphrodite dans les colonies pontiques susmentionnées y est donc bien attesté, des sanctuaires importants lui sont consacrés, occupant une place de premier plan au sein de la zone sacrée, tant à Histria qu’à Olbia. On peut donc supposer que des adeptes orientaux du culte d’Aphrodite ont fréquenté ces sanctuaires. De ce point de vue, les autres objets syro-phéniciens et chypriotes découverts dans la région acquièrent une autre dimension. Il est probable que leur présence en mer Noire ne correspond pas à une simple pénétration par le biais du commerce grec, mais résulte de contacts directs et de l’existence d’une demande de la part d’une communauté directement intéressée par ce genre de productions. Institut d’ Archéologie rue H. Coanda 11 71119 Bucarest Romania [email protected] Boardman 1990; 1994, 95 suiv. et fig. 3. Russiajeva 1994, 104; Dubois 1996, 122, no. 74. 36 Tolstoi 1953, no. 25; Lazzarini, no. 387; Russiajeva 1992, 104, fig. 31.7; Dubois 1996, 122, no. 73. 37 Hörig 1984, 1536–81. 34 35

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Abbreviations AA Archäologischer Anzeiger AM Athenische Mitteilungen ANRW Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt BCH Bulletin de correspondance hellénique JHS Journal of Hellenic Studies Öjh Österreichische Jahreshefte Alexandrescu, P. 1978: Histria IV: La céramique d’époque archaique et classique (Bucarest/Paris). Alexandrescu Vianu, M. 1994: ‘Trois statuettes archaiques syro-phéniciennes à Histria’. Il Mar Nero 1, 137–44. ——. 1997: ‘Aphrodites orientales dans le bassin du Pont-Euxin’. BCH 121.1, 15–32. Barnett, R.D. 1935: ‘The Nimrud Ivories and the Art of the Phoenicians’. Irak 2, 185–99. ——. 1948: ‘Early Greek and Oriental Ivories’. JHS 68, 1–25. Bittel, K. 1963: ‘Phrygische Kultbild aus Bogazköy’. Antike Plastik 2, Teil 1–6, 7–22. Boardman, J. 1990: ‘The Lyre Player Group of Seals. An Encore’. AA, 1–17. ——. 1994: ‘Orientalia and Orientals on Ischia’. In APOIKIA; Scritti in onore di Buchner Giorgio, Annali di Archeologia e Storia Antica NS 1 (Naples), 95–100. ——. 1996: ‘Some Syrian Glyptic’. Oxford Journal of Archaeology 3, 327–40. Bouzek, J. 2000: ‘Les phéniciens en mer Noire’. In Avram, A. and Babes, M. (eds.), Civilisation grecque et cultures antiques périphériques, Hommage à Petre Alexandrescu à son 70 e anniversaire (Bucarest), 134–37. Dubois, L. 1996: Inscriptions grecques dialectales d’Olbia du Pont (Droz). Dupont, P. 2001: Dossier d’Archéologie No 266, 86. Dupont, P. and Nazarov, S. 2003: ‘Amphores levantines en mer Noire’. In: Iz istorii antichnogo obshchestva, Fasc. 8 (Nizhni Novgorod), 142–48, fig. 1. Hörig, M. 1984: ‘Dea Syria-Atargatis’. ANRW XVII 3, 1536–81. I ik, F. 1986: ‘Die Entstehung der frühen Kübelebilder Phrygiens und ihre Einwirkung auf die ionische Plastik’. Öjh, 43–107. Jantzen, U. 1972: Aegyptische und orientalische Bronzen aus dem Heraion von Samos (Bonn). Karageorghis, V. 1998: The Coroplastic Art of Ancient Cyprus vol. VA. The Cypro-Archaic Period. Small Female Figurines (Nicosia). Kunze, E. 1935–36: ‘Orientalische Kultgeräte’. AM, 60–61. Lazzarini, M.L. 1976: Le formule delle dediche votive nella Grecia arcaica (Rome). Mollard Besques, S. 1954: Catalogue raisonné des figurines et reliefs en terre-cuite grecs, étrusques et romains 1 Epoque préhellénique géométrique, archaique et classique (Paris). Muller, A. 1996: Les terres cuites votives du Tesmophorion (Paris/Athènes). O’Bryhim, S. 1997, ‘The Sphere-bearing Anhtropomorphic Figurines of Amathus’. Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 306, 39–45. Ohly, D. 1940: ‘Frühe Tonfiguren aus dem Heraion von Samos I’. AM, 57–102. Russiajeva, A. 1992: Religia i kulty Anti noi Olvii (Kiev). Schmidt, G. 1968: Kyprische Bildwerke aus dem Heraion von Samos (Bonn). Tolstoi, I.I. 1953: Gre eskie graffiti drevnich gorodov Severnogo Pri ernomor’ya (Moscow/Leningrad). Webb, V. 1978: Archaic Greek Faience (Warminster). Winter, I.J. 1976: ‘Phoenician and North Syrian Ivory Carving in Historical Context: Questions of Style and Distribution’. Irak 38, 1–22.

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TWO ARCHAIC CASTS FROM HISTRIA: MINERALOGY, PAINT COMPOSITION AND STORAGE PRODUCTS ALBERT BALTRES, AUREL ANDREI, CONSTANTIN COSTEA AND MIRCEA V. RUSU Introduction The scope of this report is to present the results of laboratory analysis of an Archaic Syrian-Phoenician style statuette, described by Maria Alexandrescu Vianu.38 It was uncovered in the sacred zone of Histria and dates to about the 6th century BC. In addition, a small fragment representing the lower part of a protoma, kindly provided by M. Alexandrescu Vianu, was examined. Both pieces are casts and were found in the same location; they are also composed of the same material—not a clay but nearly pure melilite. This suggests a particular provenance for the material, providing some insight into the type of parent rock. The poor quality of the material suggests that these were cheap wares, repetitive products manufactured probably in the same locality or even in the same workshop. We emphasise too the characteristics of the paint remains on one of these objects, and the nature of a storage-generated organic salt found on the other. The Statuette39 Alexandrescu Vianu has described how this statuette was discovered.40 It was not found whole but as two separate pieces on different occasions: the upper part in 1956, the lower before the Second World War, in the sacred zone of Histria. Both belong to a unique object, 10.7 cm high and 117 g in weight, representing a female sitting on a backless seat, her hands raised to her chest, holding a rounded or slightly elliptical object (Fig. 1, left), namely a goddess with a charm. The two parts of the statuette, each showing an uneven, oblique break, fit almost perfectly along an interlocking joint in the region of the waist, to make a connected whole. This observation is confirmed by the X-ray images41 in Fig. 1 (centre and right), showing a perfect alignment of the walls of a cylindrical void left by a stick originally placed slightly obliquely against the vertical axis of the cast to prevent breakage. The unfired ware was cast by pressing into a mould a plastic material of earthy appearance. This was surely in a soft, moist state because the cast exhibits remarkably fine facial details (Fig. 1, left). There is clear evidence, mainly on the back, arms, shoulder blade and sides of the seat,42 of corrections made by knife to the still soft or stiff paste, probably shortly after the removal of the piece from the mould. It is interesting to note that a similar

38 39 40 41 42

See above pp. 78–86. See also Alexandrescu Vianu 1994, 137–44. Object V7989, stored in the Institute of Archaeology ‘Vasile Pârvan’, Bucharest. Alexandrescu Vianu 1994, 137. Courtesy of Dr Vlad Tomulescu. Alexandrescu Vianu 1994, fig. 6.

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Fig. 1. Left: Archaic Syrian-Phoenician statuette composed of two pieces found at different times in the sacred zone of Histria. The two parts fit together along an interlocking joint in the waist area. The cast is composed of an earthen material which consists of melilite. Slightly enhanced image, natural size. Centre and right: X-ray radiographs (front and side views) of the whole statuette showing clearly the joint ( J) marking the break in the waist zone; many large, open cracks (Cr) crossing at random all parts of the object; and rare, coarse quartz sand grains or other kind of granules (Q) disseminated in the paste. Noteworthy is the perfect alignment of the walls of an axial void (A) penetrating both pieces of the statuette. The void was left by a wooden reinforcing stick originally embedded in the cast. Slightly enhanced images, by embossing. Natural size.

piece in the Minulescu collection exhibits a cut,43 betraying a bungled piece of work, and in contrast with the careful finish of our piece. The casting material fills the entire statuette, except for a cylindrical void 6.3 cm long and 3–4 mm in diameter. This provides the dimensions of the wooden stick placed vertically in the cast to resist breakage at the waist. The void penetrates each part of the statuette equally, which was ruptured approximately in the middle. The different conditions of preservation of the two parts after their accidental separation, give the reconstituted statuette a somewhat odd appearance. Whereas the upper part carries some traces of paint, a patina and a thin skin of adherent foreign particles (fine to coarse quartz grains, mica and charcoal particles), the lower is clean, allowing observation of the composition. Here, the material consists of a greyish-tan

43

Alexandrescu Vianu 1994, figs. 7–9—the arm of the lower, left image.

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mixture of fine to coarse grain, evidencing a low quality raw material, in contrast with the upper piece in which the coarse element is apparently missing. One third of the mixture is represented by evenly distributed angular fragments, 1 to 10 mm long, in a slightly darker, fine and porous, hard matrix.44 The coarse grains floating in the matrix are also porous, relatively soft and, just like the matrix, exhibit under magnification many tiny, rusty dots and small voids left by dissolved minute crystals. The composition of both components seems not dissimilar, confirmed by X-ray radiography, suggesting a common source (see Appendix 2 for details). In addition, the fine component incorporates rare, coarse quartz sand grains and other granules, clearly visible on the X-rays (Fig. 1, centre and right). The few reddish-brown, soft granules are probably aggregates of fine crystalline hydrous ferric oxide (Goethite), with weak magnetic properties. There are rare, small shrinkage cracks on the surface, but many more were revealed by the X-rays. Figure 1 shows large, open cracks crossing at random the head, neck, trunk, thighs and legs. It confirms the low quality of the raw material used for manufacturing a cheap, repetitive product. X-ray powder diffraction data (XRD) on samples of whole material, taken to evaluate mineralogical composition, shows that both parts of the statuette consist of nearly pure melilite45 (see Appendix 1 for details). This is an uncommon mineral, not used in manufacturing pottery or other earthenware. Melilite is a calcium aluminum silicate, which occurs in nature in small amounts as a contact metamorphic mineral in places where hot basic magma meets an impure carbonate rock body. It is also present in large amounts in modern furnace slag as an artificial product. The most likely source was a contact metamorphic melilite bearing rock, at hand for producing ware of the type described here. Rocks of this sort are absent in Dobrudja, so the source must be sought elsewhere. Archeological evidence suggests that ware of this type was probably produced is southern Anatolia and northern Syria.46 If our hypothesis is correct, then the raw material mined from an unspecified source was a weathering product of a sub-aerially exposed melilite rock mass, resembling an unsorted mixture of fine and coarse debris. The moistened mixture resulted in a paste suitable for pressing into a mould. The preference for this material arose probably from its intrinsic property to harden simply by exposure to the air. An alternative hypothesis is that the melilite in the statuette was really an antique slag, a by-product of smelting ore in an ancient furnace, and that gelatinising with hydrochloric acid was used to achieve the hardening. Certainly, additional data are needed to confirm or confute this interpretation. Some remains of the original paint remain on the upper part of the statuette (under the chin, on the waist and in the lower part of the back) as a translucent, very thin and uneven coat with a faint lustre. It resists scratching. On the back are some questionable parallel traces looking like a brush stroke imprinted in the varnish. A brown dye with black hues seems to be covered by this protective coat.47 Where thicker, the

Alexandrescu Vianu 1994, figs. 5–6. We are grateful for the help received from Dr Corina Cristea, Geological Institute of Romania, who first signalled the presence of this mineral in our samples. 46 Alexandrescu Vianu 1994, 139. 47 A similar statuette, preserved in the Minulescu collection, is completely covered by a dye of exactly the same appearance. 44 45

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Fig. 2. Energy spectrum showing the chemical elements detected in the paint from the waist zone of the statuette. The spectrum was obtained by electronprobe microanalysis (EPMA). See text for details.

dye shows a clear outer blackish layer underlain by a brown, rusty crust, adhering to the cast surface. The brown layer is certainly ferric hydroxide (Fe[OH]3), a natural dye, showing weak magnetic properties, but the outer, black layer is somewhat more complex. In an attempt to discover the nature of the black layer the bulk oxide composition was obtained by electronprobe microanalysis (EPMA) on areas of 30 × 20 mm. Figure 2 shows the elements detected. As we expected, manganese oxide is present in low proportion (4.83–5.95%, in two different analyses). The significance of this will be later explained. The high iron oxide content (47.89–60.27%) was also expected. It resulted from contamination from the brown paint beneath, which is fully iron hydroxide. Various foreign particles contribute, with silica (17.09–20.39%), calcium oxide (7.82–10.05%) bound in carbonate, and other oxides in minor proportions (among them copper and zinc oxides). The high chlorine content (7.98–9.29%) is also probably due to the presence of calclacite, a storage artefact (see discussion below). We suggest that the stratified nature of the dye applied to the statuette was not random, but resulted from two distinct operations. First of all, the brown dye proper was applied. After drying, the second layer was intended not as a dye but as a fastdrying, protective translucent layer, called a firnis. The substance used was either resinous or a drying oil, possibly linseed. To enhance the speed of drying a strong

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Fig. 3. Enlarged view of the protoma with freckled appearance caused by many flat rosettes with ragged outlines, which consist of calclacite, a salt of organic acids occurring as a storage artefact. See text for details.

oxidising substance was added, in this case a manganese oxide.48 This, which caused the black hue of the dye, was probably the native manganese dioxide, pyrolusite (MnO2), a fine, soft black powder accompanying various sedimentary or hydrothermal ores. The low manganese oxide content found by microprobe on the outer, black layer of the dye seems to confirm the above statements. The Protoma49 The second object, composed of the same material as the statuette and also found in the sacred zone, is an incomplete male head (the lower part, showing a long nose, an ample, sagging moustache and a carefully combed beard) (Fig. 3). It appears to have been cast by pressing paste into a mould. The back shows a careless retouch by knife, as with the statuette. Fine and larger, deep cracks undermine the integrity of this object. The fine, pale brown paste was barren of coarser particles, unlike the statuette, but has similar minute rusty dots. XRD studies of the paste show all the characteristics for melilite (see Appendix 1 for details). We suggest that this object was cheap ware of serial production, manufactured in the same workshop or at least the same locality as the statuette. Noteworthy are many small, white or greyish specks spread across the surface, giving it a freckled appearance (Fig. 3). They cover less than 30% of the surface and

48 After Schürer-Waldheim undated, 182, 191. The recipe of firnis claims up to five parts in weight manganese oxide or other oxidising substance. 49 Object V7895, stored in the Institute of Archaeology ‘Vasile Pârvan’, Bucharest.

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are unlikely to penetrate deeper into the paste. They are brittle, with an astringent, bitter taste. These are flat rosettes, up to 1 mm in diameter, with a ragged outline and a greasy lustre, from the centre of which very fine crystals seem to radiate (as shown by SEM examination). They proved to be deliquescent: as powder they absorbed water from the air; melting after storage in a covered laboratory vessel. EPMA analysis used to determine the elements present in the rosettes revealed high quantities of chlorine (21.36%) and calcium (52.96%). XRD showed them to be almost pure calclacite (Fig. 5) (see Appendix 1 for details). Calclacite must be present also as fine crystals in the surface pores of the paste because EPMA revealed a high chlorine content in the bulk probe of melilite paste. Calclacite is a salt of organic acids (CaClC2H3O5. 5 H2O) (calcium acetate chloride pentahydrate) and occurs as a condition of storage, encrusting calcium-rich specimens. Calclacite efflorescences has been noted on some museum objects stored in wooden cases, arising from the volatiles emanating from oak cases.50 As Halsberghe51 states, calclacite can result from ‘the corrosive action of organic carbonyl vapours from the display case construction materials on the carbonatic elements of the ceramics’. The origin of the calclacite here must be the same. APPENDIX 1: X-ray diffraction procedures and results The CuKa powder diffraction data were collected with a DRON2 diffractometer, at 36 KV generator tension and 20 mA generator current. A graphite monochromator filtered the Kb component. X-ray diffraction scans were made from 2 to 40o y. Bulk-rock XRD revealed that both the statuette and the protoma consist essentially of a sorosilicate mineral belonging to the Melilite Group, and minor amounts of quartz and feldspar (Fig. 4, A, B). The X-ray patterns of our samples, compared with data from literature,52 show striking similarities with that of gehlenite (Card 1629, in Table 1), an end-member of the Melilite Group. Nevertheless, the relatively high content of Fe2+ (7.69% FeO), and minor amounts of Mg and Zn, evidenced by EPMA, in the protoma sample, indicate isomorphic substitution for part of Al, suggesting that our mineral formula is probably Ca2(Al,Fe2+,Zn,Mg)(Al,Si)2O7. The calculated cell dimensions (Å) are: a = 7.7340; b = 7.7340; c = 5.0480, for a = b = g = 90o. For convenience, we have used the name melilite for this mineral species. The XRD pattern of the rosettes covering the protoma surface is nearly identical to that of the published data on calclacite53 (Fig. 5; Table 2). APPENDIX 2: X-ray densitometry study of the material used to manufacture the statuette Principle In order to explore the inside of the object, and to be sure that the two parts are similar, we carried out densitometric analysis of the X-ray transmission images

50 51 52 53

Data obtained on Yahoo! Web Pages. [email protected] Chichagov et al. 1990, 610–16. Diffraction data tables delivered by W.W.W.MINCRYST. Voncken et al. 2001, 210–20.

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Fig. 4. X-ray diffraction pattern of bulk samples taken from the statuette (the upper part) (A) and from the protoma (B). Both samples consist essentially of melilite (M) and minor amounts of quartz (Q) and feldspar (F). The presence of calclacite (C) was signalled only in the protoma.

3.0651

3.0606

3.0698

3.0621

3.061

3.861

3.0853

3.0727

3.0665

3.0838

3.0951

3.0454

3.0867

3.0878

3.068

3.076

3.7048

3.7093

3.7061

3.7049

3.7159

3.715

3.6986

3.6906

3.7124

3.7247

3.6884

3.7347

3.7345

3.711

3.711

Protoma

Statuette

(201)

3.7099

(111)

Gehlenite Card 1624 Gehlenite Card 1626 Gehlenite Card 1629 Gehlenite Card 1631 Gehlenite Card 1633 Akermanite Card 40 Akermanite Card 46 Akermanite Card 48 Akermanite Card 50 Akermanite Card 42 Akermanite Card 44 Melilite Card 2641 Melilite Card 5154 Melilite Card 5155

hkl mineral

2.857

2.8576

2.8692

2.8678

2.8287

2.8803

2.8694

2.8536

2.8592

2.8707

2.8714

2.8437

2.8448

2.8533

2.8433

2.8475

(211)

2.451

2.451

2.4552

2.452

2.4142

2.488

2.477

2.4646

2.4688

2.4773

2.4776

2.4299

2.4311

2.4457

2.4292

2.4331

(310)

2.295

2.295

2.3074

2.3056

2.2727

2.324

2.3147

2.3023

2.3066

2.3154

2.3159

2.2857

2.2867

2.2959

2.2852

2.2887

(301)

2.043

2.04

2.054

2.0546

2.0305

2.0419

2.0356

2.0233

2.0278

2.0372

2.0378

2.0387

2.0393

2.0389

2.0387

2.0414

(212)

1.758

1.758

1.7678

1.7676

1.7452

1.766

1.76

1.7498

1.7535

1.7611

1.7616

1.7533

1.7539

1.7564

1.7532

1.7557

(312)

1.514

1.514

1.5256

1.5267

1.5101

1.5098

1.5056

1.4962

1.4997

1.507

1.5075

1.5153

1.5157

1.5131

1.5135

1.5174

(213)

1.382

1.383

1.3973

1.3857

1.3649

1.4027

1.3967

1.3895

1.392

1.397

1.3972

1.3734

1.3741

1.3814

1.3731

1.3752

(521)

Ca2(Al,Fe2+,Zn,Mg)(Al,Si)2O7

Ca2(Al,Fe2+,Zn,Mg)(Al,Si)2O7

(Ca,Sr,Na)(Mg,Al,Fe)Si2O7

(Ca,Sr,Na)(Mg,Al,Fe)Si2O7

(Ca,Na)2AlSi2O7

Ca2(Mg,Fe)Si2)7

Ca2MgSi2O7

Ca2MgSi2O7

Ca2MgSi2O7

Ca2MgSi2O7

Ca2MgSi2O7

Ca2Al2SiO7

Ca2(Al,Si)(Al,Si,Cr)2O7

Ca2(Al,Zn))(Al,Si)2O7

Ca2Al2SiO7

Ca2Al(Al,Si)2O7

Formula

Table 1. The main diffraction lines of some minerals of the Melilite Group and of our samples

94 ALBERT BALTRES ET AL.

8.23 8.23 8.27 8.29

dobs. dcalc. dlit. our data

3.25 3.26 3.24 3.26

dobs. dcalc. dlit. our data

2.5 2.49

dobs. dcalc. dlit. our data

(440)

2.06 2.06

h k l

dobs. dcalc. dlit. our data

TABLE 2 continued

(311)

h k l

TABLE 2 continued

(140)

h k l

TABLE 2 continued

(-110)

h k l

5.72 5.72

3.06 3.06 3.06 3.07

3.01 2.99 3

(14-1) (041)

6.07 6.07 6.15

(001) (120) 4.81 4.81 4.86

2.96 2.96

2.93 2.95 2.94

(012) (221)

5.13 5.13

(200) (210)

2.04 2.04 2.04

(341)

2.43 2.44 2.43 2.43

2.41

2.03 2.03

1.968 1.968

(411) (520)

2.4

2.38 2.38

1.902

1.872 1.877 1.876

(60-2) (450)

2.4

(420) (25-1) (420) (24-2) (24-2) (321)

3.18 3.18

(131)

6.88 6.88 6.87 6.89

(020)

1.841 1.841 1.842 1.84

(14-3)

2.3 2.29 2.3 2.3

(060)

2.88 2.88

(24-1)

4.2 4.18 4.16 4.2

(22-1)

1.82 1.819

(322)

2.24

(430)

2.82

(24-1) (022)

3.79 3.79

(13-1)

2.24

(160)

2.7 2.71

(13-2)

3.66 3.67 3.67

(31-1)

1.788 1.791

1.745 1.744

(53-3) (043)

2.24

2.24

(430) (160)

2.78 2.78

(022)

3.73 3.72

(121)

1.706 1.705 1.704

(370)

2.22 2.22 2.22

(331)

2.65 2.66 2.65 2.66

(150)

3.43 3.42

(230)

1.685 1.684

(271)

2.15 2.15 2.14

(44-1)

2.57 2.57

(400)

3.35 3.36

(20-2)

1.65

(271) (72-1)

2.15 2.15 2.14

(061)

2.55

(34-1)

3.33

(32-1)

Table 2. Calclacite diffraction data taken from literature (see footnote 53), for comparison with our results

1.559 1.558 1.56

(72-1)

2.11 2.1

(222)

2.55

(34-1) (15-1)

3.32

(32-1) (310)

1.485 1.486 1.486

(73-3)

2.09

2.09 2.09

(44-2)

2.55

(15-1)

3.32

(310)

TWO ARCHAIC CASTS FROM HISTRIA

95

96

ALBERT BALTRES ET AL.

Fig. 5. X-ray diffraction pattern of calclacite, a calcium acetate chloride pentahydrate, occurring as a storage artefact on the protoma surface.

of the statuette.54 The idea of analysis is based on the attenuation of X-rays in passing through the material. The typical attenuation law for a collimated beam of radiation is: I = I0 exp(-mx), where I stands for the transmitted intensity of the radiation, I0 represents the incidental intensity of radiation (prior to entering the investigated object), m is the linear attenuation coefficient (LAC) and x is the path of the beam through the sample. Characteristic for the object under investigation is the linear attenuation coefficient, m, which depends on the material composition and the beam energy. A thin beam of X-ray could be used to explore different parts of the object, scanning the whole object, and producing an attenuation contrast image. By analysing different parts of the image from the point of view of the attenuation, we were able to obtain the LAC. In the present case, we have no need to obtain the absolute value of the LAC, just a relative value in different parts of the sample. In this way, the values of the LAC for the upper and lower parts of the statue should be reasonably close, within the limits of experimental error, if the two parts were made of the same material. We do not need a high resolution because we are interested just in some general features of the materials of which the statuette is composed. To obtain the data necessary to compute the LAC, we need to process two images in profile and front, taken in the same conditions. 54

Rizescu et al. 2001, 119–29.

TWO ARCHAIC CASTS FROM HISTRIA

97

Fig. 6. Two sets of line analysis on positive and negative images of the statuette. The inclusion’s X-ray transmission is clearly visible. The inclusion is more absorbant than the background material, melilite.

X-ray Device A medical X-ray device (Swissray) was used to obtain the images. It was possible to vary the electronic current in the range 10–1000 mA and the voltage applied to the X-ray tube in the range 40–150 kV, adjustable in steps of 1 kV. The digital images (12 Bits, 4095 grey level) were taken with a system of CCD cameras permitting a maximum image size 35 cm × 43 cm and 43 cm × 35 cm. Focus—distance is fixed at 150 cm. The exposure time could be varied between 0.001–5 s giving an exposure in the range of 1–800 mAs. The noise of a radiographic image strongly depends on the exposure dose. In low dose applications the most prominent noise sources are X-ray quantum noise and luminescence. The latter arises from statistical fluctuations in the stimulated luminescence quantum in the image readout process. The device permits image noise to be reduced, but higher noise reduction values would also reduce the detail resolution. So, the images used in densitometric analysis were not corrected for noise. The stored digital images are the original ones. The sensitometric curve used to record data was selected to be linear. Results The images were stored on computer and analysed using a program specially designed for general image analysis and also for densitometry. The image and analysis are presented in Fig. 6; the data in Tables 3 and 4 (for two measured images out of ten computed images). In Table 3 line profiles 1 and 2 correspond to the upper part of the statuette, and profile 3 to the lower part. Within the limit of error, the two parts (upper and lower of the same image) have the same value for the LAC. The same conclusion was obtained for all computed images. A second example is given in Table 4. In Table 4 the first two lines correspond to the upper part and the other two lines correspond to the lower part of the statuette. Thus, it is possible to say with a great confidence that the materials used to produce the two parts of the statuette are the same.

98

ALBERT BALTRES ET AL. Table 3. Image data computed at different heights (image file: 48 and 54, at 55 keV)

Line profile

1 2 3

Intensity (relative scale)

m (1/cm)

m/r (cm2/g) mean density 0.31 g/cm3

400 355 435

1.084 1.096 1.115

0.350 0.353 0.359

Gehlenite:

1.098 ± 0.03 cm-1

0.354 ± 0.02 cm2/g

0.3283 cm2/g

mean value

Computed value at this energy

Table 4. Image data computed at different heights (image file: 40 and 41, at 70 keV) Line profile

1 2 3 4

Intensity (relative scale)

m (1/cm)

m/r (cm2/g) mean density 0.31 g/cm3

1500 1250 1525 540

0.608 0.724 0.662 0.611

0.196 0.233 0.214 0.197

0.651 ± 0.03 cm-1

0.210 ± 0.02 cm2/g

mean value

Computed value at this energy

Gehlenite:

0.2362 cm2/g

The differences in the two values for the LAC given in the two tables (0.354 and respectively 0.210 cm2/g) arise from the different energies of the X-ray beam used for imaging the statuette. They are consistent with the increased value of the voltage for the image described in the second table. In order to be sure that our results are correct, we computed an effective LAC for the materials (melilite, gehlenite and other tentative materials) using tables of LACs for the chemical elements55 that feature in the general stoechiometric formulas. Because melilite is a solid solution of two minerals, gehlenite and akermanite, a perfect match with the LAC of the material used for producing the statuette is not possible. All the measurements support the theory of the common origin of the material used in the two parts of the statuette. Investigation of some inclusions observable in densitometric images can help reveal their composition. In this case the white spots were tentatively attributed as quartz inclusions. However, by computing the values of the LAC for quartz at different energies and comparing them with the values of the LAC for the inclusions, we are sure that these inclusions are not quartz. By computing the LAC for numerous possible mineral compositions compatible with the chemical analysis of the statuette, we found iron oxide to be the only likely material.

55

Siegbahn, 1967.

TWO ARCHAIC CASTS FROM HISTRIA

99

Conclusions We concluded that both parts of the statuette were produced from the same material. The other important detail obtained from a qualitative inspection of the X-ray transmission images is the surprisingly high number of cracks found in the body of the statuette. These are largely invisible from outside because they have few corresponding marks on the surface. Careful investigation could yield the dimensions of the internal cracks and, possibly, some hints about the aging of the material could be obtained. The non-homogeneity of the statuette body produces some errors in estimating the length of the X-ray beam passing through the sample at a given location of the image. This is an additional factor increasing the scatter of the LAC values obtained from different parts of the statuette. The errors are not sufficient to rule out the presence of the same material in the upper and the lower part of the statuette. Further investigations of this kind of mixed materials could benefit from X-ray tomography.56 This will be a future step in our investigation. Albert Baltres Geological Institute of Romania, 1 Caransebe Str., 012271, Bucharest, Romania [email protected] Aurel Andrei, Institutul de Metale Neferoase i Rare (IMNR), 102 Bvd. Biruin≥ei, Com. Pantelimon, Sect. Agr. Ilfov, Romania Constantin Costea Geological Institute of Romania, 1 Caransebe Str., 012271, Bucharest, Romania [email protected] Mircea V. Rusu Bucharest University, Physics Faculty, Bucharest-Magurele, PO BOX MG-11, Romania [email protected]; [email protected] BIBLIOGRAPHY Alexandrescu Vianu, M. 1994: ‘Trois statuettes archaïques syro-phéniciennes à Histria’. Il Mar Nero I, 137–44. Brooks, R.A. and di Chiro, G. 1976: ‘Principles of Computer Assisted Tomography (CAT) in radiographic and Radioisotopic Imaging’. Phys. Med. Biol. 21.5, 689–732. Chichagov A.V. et al. 1990: ‘Information-calculating system on crystal structure data of minerals (MINCRYST)’. Kristallographiya 35.3, 610–16 (in Russian). Natterer, F. 1986: The Mathematics of Computerized Tomography (Chichester). Rizescu, C.T., Georgescu, G.N., Duliu, O.G. 2001: ‘High Density Mineral Inclusions in Rocks Evidenced by Gamma-ray Tomodensitometry’. JTMT 19, 119–29. Schürer-Waldheim, M. undated: Chemisch-technisches rezept-Taschenbuch 3rd Ed. (Vienna/Leipzig). Siegbahn, K. 1967: ‘Alpha, Beta and Gamma Ray Spectroscopy, North Holland, Amsterdam and NIST XrayAttenuationDatabase’. http://physics.nist.gov/PhysRefData/XrayMassCoef, 02/04/2002. Voncken, J.H.L., Verkroost, T.W. and van Tooren M.M. 2001: ‘New powder diffraction data on calclacite (CaClC2H3O2.5H2O)’. N. Jb. Miner. Mh., Jg. 2001.5, 210–20. 56

Brooks and di Chiro 1976, 689–732; Natterer 1986.

RADIOCARBON DATES FROM IRON AGE GORDION ARE CONFOUNDED DOUGLAS J. KEENAN Abstract Radiocarbon dates from Iron Age Gordion have been claimed to require a destruction date for the site that is at least a century earlier than the conventionally-accepted date. Herein, it is shown that the radiocarbon dates have severe problems, due to well-known atmospheric variations, and that these problems imply the claim is invalid.

K. DeVries et al. recently presented 14C dates from Iron Age Gordion.1 They claimed that those dates require a destruction date for the site during 827–803 BC (95%-confidence range), which is a century or more earlier than the dates previously proposed. Herein, their claim is examined. (DeVries et al. also claimed artefactual support for their earlier date. O. Muscarella, however, has argued that their artefactual interpretation is incorrect and that the previously-proposed dates are valid.2 The present work provides support for the arguments of Muscarella. It is, though, independent of those arguments.) DeVries et al. presented two suites of 14C dates: one from roof reeds and one from seeds.3 The roof reeds might have an earlier date than the seeds,4 perhaps due to reuse or because they predate the seeds, or perhaps because they grew in ‘old’5 water. Herein, I consider only the seeds. The data is reproduced in Table 1. Table 1. Radiocarbon ages of the five seed samples from the destruction level of Iron Age Gordion.7

1

Seed Sample

14

C Age6

barley (sample 1) barley (sample 2) flaxseed lentil (sample 1) lentil (sample 2)

2678±18 2674±20 2655±19 2647±32 2641±25

DeVries et al. 2003. (The site of Gordion is in modern Turkey: 39.7 °N, 32.0 °E.) Muscarella 2003. 3 DeVries et al. 2003, table 1. 4 The pooled age for the reeds is given as 2692 ± 14 14C BP (DeVries et al. 2003, table 1). 5 Water sourced from the ground is sometimes 14C-deficient; it (and reeds grown in it) thus appears old when dated by 14C. 6 The standard deviations might be inaccurate (Scott 2003, section 10.4), but even if they were, that would not affect the statistical analysis presented here. 7 All data are from DeVries et al. 2003, table 1. 2

RADIOCARBON DATES FROM GORDION

101

DeVries et al. obtained their calendar dates from the 14C ages by calibrating via INTCAL98.8 INTCAL98, though, was constructed from trees that grew in Germany, Ireland, and the USA—not in the region of Gordion. Around 800 BC, the atmosphere at Gordion was experiencing 14C anomalies, which caused Gordion 14C ages to be too early, relative to INTCAL98.9 DeVries et al. must have known about this, because one of the authors (P.I. Kuniholm) is a co-author of all three of the papers that developed the result.10 (Additionally, the 14C anomalies at Gordion were discovered by the same Heidelberg laboratory that measured the seeds’ 14C ages.) The calibrated dates given by DeVries et al. are thus very dubious. Before considering possible remedies, first note the following aspects of the data. • The two barley 14C ages are almost identical; so they are likely to be quite precise.11 • The two lentil 14C ages are almost identical; so they are likely to be quite precise. • The 14C ages for barley seem greater than the 14C ages for lentil: statistical testing shows that this greaterness is significant at about the 98% confidence level.12 All the seeds are from the destruction level. Hence they are likely from the same calendar year (or perhaps a year apart). Why, then, do their 14C ages seem to differ? The answer probably lies in atmospheric 14C anomalies at Gordion. The annual atmospheric 14C minimum would have occurred in winter/spring and the maximum in summer.13 Probably, then, the barley seeds grew in early spring (due to early-winter planting) and the lentil seeds grew later on. So, how large is the error if the seeds are compared to INTCAL98? The growing seasons of the seeds are much shorter than the growing seasons of local trees, which typically extend from the end of winter until the beginning of the summer dry season. If the lentil seeds grew near the middle of the

8

For INTCAL98, see Stuiver et al. 1998. Kromer et al. 2001; Manning et al. 2001; 2003. 10 Op. cit. 11 Here, ‘precision’ refers to a measurement’s empirical reproducibility, not accuracy (which refers to a measurement’s conformity with the true value). 12 To evaluate the significance of the greaterness, the barley means were compared to the lentil means using a one-sided t-test (without assuming equality of the two variances—which is conservative). (If the sources of variation in the two populations were uncorrelated, then the confidence level would be 97.0%; a positive correlation, which presumably exists, would raise this level.) Note that the statistical comparison should properly be made on calibrated 14C ages; it is necessary to approximate this, by using uncalibrated ages, because no calibration for the seeds is available—as discussed. 13 Kromer et al. 2001, 2531. 9

102

DOUGLAS J. KEENAN

tree growing season, then the lentil 14C ages would be closer than the barley 14 C ages to the 14C ages of local tree rings (grown in the same year). So consider the two tree-ring samples from Gordion with 14C ages closest to the 14C ages of the lentil (tree-ring ages 2660 ± 28 and 2608 ± 26 14C years).14 These two samples are roughly 75 14C years too old, relative to INTCAL98.15 (All this relies on the recently-proposed date for the Anatolian master dendrochronology;16 if the original date of the Anatolian master were used, the error would be larger.) The 14C data for both INTCAL98 and Gordion trees have been taken from decadal samples. Decadal sampling attenuates inter-annual 14C variations (as well as hiding intra-annual 14C variations). Hence the error induced by Gordion’s 14C anomalies could easily be larger than 75 14C years. (It is worth noting, too, that inter-annual anomalies likely also occurred during times other than around 800 BC—but are invisible in the decadally-attenuated tree-ring record; such anomalies would affect 14C dates for those times.) Another possible cause of the difference in the ages of the seeds (besides early-winter planting) is that the barley seeds were from old grain stores. Multi-year grain stores are known to have existed in Anatolia during the 2nd century BC;17 whether they existed at Gordion prior to the destruction is not known. Given how rapidly the (inter-annual) atmospheric 14C was changing around the time of the destruction, the barley would only need to have been a few years older than the lentil in order for it to have the measured difference in 14C age. If storage were the cause of this difference, then again the lentil 14 C age would be the more accurate indicator for the time of the destruction. As above, the lentil 14C ages would be roughly 75 14C years too old, perhaps more, and again intra/inter-annual variation presents a problem. To summarise, there are three distinct problems with the work of DeVries et al.: first, INTCAL98 was used for calibration, and thus regional 14C variation was ignored; second, intra-annual 14C variation was ignored; and third, inter-annual 14C variation was ignored. These problems must have been known to DeVries et al., whose work was remiss in not properly considering them. If these problems had been addressed, then the calibrated date range would have been centred decades later and would also have been decades wider— although precisely quantifying this seems to be intractable. Finally, it is clear that similar problems pertain to many samples that grew in the region of the eastern Mediterranean. In particular, intra-annual variation would affect the 14C ages of all land-based plants whose growing sea-

14 15 16 17

Manning et al. 2003, data. Kromer et al. 2001, fig. 3; Manning et al. 2003, data. Kromer et al. 2001; Manning et al. 2003. Seeher 2000, 295–99.

RADIOCARBON DATES FROM GORDION

103

sons include winter (because plants absorb carbon during their growing seasons). Such plants comprise most vegetation that grows in the eastern Mediterranean region.18 The result is that much vegetation growing in the region during ancient times (not just around 800 BC) would measure some 14 C decades too old,19 relative to contemporaneous INTCAL98 trees. Acknowledgments Appreciative thanks are offered to O. Rackham, for botanical discussion, to O.W. Muscarella and M.H. Wiener, for advance copies of their papers, and to P. James and R.M. Porter, for comments on drafts. The Limehouse Cut London E14 6N UK [email protected] BIBLIOGRAPHY DeVries, K., Kuniholm, P.I., Sams, G.K. and Voigt, M.M. 2003: ‘New dates for Iron Age Gordion’. Antiquity 77, Project Gallery—http://antiquity.ac.uk/ProjGall/devries/devries.html. Kromer, B., Manning, S.W., Kuniholm, P.I., Newton, M.W., Spurk, M. and Levin, I. 2001: ‘Regional 14CO2 offsets in the troposphere’. Science 294, 2529–32. Manning, S.W., Kromer, B., Kuniholm, P.I. and Newton, M.W. 2001: ‘Anatolian tree rings and a new chronology for the East Mediterranean Bronze-Iron Ages’. Science 294, 2532–35. ——. 2003: ‘Confirmation of near-absolute dating of east Mediterranean Bronze-Iron Dendrochronology’. Antiquity 77, Project Gallery—http://antiquity.ac.uk/ProjGall/Manning/manning.html. (Supporting data at http://www.arts.cornell.edu/dendro/antiquity.html.) Muscarella, O.W. 2003: ‘The date of the destruction of the Early Phrygian Period at Gordion’. Ancient West & East 2.2, 225–52. New, M., Hulme, M. and Jones, P. 1999: ‘Representing twentieth-century space–time variability. Part I: development of a 1961–90 mean monthly terrestrial climatology’. Journal of Climate 12, 829–56. (See also data at http://ipcc-ddc.cru.uea.ac.uk/cru_data/cru_index.html.) Scott, E.M. 2003: ‘FIRI’. Radiocarbon 45, 135–292. Seeher, J. 2000: ‘Getreidelagerung in unterirdischen Großspeichern’. Studi Micenei ed Egeo-Anatolici 42, 261–301. Stuiver, M., Reimer, P.J., Bard, E., Beck, J.W., Burr, G.S., Hughen, K.A., Kromer, B., McCormac, G., van der Plicht, J. and Spurk, M. 1998: ‘INTCAL98 radiocarbon age calibration’. Radiocarbon 40, 1041–83.

18

Plants need moisture to grow, and most of the eastern Mediterranean region—including Cyprus, Syria, Palestine, Iraq, and much of Greece—receives almost all its precipitation in or around winter (at least in modern times—New et al. 1999). Additionally, the Nile floods, which occur in summer–autumn, imply that in Egypt almost all growing seasons are outside summer–autumn (i.e. they usually include winter). 19 This is based on estimates for the difference between the winter/spring 14C minimum and the summer 14C maximum of at least four 14C decades (calculating from Kromer et al. 2001, 2531); as discussed, the difference is sometimes double that or more.

A RICH BURIAL FROM MTSKHETA (CAUCASIAN IBERIA) A. APAKIDZE, G. KIPIANI AND V. NIKOLAISHVILI Abstract This note publishes a rich tomb found in Mtskheta (capital of Caucasian Iberia). The tomb, with its unique grave-goods, dates from the late 3rd or early 4th century AD, and demonstrates the close trade links between Iberia and other states and the high level of literacy amongst the Iberian elite.

Mtskheta is situated not far from Tbilisi at the confluence of the Mtkvari (Kura) and Aragvi rivers (Fig. 1). From the early 3rd century BC, when the (Caucasian) Iberian kingdom was created, until the 5th century AD it was the capital. Hellenistic and Roman remains have been found, both in the modern town of Mtskheta and in surrounding areas (Greater Mtskheta).1 The most remarkable are Bagineti (Armaztsikhe) and Armaziskhevi, the latter the residence and burial place of high ranking officials ( pitiakshes) of the Iberian kings. Large-scale archaeological investigation has continued since 1937. In 1994, on the foundations laid by the Mtskheta Archaeological Experdition of the Georgian Academy of Sciences, the Mtskheta Archaeological Institute was created. Tomb No. 14 was uncovered in August 2001 in the north-eastern wall of Svetitskhoveli cathedral, 330 cm from the socle and 670 cm from the northern corner, at a depth of 170 cm below the modern surface.2 The tomb was built of rough, sandstone slabs set into a yellowish-pale blue clay soil and oriented west-east. The roof of the burial was flat. It consisted of three sandstone slabs resting upon the north and south walls. The joins between the

1 The results of archaeological investigation in Mtskheta and its environs (‘Greater Mtskheta’) have been published in A. Apakidze et al. (eds.), Mtskheta vols. I–XI, Tbilisi 1955–96 (in Georgian, summaries in Russian and English). (A Russian translation of vol. I appeared in Tbilisi in 1958.) For recent publications of the Mtskheta Institute, see G.R. Tsetskhladze, ‘New Publications. Georgia’. Ancient West & East 2.1(2003), 199–203. On Mtskheta, see also Lordkipanidze O. 1991, passim; 1994, 158–62; Kacharava 1990–91, 83–84; Apakidze and Nikolaishvili 1994; Miron and Orthmann 1995, 171–80. 2 Svetitskhoveli cathedral stands in the centre of Mtskheta. In the 4th century a wooden church was erected on the site. This was destroyed in the 420s. In the 480s a three-nave basilica was constructed in the same location. The magnificent surviving Svetitskoveli cathedral was built here between 1010 and 1029. In 2001, with a view to studying and reinforcing the cathedral’s foundations, the Mtskheta Archaeological Institute undertook an archaeological survey of the immediate surroundings. During this work nine graves were found, including tomb No. 14 published in this article. The numbering of graves continues in one series from the 1997 discoveries (Apakidze et al. 2003, 81–82).

A RICH BURIAL FROM MTSKHETA

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Fig. 1. Map of Georgia showing location of Mtskheta (adapted from Apakidze and Nikolaishvili 1994, 17, fig. 1).

slabs were reinforced with a thick (10–15 cm) lime-wash paste. The roof slabs (263 × 148 cm; 20 cm thick) overlapped the cist. Four solid stone slabs formed the walls of the burial, and the long walls had vertical slots 11–18 cm wide. All the slabs were well dressed, especially the inner surfaces, bearing traces of a chisel. An iron pin was attached to the south-western corner of the rim of the cist for hanging a thick, square bronze plaque (a mirror?—see below, No. 18). The outer dimensions of the burial are 211–213 cm × 120–130 cm; inner, 209 × 96 cm; height 96 cm. The tomb was not robbed, indeed it was so well sealed that no earth had penetrated within (Figs. 2, 4). The floor of the tomb was paved at the west end by three and a half brick plinths (Fig. 3). One bears the imprint of the paws of an animal. The plinths measure respectively 58 × 28 cm, 58 × 59 cm and 59 × 58 cm; each was 5 × 3–3.5 cm thick. The body was laid flat on its back, the head to the west and turned to the right. The hands were placed over the pelvis, and the legs were bent slightly at the knee and were apart. Although the skeleton as a whole was in very poor condition, it was possible to determine its sex, female, and age, 40–50.3 There were some 24 pieces of gold, silver, bronze, iron, glass, etc., in the burial.

3

Identification of the skeleton was undertaken by the anthropologist M. Rcheulishvili.

Fig. 2. Tomb No. 14.

Fig. 3. Tomb No. 14 after removal of skeleton and grave-goods.

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Fig. 4. Drawing of tomb. 1—gold signet-ring; 2—a cylindrical gold ink pot (part of desk set and pencil-box); 3—a gold sheet (part of desk set and pencil-box); 4–12—gold pendants; 13— agate balsamarium; 14–15—gold coin pendants; 16—gold earring; 17—silver desk set and pencil-box; 18—bronze plaque (mirror?); 19—agate saucer; 20—glass drinking vessel; 21–22—fragments of glass vessels; 23–24—iron pins; 25—fragments of wood; 26—fragments of glass vessel.

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1. (Inv. No. 01–6–X–1611) (Fig. 5). A gold signet-ring with a carnelian gem-intaglio, found near the left hand of the body. The bezel is ovoid and figured. A pair of cast gold panthers is welded to the hoop, holding in their teeth and paws a hammered bezel of gold sheet. A reddish carnelian intaglio represents the left profile of a female bust encircled with a Greek inscription BA%ILI%%A/OULPIANAJIA.4 Height of ring—19 mm; width—17 mm. Length of gem—20 mm; width—17 mm. Total weight—9.89 g. This is the first such ring to be found in Georgia. 2. (Inv. No. 01–6–X–1612) (Fig. 6). A cylindrical gold ink pot consisting of two pieces—a pot covered with a heptagonal lid pierced in the centre and covered with a movable plate attached by a pair of bosses also pierced at the edge. The sides of the heptagon are unequal and they are ornamented with ovals and stylised lotus leaves. It has been damaged by compression. The body of the ink pot is reinforced by four hoops. Found to the left of the pelvis. Height—120 mm; diameter of base—43 mm; diameter of body— 47 mm; diameter of hole—8 mm; total weight—95.55 g. It is the fifth ink pot found at Mtskheta, all in burials from the 2nd–3rd centuries AD.5 3. (Inv. No. 01–6–X–1613) (Fig. 7). A gold sheet forming the cover for a desk set (see No. 17). It is square, open-work, decorated with a floral design and with a terminal mounting; the frame is decorated with scratched, irregular dashes. There is a two-line Greek inscription within the frame: BA%ILEv%OU%TAMOU|TOUKAIEUGENIOU. There are two pairs of holes at the corner of the sheet. In the upper corner there is a pin resembling an eight-petalled rose. Found near the pelvis. Length—97 mm; width—9 mm; thickness—1 mm; height of side—10 mm; weight—52.95 g. 4. (Inv. No. 01–6–X–1614) (Fig. 8). A two-tanged gold pendant case for an amulet, in the shape of an open box curving inwards. A pair of grooved tangs is soldered onto the edges of the underside. Found at the waist. Length— 27 mm; width—17 mm; height—10 mm; weight—1.79 g. A similar amulet case was found in another female burial—No. 2 in the Armaziskhevi elite cemetery.6 5. (Inv. No. 01–6–X–1615) (Fig. 9). A pendant made of a pair of gold running spirals soldered on a round-headed tang. Found at the waist. Length— 26 mm; width—16 mm; weight—4.91 g. No such pendant has hitherto been found in Mtskheta. 6. (Inv. No. 01–6–X–1616) (Fig. 10). A gold pendant. An ovoid brooch is 4 On the Greek inscriptions on the objects from this tomb, see Kaukhchishvili 2003. According to the author, the inscriptions on objects found in tomb No. 14 date from the 2nd–3rd centuries AD. 5 See Mtskheta vol. II, Tbilisi 1978, 72, figs. 440–441; vol. X, Tbilisi 1995, 131, figs. 1098–1100; 1285–1287. Cf. Eschebach 1984, 40–41. 6 Mtskheta vol. I, Tbilisi 1955, 43–44, pl. XLV.16.

Fig. 7. A gold sheet forming the cover for the desk set.

Fig. 5. A gold signet-ring with carnelian gem-intaglio.

Fig. 8. A two-tanged gold pendant case.

Fig. 6. A cylindrical gold ink pot.

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Fig. 9. A gold pendant.

Fig. 10. A gold pendant.

set with a chalcedony relief bust of a lady wearing a gold necklace. She is dressed in a chiton(?). Her carnelian coiffure is flattened on the back of her head. She has a straight, prominent nose, thick lips and a chin jutting out a little. Found near the pelvis. Height—27 mm; width—16 mm; diameter of brooch—15–16 mm. A similar pendant, but with a male bust, was found at Mtskheta Baiatkhevi cemetery, in tile burial No. 35, dated to the 3rd century AD.7 7. (Inv. No. 01–6–X–1617) (Fig. 11). A gold pendant. An ovoid brooch of false-rope design with a tang, set into which is a carnelian bust of a boy wearing a gold necklace. The forehead recedes, the nose a little snub, the lips thick and the cheeks plump, the chin juts out a little, and the boy’s hair, divided into five parts, is plaited. Found near the pelvis. Height—12 mm; width—12 mm; weight—1.68 g. The bust is a fine piece of perfectly sculpted relief work. A similar gem, but set in a finger-ring, has been found at Mtskheta, Samtavro burial No. 905.8 8. (Inv. No. 01–6–X–1618) (Fig. 12). A gold pendant, similar to No. 7. Its rear surface is slightly damaged. The boy is adorned with an impressed, crisscross garland around the neck. The bust is encircled by a pair of grooves. Height—12 mm; width—12 mm; weight—1.70 g. 9. (Inv. No. 01–6–X–1619) (Fig. 13). A gold pendant with a tang, with a three-layered agate intaglio in the shape of a high, truncated cone, representing a seated Zeus, holding a sceptre in his right hand and a bolt of light-

7

Mtskheta vol. X, Tbilisi 1995, 101–02, pl. 126. Mtskheta vol. XI, Tbilisi 1996, 22–23, pl. XXXII.v. Cf. Antike Gemmen in deutschen Sammlungen 1, München, Munich 1972, tabl. 18, Nos. 105, 28/3–2824; 2417. 8

Fig. 13. A gold pendant.

Fig. 11. A gold pendant.

Fig. 14. A gold pendant.

Fig. 12. A gold pendant.

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Fig. 15.1–2. Gold pendants.

Fig. 16. Agate balsamarium.

ning in his left; his eagle before him.9 Found near the pelvis. Height with tang—25 mm; width—17 mm; height of gem—7 mm; width—8 mm. Similar pieces were found at Mtskheta, Samtavro and Ertsotianeti.10 10. (Inv. No. 01–6–X–1620) (Fig. 14). A false-roped, tanged gold pendant, set with an almond-shaped, light violet, transparent amethyst, slightly ridged on the back. Found in the central part of the south wall. Height—26 mm; width—16 mm; weight—3.68 g. An amethyst of a similar form was found elsewhere at Mtskheta, in tomb No. 25, set into a gold finger-ring of the second half of the 3rd century.11 11. (Inv. No. 01–6–X–1621) (Fig. 15.1). A gold pendant, with a pair of transverse rods soldered onto two fish-shaped verticals. On the lower rod an octagonal sky-blue glass bead is mounted. Two grooved tangs are soldered on to the pair of fish. Found in the central part of the south wall. Height with tang—17 mm; width—12 mm; thickness—7 mm; length of bead—18 mm. 12. (Inv. No. 01–6–X–1622) (Fig. 15.2). A gold pendant similar to No. 11. Height—22 mm; width—21 mm; weight—5.455 g. 13. (Inv. No. 01–6–X–1623) (Fig. 16). An agate balsamarium. It is pearshaped, with a cylindrical neck and a gold lid. A gold ring, with three gold chains terminating in flat gold plates, is linked to another gold chain, which is attached to the lid by means of a tang. The three gold chains may easily be attached to three equidistant holes in the body of the balsamarium. A hole

9 We are most grateful to K. Dzavakhishvili for help in identifying all the gems found in the tomb. On the gems from Bagineti and Armaziskhevi, see Lordkipanidze M. 1958. 10 Maksimova 1950. Cf. Antike Gemmen in deutschen Sammlungen 1, München 3, 197, tabls. 222, Nos. 2449, 2452, 2454; 223, Nos. 2455–2456. 11 Mtskheta vol. IX, Tbilisi 1989, 42–45.

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Fig. 17.1–2. Gold coin pendant.

Fig. 18.1–2. Gold coin pendant.

in the underside of the balsamarium is set with a gold-framed garnet. Height— 33 mm; diameter—27 mm; weight—13.80 g. A similar balsamarium, but gold and with a rough surface, was found in sarcophagus No. 7 at Armaziskhevi cemetery.12 14. (Inv. No. 01–6–X–1624) (Fig. 17.1–2). A tanged gold coin pendant.13 Obv.—a draped bust of Faustina II, left profile, encircled with the inscription FAVSTINA AVGVSTA and a circle of dots. Rev.—a draped, full-face image of Venus holding an apple in her right hand; inscription VE..NVS.14 Found near the pelvis. Height with tang—17 mm; diameter—13–14 mm; thickness—1.5 mm; weight—3.865 g. 15. (Inv. No. 01–6–X–1625) (Fig. 18.1–2). A tanged gold coin pendant, 12 13 14

Mtskheta vol. I, Tbilisi 1955, pl. LXXXI, figs. 50–51. The coins were identified by M. Sherozia. See Mattingly 1968, No. 165, pl. 59.9.

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similar in form to the previous example, but the coin is a gold denarius minted in Rome. Obv.—a draped bust of Lucilla (164–169 or 183 AD), right profile; bust encircled with the inscription LVCILLAE AVGVSTAE, and a half loop of dotted line. Rev.—Pietas, a full-face, draped image; right hand raised over a burning altar; left hand holding a box; inscription around the image PIE..TAS, with part of a circle of dots.15 Found near the pelvis. Height with tang— 16 mm; diameter—15 mm; weight—3.75 g. 16. (Inv. No. 01–6–X–1626) (Fig. 19). An ovoid earring made of gold wire, with open ends; soldered onto it a gold rod with a coral bead on it and a flattened end. Found in the middle of the south wall. Height—20 mm; diameter—12 mm; weight—1.37 g. This type is quite common in Georgia (Mtskheta, Urbnisi, Ertso) but the great majority of them have been found in Greater Mtskheta in sites dated to the 3rd–4th centuries (Armaziskhevi, Samtavro).16 17. (Inv. No. 01–6–X–1627) (Figs. 20–24). A silver desk set and pencil-box, damaged and with a patina. The box was found near the pelvis of the deceased. The box is formed of two parts. The first is the rear of a boat-shaped item consisting of two silver sheets with a corrugated lid attached (see detailed description below). The space between the sheets is divided by three tetrahedral rods—one transverse, the other two running along the sides—with the empty spaces between them filled with some plaster. The lid also is in two parts. One piece is of corrugated silver, terminating in a raised, triangular case (8 × 7 cm) for holding an ink-pot. It is decorated in high relief. The device on the case is bordered by three arches supported by spiral columns. The arches are inscribed respectively MENAN . . . (damaged; some letters missing), OMHRO%, and DHMO%YENH%—the names of the three male figures (Menander, Homer and Demosthenes) enclosed by them. The second part is an open-work gold cover (see No. 3). The second piece of the box, mainly its rear surface, forms a device divided into three bands each of three figures, crowned with a cordon of astragaloi. Over each of the upper row of figures is an arch supported by spiral columns. The height of figures varies (see below). Below each row Greek inscriptions, engraved in so-called tabulae clipiatae, contain the names of the muses. The letters are burnished and incrusted. The inscriptions are framed in gold; the figures of the nine muses are gilded. The figures in the upper row (left to right), dressed in long chitons, are the muses of history, lyric poetry and comedy; their names: KLIv, EUTERPH,

15 16

Cf. Mattingly 1968, No. 316, pl. 56.115. Mtskheta vol. I, Tbilisi 1955, 43, tabl. XLVI.4; vol. VII, Tbilisi 1985, 56–57, figs. 332–333.

Fig. 19. Gold earring. Fig. 20. A silver desk set and pencil-box.

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Fig. 21. A silver desk set and pencil-box.

YALIA. Clio holds a slate pencil in her right hand and a book in her left.

Euterpe holds a trumpet in her right hand and some wind instrument in her left. There is an altar between Clio and Euterpe. Thalia holds a comic mask in her left hand and a ploughshare in her right. The middle row contains the muses of tragedy, dance and love poetry, with their names: MELPOMENH, TERCIXORH, ERATv. Melpomene holds a tragic mask in her left hand with her right arm akimbo. Terpsichore has a lyre in her left hand and a plectrum(?) in her right. Erato has a flanged lyre in her left hand and some enigmatic object in her right. The lower row houses the muses of singing, sacred dance and mime, of astronomy and of epic poetry, with their names: POLUMNIA, OURANIA, KALLIOPH. Polyhymnia holds a scroll in her right hand and a mask in her left. Urania holds a pointed slate pencil in her right hand and a globe at her waist in the left. Calliope has a scroll in her left hand and her right hand pressed to her breast. Length of box—34.6 cm; width of top—9.1 cm; of bottom—6.6 cm; height of sides—2.5 cm, 2.5 cm, 3 cm; thickness—1.5 cm. Length of other sheet—30.2 cm; width of top—8.5 cm; of bottom—6 cm. Ink-pot case—8 × 7 cm at top of lid.

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Fig. 22. A silver desk set and pencil-box.

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Fig. 23. A silver desk set and pencil-box.

Fig. 24. A silver desk set and pencil-box.

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Upper row figures (right to left)—69 mm, 74 mm, 73.5 mm. Middle row (right to left)—62.5 mm, 64 mm, 67 mm. Lower row (right to left)—62 mm, 61 mm, 63.5 mm. External dimensions of inscription frames (top to bottom)—49.5 × 24.5 mm, 44.5 × 23 mm, 45 × 20.5 mm. Internal dimensions of the frames (top to bottom)—41 × 18 mm, 38 × 17.5 mm, 39 × 13 mm. The rest of the desk set consists of three writing implements—one-piece pens with nibs. One of the pens has an iron plug driven into the top. All three are made of silver sheets (12 mm wide; 1 mm thick), the joints between which are soldered from top to nib. They were placed within a special case made of two silver sheets. Length of pen and nib—23.3 cm; diameter—7–8 mm; diameter of body—10 mm; length of nib—3.7 cm; width of nib—1.5 mm (2 mm for the one with the plug). This is the first desk set to be found in Georgia.17 18. (Inv. No. 01–6–X–1628). A square bronze plaque (mirror?), broken into six pieces, coated with a malignant patina; with the remains of a wooden frame. Next to it was a bronze handle, again with wooden remains adhering to it (used for hanging the mirror?). Found at the south-western corner of the burial. Height—31.3 cm; width—27 cm; thickness—3–4 cm. 19. (Inv. No. 01–6–X–1629) (Fig. 25). An ovoid, shallow agate saucer, probably the base of some larger vessel. The underside edges are chipped. Found in the middle part of the south wall. Length—9.75 cm; width—7.4 cm; height of sides—7 mm (outer), 6 mm (inner); thickness—6 mm.18 20. (Inv. No. 01–6–X–1630) (Fig. 26). A decorated agate drinking vessel with straight sides. The body is cylindrical, tapering slightly at the bottom. The base is flat and everted. The body is ornamented with a pair of relief cordons between which are eight rhomboid reliefs with a ninth, larger one in the centre. Found near the right thigh bone. Matt white veins run through the glass itself. Height—8.3 cm; diameter of body—6.4 cm; diameter of rim— 5.6 cm; diameter of base—3.5 cm. 21. (Inv. No. 01–6–X–1631). Pieces of a clear glass vessel. Found in the middle part of the south wall. 22. (Inv. No. 01–6–X–1632). Pieces of a clear glass vessel. Found in the north-east section of the burial. 23. (Inv. No. 01–6–X–1633) (Fig. 27). An iron pin, round in section, with

Cf. Eshebach 1984, fig. 193. A similar vessel was found in Armaziskhevi cemetery (Mtskheta vol. I, Tbilisi 1955, tabl. LXXIV.2). 17 18

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Fig. 25. Shallow agate saucer.

a ball-shaped head; one piece, hammered, rusted and broken into four pieces. Found near the lady’s breast. 24. (Inv. No. 01–6–X–1634). An iron pin, round in section, rusted and broken into three pieces. Similar to No. 23. Length—12 cm. The great majority of the grave-goods found in tomb No. 14 belong to the 3rd century or to the first half of the 4th century AD. Thus, the tomb most probably dates to the late 3rd or early 4th century. Various of the finds, particularly the desk set, together with bronze and silver ink-pots and styli discovered previously, point to a high level of literacy among the elite in the period when Mtskheta served as capital of Caucasian Iberia. Some pieces from the tomb seem to have been made in foreign workshops—further evidence of quite close trading contacts with Rome, Iran, etc. Mtskheta Archaeological Institute Georgian Academy of Sciences David Agmashenebeli Str. 27 383400 Mtskheta Republic of Georgia [email protected]

Fig. 26. Agate drinking vessel.

Fig. 27. Iron pin.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Apakidze, A., Kipiani, G., Manjgaladze, G. and Nikolaishvili, V. 2003: ‘Archaeological Research Carried out in the Yard of Svetitskhoveli Cathedral, Mtskheta, 2001’. In Apakidze, A. et al. (eds.), Mtskheta Archaeological Institute. VI Academic Session: Results of Archaeological Research in 2001–2002. Reports. Mtskheta, 30 April 2003 (Tbilisi), 81–123 (in Georgian and English). Apakidze, A. and Nikolaishvili, V. 1994: ‘An Aristocratic Tomb of the Roman Period from Mtskheta, Georgia’. Antiquaries Journal LXXIV, 16–54. Eschebach, H. 1984: Pompei (Leipzig). Kacharava, D. 1990–91: ‘Archaeology in Georgia 1980–90’. Archaeological Reports for 1990–1991, 79–86. Kaukhchishvili, T. 2003: ‘Items with Greek Inscriptions from Mtskheta’. In Apakidze, A. et al. (eds.), Mtskheta Archaeological Institute. VI Academic Session: Results of Archaeological Research in 2001–2002. Reports. Mtskheta, 30 April 2003 (Tbilisi), 124–27 (in Georgian and English). Lordkipanidze, M. 1958: Gems of the State Museum of Georgia, II: Glyptic Items found in Armaziskhevi and Bagineti (Tbilisi) (in Georgian, summary in Russian). Lordkipanidze, O.D. 1991: Archäologie in Georgien (Weinheim). ——, 1994: ‘Recent Discoveries in the Field of Classical Archaeology in Georgia’. Ancient Civilizations from Scythia to Siberia 1.2, 128–68. Maksimova, M.I. 1950: ‘Gems from the Nekropolis of Mtskheta-Samtavro (Excavations of 1938–39)’. Bulletin of the Georgian State Museum XVI–B, 221–40 (in Russian). Mattingly, H. 1968: Coins of the Roman Empire in the British Museum vol. 4 (London). Miron, A. and Orthmann, W. (eds.) 1995: Unterwegs zum goldenen Vlies. Archäologische Funde aus Georgien (Saarbrücken).

WRITING THE ECONOMIC HISTORY FOR THE LATE ANTIQUE EAST: A REVIEW R. ALSTON Abstract This article reviews the proceedings of a conference on economy and exchange and uses those papers to establish something of the shifting academic context to which these papers contribute. Analysis of the current state of knowledge and academic debate suggests that current theories of exchange and the ancient economy are inadequate and leads to a call for new methodologies and theories. S. Kingsley and M. Decker (eds.), Economy and Exchange in the East Mediterranean during Late Antiquity: Proceedings of a Conference at Somerville College, Oxford, 29th May, 1999, Oxbow Books, Oxford 2001, VI+178 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 1–84217–044–9 This collection of five articles plus an extended introduction by the editors and a conclusion from Bryan Ward-Perkins represents another contribution to the burgeoning study of the archaeology of the late antique economy. The articles are designed at least in part to synthesise previous work and this is much to be welcomed. Almost all the writers attempt to use their collected material to make some general remarks about the economy of the eastern Mediterranean in this period. The focus is primarily on archaeological evidence and although hagiographic sources are often mentioned, there is little attempt to engage with documentary or literary material. The geographical coverage is also patchy, with nothing on Egypt, despite frequent references to the importance of the province, and little on Asia Minor or mainland Greece. Yet, if one accepts the particular and inevitable limitations resulting from the small scale of the conference from which these papers originate and that this is nothing like a complete synthesis of issues relating to trade and exchange in this period, then this is a valuable contribution to our knowledge of the period. The review that follows concerns itself mostly with issues of interpretation and historical methodology and points to some areas on which further investigation might prove fruitful. My aim is not only to comment on this volume, but also to suggest possible approaches to the economic history of this period and region. Much of the Kingsley and Decker collection is devoted to the pottery, especially the amphorae, that circulated the eastern Mediterranean in this period, and the collection would have been impossible without the revolution in understanding of late antique pottery over recent decades. Many sites in the eastern Mediterranean appear to have contained significant numbers of broken pots attesting long-distance trade and what seems to have been a vibrant market in whatever was contained in the amphorae. Once we put this material alongside the survey evidence from many different regions, but especially from the Levant, the number of sites of all different kinds that have been excavated over the last 30 years, our increased knowledge of the literary material, and the numismatic evidence, then the evidence from which an economic history of the eastern Mediterranean could be written is not only abundant, but also, generally speaking, newly within the scholarly domain.

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There are two basic modes of writing economic history: macro-economics and micro-economics. The articles here offer attempts at both approaches, but it is in the introductory chapter, misleading entitled ‘New Rome, New Theories on Inter-regional exchange’, that Kingsley and Decker take up the challenge of writing a macroeconomic history. As part of this approach they adopt suggestions for the size of the Roman army as being 301,300 in 518 and 379,300 in 565. The army is said to represent 1.6% of a total population of 19,500,000 in 518 and 2% of the same population in 565, consuming 66% of the budget in 518 and 71% 50 years later. Such figures supposedly ‘highlight the sweeping changes which accompanied political developments in the eastern Mediterranean in Late Antiquity’ (p. 8). Of course, on most definitions of sweeping change, a move from 66% of budget to 71% of budget would not be a good fit. There are two major problems with this approach. One is practical and the other theoretical, but let us start the analysis with the major practical difficulty. Virtually all the guesstimates used by Kingsley and Decker, and indeed by all others, are highly questionable, none more so than the total population of the Byzantine empire at these two dates.1 I could guess that Alexandria had a population of 500,000, Constantinople 500,000, Antioch 300,000, Carthage 300,000. I could further support a guess at the population of the 700 hill villages in the Antiochene hinterland as being around 300,000 in ca. 550 and at the population for Byzantine Scythopolis as being 30,000–40,000, making it the third city of the Palestine region, but such figures are of little value.2 Archaeological attempts at population reconstruction are notoriously improbable.3 Even for the region of antiquity for which the macro-demographics are best attested and most analysed, reasonable estimates for the population vary by a factor of three.4 Population figures are often based on estimates of population density or population per room or per house that have to be regarded as highly questionable. Further, there is no agreed methodology for such estimates so each writer tends to borrow and invent statistical methodologies to suit. Comparison of sites from published population figures is a trap for the unwary. One can conclude reasonably from the archaeological remains that, for instance, the population of the Antiochene hill country grew exponentially between 300 and 550, but to put figures on that population is extremely difficult. It might be a useful exercise to look again at the archaeological record, such as it is, and, using a single closely considered statistical methodology, attempt to reconstruct the population of the Byzantine empire, though I have serious doubts as to whether one can achieve plausible empire-wide estimates rather than establishing possible patterns of distribution of population across a landscape. In our current state of knowledge, levels of urbanisation cannot be established with any confidence. Moreover, when historians discuss urbanisation, there is little consideration of economic typology as opposed to legal status, so although it is recognised that there were different types of urbanism (the agro-town, the consumer city, the industrial city, the megalopolis), the economic importance of these distinctions is frequently not

1 See, for instance, Treadgold 1997, 136–43, 278, for a series of somewhat implausible estimates for the population of the empire which tend towards the pessimistic. 2 Foss 1997 summarising Tate 1992; Tsafir and Foerster 1997. 3 For a survey of these issues, see Scheidel 2001. 4 Lo Cascio 1994a; 1994b; Morley 2001; Scheidel 2001.

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discussed.5 It matters whether the urban population was 5% of the total or 30% and what kind of cities that population inhabited. What of the other estimates? If I was forced to bet my life on the size of the Byzantine army, I would confidently opt for 300,000, but my confidence would rest only on the fact that no one is likely to show that I am wrong. Agathias, after all, suggests an army of 150,000 for the Justinianic period, allegedly much reduced.6 The Augustan 300,000, or thereabouts, held an empire larger than that of the late 4th century onwards and was recruited and financed by that larger empire and so it is difficult to believe that the Byzantine state would have supported more than, for instance, 500,000.7 The issue of how many soldiers the Byzantine state could have supported is even more problematic, but most estimates pit the level of mobilisation far below that for the Roman Republic.8 Soldiers were obviously a drain on the resources of empire, but quantifying that drain is impossible. Even if one can estimate how much any one soldier cost, the diversity of late antique armies may have been reflected in their rates and forms of remuneration. The disappearance of late Justinianic coinage from many military sites on the eastern frontier does not seem to correlate well with the disappearance of the units, suggesting a Justinianic reform of the payment system, which again finds support in Procopius, though soldiers must have continued to draw some benefit from their service.9 Even if we could reconstruct the costs of the army, we are not remotely close to a reasonable estimate of tax and estate revenues that went to the government. Michael Hendy prefigures his discussion of this issue with ‘unfortunately, virtually nothing worthy of any great degree of confidence is known of the total of imperial revenues or expenditure.’ His estimate for the 6th-century imperial budget is 5,000,000–6,000,000 solidi with the total cost of the military at less than 20% of the total.10 Treadgold goes for 8,500,000–11,287,000 solidi in the 6th century.11 Banaji estimates 7,200,000 solidi for the same period.12 We cannot know what proportion of GDP went through state coffers, though one might be able to estimate the level of taxation on land for late antique Egypt, but even for Egypt in the Roman period, there is considerable disagreement about tax levels and yields, Duncan-Jones concluding that Egypt had a high tax regime based on high estimates for grain tax per land unit and low estimates of yield, while Rowlandson has argued for lower tax levels per unit area and higher yields and thus a friendlier tax regime.13 Egypt, of course, may have had a different tax regime from other provinces and analysis of the importance of taxation elsewhere is considerably more difficult. It is not that we cannot produce plausible guesses at these figures, but that the

5

See Alston and Alston 1997. Agathias (5. 13. 7–8) gives two figures for the military establishment writing ‘For [the army of the Romans] was 645,000 and now stands at around 150,000 and some of those are in Italy and in Libya, others are in Spain, and others round the Black Sea and other in Alexandria and the Thebaid and Egypt.’ Cf. John Lydus De Mensibus 1. 27. 7 For the size of the Byzantine army, see Whitby 1995; Kaegi 1992. 8 See Lo Cascio 2001. 9 Harper 1995, 15–20; Casey 1996; Gichon 1993, 49. Procopius Anecdota 24. 12–22. 10 Hendy 1985, 114, 170–71. 11 Treadgold 1997, 277. 12 Banaji 1996. 13 Duncan Jones 1994, 47–63; Rowlandson 1996, 63–69, 71–80, 247–49. 6

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margins of reasonable variation between high and low estimates are often sufficient to render the usefulness of such reconstructions themselves marginal. One can confidently agree with Kingsley and Decker that ‘our understanding of the macro-economic complexity of the East Mediterranean is at an early stage’ (p. 14), and indeed might go further in a pessimistic evaluation of our state of knowledge. Such considerations bring us to the theoretical issue. Empire-wide estimates become useful if we think that we are dealing with an imperial economy rather than a series of loosely integrated local economies. There are good reasons for assuming that we can see an imperial economy. On most understandings, the Roman empire, for a pre-industrial state, was a powerful institution which maintained a complex system of taxation and expenditure across its territory. That system was also fairly uniform and was underpinned by similarly uniform institutions. Wickham’s observation that virtually all areas of the Mediterranean are capable of producing virtually all the staples and the costs and inefficiencies of long-distance transport in antiquity at which moderns frequently express despair, would seem to render trade in staples on any scale a lunatic economic activity, to be explained by extraordinary economic circumstance. Such might be the large-scale intervention in the market by the state, distorting market patterns through the provision of facilities for trade and the encouragement of provincial economies to supply the needs of Rome, later Constantinople, and further the Roman army in its various locations.14 In this volume, Karagiorgou argues that the well-distributed LR2 amphorae spread in the first instance as a container for the military annona on the Danube frontier, the collapse of that frontier affecting the design of the jar. Fulford has argued that ‘we can hypothesise that except where networks of communication, e.g. along the major rivers of the empire, or around the Mediterranean gave the opportunity for the cheap transportation of goods, the principal explanation for understanding regional patterns of consumption will be attributable to the policies of expenditure on the part of the state.’15 Such a model has attractions. Effectively, the model subordinates the economic history of the ancient world to the major tropes of the political history of the ancient world. The best example in this collection is Wilson who, in an interesting study of Cyrenaican cities arguing for a province and an urban culture in wholesale decline, returns to the familiar model of a late antique economy crippled by the decline of the curial aristocracy and politically and militarily unable to defend itself in the violent times of the 3rd century and later. Wilson thus walks in the shadow of Finley, Jones and, more recently, Liebeschuetz in seeing the city as a function of elite residence and expenditure, doomed to decay and disaster once that elite is crippled (by taxation in its various forms).16 With a directly contrary argument, but with a similar explanatory model, Foss in a major survey of 7th-century Syrian archaeology has argued that ‘the remains clearly indicate a major change in population, a process that began at the time of the Persian invasions, may have been temporarily arrested by the Byzantine reconquest, but no doubt accelerated under the Arabs.’17 Foss ties together the complex political and economic histories of the seventh century so that the Byzantine state

14 15 16 17

Wickham 1984; 1988; 1989. Fulford 1996, 158. Liebeschuetz 2001. Foss 1997, 265.

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that bankrupted the cities of Cyrenaica in the 3rd and 4th centuries guaranteed the prosperity of the cities of Syria in the 7th. Changes in state organisation are a remarkably attractive and simple way of explaining economic change. Most historians assume a basic level of continuity within the economic systems of antiquity: we see no industrial revolution or technological break through, by which to provide an explanation for change, and, indeed, few would argue that the changes we see in antiquity even approximate to the farming revolution or the industrial revolution as great transforming ‘moments’ in the story of mankind. In a model of a stable (or, less favourably, stagnant) economy, the state provides a major dynamic to explain change.18 We can also ‘see’ the operation of the state and state-like institutions in the epigraphic and literary records and, of course, those favourite artefacts for the economically inclined, coins. Here, the link with the state is at its most clear, the state (and, crucially, state-like institutions) being the major producers of coinage, and we presume that new coinage was largely used to meet state expenses, the major expense being presumed to be the Roman army. Keith Hopkins famously portrayed the Roman army as a massive wealth redistribution system demonstrating beyond any doubt that invasion, subjugation, and economic exploitation by a hostile power was good for the provincials.19 Few would deny, I think, that in the early years of the Principate the army, especially but not exclusively in the north and west, provided an important market which encouraged the development of long-distance trade and may have provided economic stimuli in the environs of their camps. But are such factors, together with the enormous effort it must have taken to feed the state-sponsored megalopoleis of the Mediterranean, Rome and Constantinople, enough to explain what happened economically in the rest of the Mediterranean region? I am not denying the importance of the state in establishing the conditions for economic activity in the Mediterranean world or in acting as a direct stimulus for trade. The evidence for the state affecting economic structures is overwhelming. I suggest merely that the impact of state and state institutions on economic activity was clearly unplanned, extremely unpredictable, and enormously complex. To take some examples, Rathbone has argued that the transition from Ptolemaic to Roman Egypt involved in part the creation of a new system of private property-holding, a new taxation system, and a new attitude towards public resources which resulted fairly directly in an economic transformation of the Egyptian chora and the creation of a new economic class of wealthy landowners.20 The argument is compatible with that put forward by Alston on Egypt, and in Goodman on the Herodian aristocracy.21 Lo Cascio argues that the Roman imperial state forced monetisation on a single standard (more or less) on the Roman empire with the result that both short- and long-distance economic transactions became easier and major economic growth resulted.22 In a closely parallel argument, Banaji has similarly argued that the introduction of virtual monometallism in the currency of late antiquity led to rapid monetisation, economic growth

18 19 20 21 22

Fulford 1996. Hopkins 1980. Rathbone 2000. Alston 2001a; Goodman 1987. Lo Cascio 2000.

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and the rise of a new aristocracy.23 Furthermore, major political events clearly had economic effects. Ceramic assemblages in the eastern Mediterranean clearly reflect both the Vandal conquest of Africa and its Byzantine reconquest.24 Similarly, the Arab conquest of the East affected trade patterns with links to Western markets being cut.25 The conquest of the Mediterranean by Rome, the dismemberment of the Western empire by the barbarians, and the capture of the East by the Arabs seem to me to have been traumas felt in many areas of public life (though we should not lapse lightly into the language of decline and fall in describing such events), which are bound to have had economic reflections. Yet, the relationship between political and economic history is not straightforward. It is abundantly clear, for instance, that the Italian senatorial aristocracy survived 4th- and 5th-century political traumas only to face extinction in the 6th century. Even an economist as centred on the state as Douglass North argues that the state establishes certain institutional foundations from which spring the pre-conditions for the formation of a particular economy, rather than that politics directly generates economics.26 By changing the economic conditions, the state can be responsible for ‘grass-roots’ change which, perhaps, generated the economic growth argued for by Lo Cascio and Banaji. The state can provide the impetus that creates a market which allows and encourages investment and trade, which the state can further encourage through the development of facilities and the provision of relatively secure routes. Yet, the great complexity of trade that we see reflected in the spread of pottery across even the western Mediterranean basin cannot be explained as simply state-related, especially once Rome’s political power was broken and the annona gradually commuted into cash.27 If we assume a theoretical situation in which certain political pre-conditions encourage the growth and development of a certain economic system and that, after some time, those pre-conditions disappear, then the economic system that it sponsored may wither and die, or it may have developed sufficient structural resilience to survive and adapt to the new conditions. Once the powerful unitary Roman state disappears from the West in the early 5th century, the Roman economies of the area seem to survive, apart from in a few peripheral areas. There is, on this argument, a macro-economic history of the Roman empire to be written. The Roman state influenced the economic structures of the various regions of the empire and established various cultural, legal, administrative and fiscal institutions across the empire. Nevertheless, the response of the various regions of the empire to these state-imposed structures seems to have been anything but uniform.

23

Banaji 1996; 2000; 2001. See most recently surveys by Haldon 2000 and Foss 1997. Hayes (1992, 5–8), who argues that Phocaean Red Slip emerged as the key fine ware in the mid-4th century, but that its dominance was only completed by the 5th century, at which period African Red Slip did not reach this site in Istanbul. African Red Slip returned to prominence after the Byzantine reconquest at 25% of all wares and eventually supplanted Phocaean ware completely. 25 Watson 1992; Walmsley 1992; Haldon 2000. 26 For a clear outline of the theory, see North 1981. North’s devotion to Western capitalism and the American model is such that he argues for a moderated free market economy in which sufficient reward is guaranteed for those prepared to invest in innovation to allow enterprise and technological change drive the ever-expanding economy. 27 Reynolds 1995. 24

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A macro-economic or state political explanation for the archaeological evidence attesting urban decay in late Roman Cyrenaica falls not because it is inherently improbable or because macro-economics or the state had no effect on the situation in the province, but because of the urban and rural prosperity attested east and west, north and north-east of Cyrenaica. It is very difficult to know why communities capable of producing the sophisticated Alexandrian-trained scholar and bishop Synesius were unable to deploy sufficient resources to stop their cities being turned into war zones (at least on Wilson’s reading of the architecture), when in so many other places the period from ca. 300 to at least 540 was one of relative peace and prosperity. Inevitably, one needs a more complex analysis of the economics of the region and the region’s relationship with the wider Mediterranean world to understand these developments. If we do not have such an analysis, then archaeologists and historians will simply continue to swap areas of decline and prosperity across the Mediterranean as evidence of continuity and prosperity or decline in the ancient economy in mutual incomprehension. If macro-economics in its current state is unable to provide an explanation for the developments of the 5th and later centuries, both for practical and theoretical reasons, then we are forced to rely, initially at least, on micro-economic studies. Rathbone has argued for seeing even state expenditure as a regional issue, suggesting that ‘state income and expenditure in cash in the Roman empire is best visualized not as a massive annual ebb and flow of coin between the provinces and Rome, but as a series of provincial whirlpools.’28 Such studies might help explain differential development and also complex non-state driven economies that are such features of the late antique East. In this volume, Karagiorgou, Kingsley and Decker (the last two rather more determinedly), show continuities in spite of political disruption that can really only be explained by commercial factors. Kingsley, on Palestinian wine production, and Decker, on the oil and wine from North Syria, both argue for a market-driven expansion of these local industries generating considerable prosperity, and being more or less independent of state networks. Both make some attempt to quantify the production of their chosen areas, counting out the number of presses in the various villages excavated. Kingsley suggests a capacity of somewhat more than 2,157,600 litres for Palestine from surviving and published presses alone, while Decker argues for ca. 8,000 olive presses in the Apamea-Antioch area, and for as much as 87% of the oil being exported from the villages. The figures sound impressive, though the annual Palestinian production may be the equivalent of about 0.1% of that which went to form the Monte Testaccio mound. Mango shows that bronzes moved considerable distances across various zones and were exported beyond the empire’s frontiers, but it remains an open question whether the surviving artefacts signify a huge inter-regional trade in manufactured goods across the empire and beyond the frontiers. And Mango’s attempt to exploit the Life of John the Almoner as evidence for extensive trade between Britain and Alexandria in the late 6th and early 7th centuries may be a little unwise given the purpose of the story and the conventions of hagiography.

28 Rathbone 1996, 309–43, esp. p. 319. It may be that some of those whirlpools had contracted considerably in late antiquity so that money moved on a local basis. A local survey of the importance of taxation and state expenditure may be more useful than an empire-wide analysis.

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Such regional studies present considerable problems. Putting together inadequate material almost inevitably means generalisation or failing to adequately contextualise the material that one can collect. Papacostas is able to show that pilgrims frequently left Cyprus and that Cyprus remained in contact with much of the East in the 7th century, but this is, at first sight, unsurprising and one wonders what this information means.29 Also his conclusion that ‘the archaeological record amply demonstrates that the sea played a major role in the economy of Cyprus’ (p. 144) does not add much to our knowledge. Nevertheless, the Cypriot origins of LR1 amphorae and a red slip fine ware, the limited evidence of industrial production, the absence of evidence of much imported material and notable differences between in-land and sea shore sites suggest a complex economy in Cyprus in which some places formed part of a more general Mediterranean economic system, while others were not fully integrated even into a Cypriot economy. Settlement patterns, land ownership, agricultural regimes, marketing structures should all contribute to a regional history and inevitably information on some of these are missing from our evidence. To what extent we could replicate studies of the emergence of new patterns of land ownership and exploitation and the economic role and power of ecclesiastical institutions, for instance, for Egypt, in provinces without the same level of documentary material remains an open question. But, for Syria at least, such issues are central to some explanations for social and economic change.30 It is, however, the particular skill of the ancient historian to be able to fill in gaps in the evidence with invention and panache and to borrow from other regions and disciplines when the material at hand is lacunose. We are left with a picture of an early Byzantine economy which was more complex, diverse and commercial than state-driven macro-economic explanations would seem to allow. We can question the subservience of the economic life of the Byzantine provinces to the fiscal and political trajectory of the Byzantine state. Economic history should not, of course, be set free from political history, but we should not simply assume the same caesurae in the various historical stories to be told. Byzantine Syria is a crucial test case. It now seems fairly clear that Syria and the surrounding regions survived the military traumas of the 6th and early 7th centuries comparatively little damaged, though the political structures of what became Bilâd al’Shâm were fairly rapidly transformed.31 There were probably exceptions. Antioch was destroyed in 540 and although the archaeology suggests that there were valiant efforts to rebuild the city, repeated blows over the next century probably meant that it never reattained its earlier glory.32 Caesarea, thought to have been destroyed by Persians and Arabs in the early 7th century after a terrible siege abundantly attested in the literary evidence, now seems to show continuities since destruction layers of the late

29 One can compare the studies of movement in McCormick 2001 in which a cumulative and changing picture of Mediterranean communications develops from studies of individual movements. McCormick’s analysis faces similar methodological problems (what does it mean when we hear from our sources about a communication?), but the accumulation of evidence eventually begins to convince that we see significant change over the period of study. 30 For the Church, see Wipszycka 1972; 1998; 2001. For Syria, see Kennedy 1985a. 31 Shboul and Walmsley (1998) argue that in spite of the political change, ‘there is simply no evidence at all for any challenge to existing social and religious institutions’. 32 Foss 1997.

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period, when found, are seen to be laced with Islamic period wares and to have pavements placed on top.33 Jewish Beth Shean which had become Greek Scythopolis was in turn transformed into Islamic Baysan in the 7th century. This last transformation continued the process of change in the urban function of the city probably begun in the Byzantine period, but archaeologists seem rather happier about interpreting evidence such as the narrowing of streets for commercial facilities as a sign of changing institutional and cultural activity, but not necessarily economic prosperity.34 Furthermore, recent excavation has shown that a row of shops, erected as part of a planned development and assumed to be Byzantine, in fact date to 724–43.35 Similarly, at a small site in the Tyropaean valley, Magness has published post-Byzantine coinage and pottery below the ‘Byzantine’ shops previously thought to be destroyed by a Persian assault, and redated this commercial development to the Islamic phase.36 Tate’s work at Dehes and in the Antiochene hinterland has extended occupation there long after the previously assumed early Islamic demise.37 Walmsley has argued for extensive redevelopment in Fihl (Pella) as new space became available in the old civic centre due to political changes. The building of a caravanserai in the middle of the city may suggest economic realignment but certainly is evidence for continued active trade and urban investment.38 The publication of two large wine presses on the Amman-Jerash road of 6th- or 7th-century date which continued in use throughout the Umayyad period, each with a capacity of about 3.25 m3, provides indicative evidence of the continued flourishing of the wine trade.39 Numismatic studies on Jerash and Fihl (Pella) using Byzantine and various hoard evidence shows that Byzantine coinage not only continued to circulate in Bilâd al’Shâm (the copper perhaps in default of an Islamic option and tending to disappear when the Islamic coinage was reformed in the later 7th century), but also that newly minted gold was circulating.40 Furthermore, before 694, the coins minted in Islamic Bilâd al’Shâm appear to have been imitations of Byzantine imperial coinage.41 Contact between Syria and the Byzantine empire seems to have continued. As historians of the Classical world, normally, we are predisposed to looking west from Syria-Jordanian-Arabia, but these provinces also looked east and Palmyra continued to have trading functions; spectacularly we see trade developments at Aila (Aqaba).42 The ample evidence for continuity at various sites does not mean that there was no change in the scale of economic activity. Evidence for contact with the Byzantine world and continued long-distance trade does not mean that long-distance trade continued to be as important an economic factor in the later 7th century. Increasingly, it is clear that the economic history of Bilâd al’Shâm should be seen in terms of a restructuring of the economy and the settlement pattern with the focus of the econ-

33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42

Holum 1992. Tsafrir and Foerster 1994; Hirschfeld 1997. Compare Kennedy 1985b and Pentz 1992. Tsafir and Foerster 1997. Magness 1992. Tate 1992. See also the survey article, Foss 1995. Walmsley 1992. Khalil and al-Nammari 2000. See the thought-provoking summary in Walmsley 2000. Morrisson 1992. See Whitcomb 1994a; 1994b; and the survey by King 1994.

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omy possibly shifting to the provision of goods for markets to the east rather to the west, a change which was possibly furthered in the 8th century with the development of Baghdad as the new Abbasid capital.43 A similar situation may be seen in Egypt where some Classical sites appear to have been in fairly rapid decline while others may have prospered in the early Islamic period.44 Change is to be expected. We do not see collapse. Contemporary with this evidence of economic vitality in Bilâd al’Shâm, the situation in Anatolia and the Byzantine empire appears less rosy. The collapse of the Byzantine empire in the 7th century must have had devastating effects on the fiscal position of the state and appears to have led to a complete overhaul of the financial and military systems. It is easy to write of the 7th century as a struggle for survival and it seems that a rather different and more gloomy economic environment shaped these areas.45 Yet, the excavations at Amorium where the lower city was thought to be abandoned (until recent excavation showed continued and possibly vibrant occupation) warn against overly pessimistic interpretations of partial excavations of sites. One wonders whether the reassessment of destruction layers further east will have an effect on the dating of sequences in Anatolia.46 In his concluding chapter of this volume Ward-Perkins twice makes reference to Peter Brown offering a new understanding of late antiquity for a whole generation of English-speaking students. Placing the articles in this volume in the context of the rapid development in the study of late antique archaeology and the economy of the period, we seem to need a similar sea-change, to break away from old models that no longer explain the complexities visible in the archaeological record, to develop new theoretical bases from which to interpret this evidence, and to write new kinds of economic history. Generally, archaeologists are being forced to reconsider or reject existing paradigms in interpreting material from the Byzantine and early Islamic East. Classical archaeology has long been criticised for its dependence on the written text, a handmaiden to the greater discipline that is History. As archaeology has expanded so that pre-historians, medievalists, modernists and those interested in non-European cultures have overwhelmed the Classicists, so conventional Classicists’ methodologies and questions have become outdated. Only the most extreme would ignore literary evidence as a possible means of interpreting what is seen on the ground, but giving primacy to the issues of the literary material rather than, for instance, issues of the formation of landscape, seems rather outmoded. Similarly, ancient historians have come to treat economic history as a sub-discipline of history proper, essentially secondary to political and cultural events. To an extent, the reductionism of Finley made economic history marginal to the great flow of historical events. Yet, there appears to be a dynamic in the ancient economy at least partially separate from cultural and state politics which means that economic history might be restored to what I would regard as its proper and central place in the historical pantheon, with equal status

43

Walmsley 2000; Tsafir and Foerster 1997. Alston 2001b. 45 As surveyed in Haldon 2000. 46 Lightfoot 1998; 1999; Lightfoot and Iveson 2001. C. Roueché, who is currently re-editing the inscriptions from Aphrodisias, for instance, tells me that she has come to question dates she initially ascribed to the material which depended on historical ‘facts’, such as the decline of curial government. 44

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to cultural and political history as a mode of understanding the past. The evidence for the economic history of the East Mediterranean basin points up the absence of any plausible modern economic history of the region and, indeed, any body of theory or theoretical discussion that would lead to the production of such a history. The detailed archaeology of the eastern Mediterranean demands a new theoretical debate.47 Department of Classics Royal Holloway University of London Egham Surrey TW20 0EX UK [email protected] BIBLIOGRAPHY Alston, R. 2001a: The Roman and Byzantine City in Egypt (London/New York). ——. 2001b: ‘Urban Population in Late Roman Egypt and the End of the Ancient World’. In Scheidel, W. (ed.), Debating Roman Demography (Leiden/Boston/Cologne), 161–204. Alston, R. and Alston R.D. 1997: ‘Urbanism and the urban community in Roman Egypt’. Journal of Egyptian Archaeology 83, 199–216. Banaji, J. 1996: ‘The circulation of gold as an index of prosperity in the central and eastern mediterranean in late antiquity’. In King, C.E. and Wigg, D.G. (eds.), Coin Finds and Coin Use in the Roman World: The Thirteenth Oxford Symposium on Coinage and Monetary History 25.–27. 3. 1993 (Berlin), 41–51. ——. 1999: ‘Agrarian history and the labour organisation of Byzantine large estates’. In Bowman, A.K. and Rogan, E. (eds.), Agriculture in Egypt: From Pharaonic to Modern Times (London), 193–216. ——. 2000: ‘State and aristocracy from the late empire to Byzantium’. In Lo Cascio, E. and Rathbone, D.W. (eds.), Production and Public Powers in Classical Antiquity (Cambridge), 92–99. ——. 2001: Agrarian Change in Late Antiquity: Gold, Labour, and Aristocratic Dominance (Oxford). Casey, P.J. 1996: ‘Justinian, the limitanei and Arab-Byzantine relations in the 6th c.’. Journal of Roman Archaeology 9, 214–22. Davies, J.K. 1998: ‘Ancient economies: models and muddles’. In Parkins, H. and Smith, C. (eds.), Trade, Traders and the Ancient City (London/New York), 225–56. Duncan Jones, R. 1994: Money and Government in the Roman Empire (Cambridge). Foss, C. 1995: ‘The Near Eastern countryside in late antiquity: a review article’. In The Roman and Byzantine Near East: Some recent archaeological research (Ann Arbor), 214–34. ——. 1997: ‘Syria in transition, AD 550–750: an archaeological approach’. Dumbarton Oaks Papers 51, 189–269.

47 There have been moves to develop more complex theories of the ancient economy and its functioning. See, for instance, Paterson 1998. Davies (1998) suggests new and more complex models for understanding urban trade patterns, while Morley (1996) makes some attempt to incorporate developments in historical economics of the early industrial period. In Alston 2001a, 346–60, I attempted to use insights from development economics to understand Roman and Byzantine Egypt. Banaji (1999) attempts to work with parallel labour organisation systems from modern and Arab cultures to understand the Byzantine system, and Banaji (2001) offers a new and radical understanding of Byzantine monetary history and its diverse effects. Perhaps most radically, Hordern and Purcell (2000) argue for a connected localism, as far as I understand the book.

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Fulford, M. 1996: ‘Economic hotspots and provincial backwaters: modelling the late Roman economy’. In King, C.E. and Wigg, D.G. (eds.), Coin Finds and Coin Use in the Roman World: The Thirteenth Oxford Symposium on Coinage and Monetary History 25.–27. 3. 1993 (Berlin), 153–77. Gichon, M. 1993: En Boqeq. Ausgrabungen in einer Oase am Toten Meer: I: Geographie und Geschichte der Oase. Das spätrömisch-byzantinische Kastell (Mainz). Goodman, M 1987: The Ruling Class of Judaea: The origins of the Jewish Revolt against Rome AD 66–70 (Cambridge). Haldon, J. 2000: ‘Production, distribution and demand in the Byzantine world, c. 660–840’. In Hansen, I.L. and Wickham, C. (eds.), The Long Eighth Century (Leiden/Boston/Cologne), 225–64. Harper, R.P. 1995: Upper Zohar: An Early Byzantine Fort in Palaestina Tertia: Final Report of Excavations in 1985–1986 (Oxford). Hayes, J.W. 1992: Excavations at Saraçhane in Istanbul. Volume 2: The Pottery (Princeton). Hendy, M.F. 1985: Studies in the Byzantine Monetary Economy c. 300–1450 (Cambridge). Hirschfeld, Y. 1997: ‘Farms and villages in Byzantine Palestine’. Dumbarton Oaks Papers 51, 33–71. Holum, K.G. 1992: ‘Archaeological evidence for the fall of Byzantine Caesarea’. Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 286, 73–85. Hopkins, K 1980: ‘Taxes and trade in the Roman empire, 200 BC–AD 400’. Journal of Roman Studies 70, 101–25. Hordern, P. and Purcell, N. 2000: The Corrupting Sea (Oxford). Kaegi, W.E. 1992: Byzantium and the early Islamic conquests (Cambridge). Kennedy, H. 1985a: ‘The last century of Byzantine Syria: a re-interpretation’. Byzantinische Forschungen 10, 141–83. ——. 1985b: ‘From Polis to Madina: Urban change in Late Antique and Early Islamic Syria’. Past and Present 106, 3–27. Khalil, L.A. and al-Nammari, F.M. 2000: ‘Two large wine presses at Khirbet Yajuz, Jordan’. Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 218, 41–57. King, G.R.D. 1994: ‘Settlement in Western and Central Arabia and the Gulf in the sixtheighth centuries AD’. In King, G.R.D. and Cameron, A. (eds.), The Byzantine and Early Islamic Near East II: Land Use and Settlement (Princeton), 181–212. Liebeschuetz, J.H.W.G. 2001: Decline and Fall of the Roman City (Oxford). Lightfoot, C.S. 1998: ‘The survival of cities in Byzantine Anatolia: the case of Amorium’. Byzantion 68, 56–71. ——. 1999: ‘The Amorium Project: the 1997 study season’. Dumbarton Oaks Papers 53, 333–49. Lightfoot, C.S. and Iveson, E.A. 2001: ‘The Amorium project: the 1998 excavation season’. Dumbarton Oaks Papers 55, 371–99. Lo Cascio, E. 1994a: ‘La dinamica della populazione in Italia da Augusto al III secolo’. L’ Italie d’ Auguste à Dioclétien (Rome), 91–125. ——. 1994b: ‘The size of the Roman population: Beloch and the meaning of the Augustan census figures’. Journal of Roman Studies 84, 23–40 ——. 2000: ‘The Roman Principate: The impact of the organization of the Empire on Production’. In Lo Cascio, E. and Rathbone, D.W. (eds.), Production and Public Powers in Classical Antiquity (Cambridge), 77–85. ——. 2001: ‘Recruitment and the size of the Roman population from the third to the first century BCE’. In Scheidel, W. (ed.), Debating Roman Demography (Leiden/Boston/Cologne), 111–37. McCormick, M. 2001: Origins of the European Economy: Communications and Commerce AD 300–900 (Cambridge). Magness, J. 1992: ‘A reexamination of the archaeological evidence for the Sasanian Persian destruction of the Tyropaean valley’. Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 287, 67–74. Morley, N. 1996: Metropolis and Hinterland: the City of Rome and the Italian Economy (Cambridge). ——. 2001: ‘The transformation of Italy, 225–28 BC’. Journal of Roman Studies 91, 50–62. Morrisson, C. 1992: ‘Le monayage omeyyade et l’histoire administrative et économique de la Syrie’. In Canivet, P. and Rey-Coquais, J.-P. (eds.), Le Syrie de Byzance à l’Islam VII e–VIII e siècles (Damascus), 309–41.

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North, D.C. 1981: Structure and Change in Economic History (New York/London). Paterson, J. 1998: ‘Trade and traders in the Roman world: scale, structure and organisation’. In Parkins, H. and Smith, C. (eds.), Trade, Traders and the Ancient City (London/New York), 149–67. Pentz, P. 1992: The invisible conquest the ontogenesis of sixth and seventh-century Syria (Copenhagen). Rathbone, D.W. 1996: ‘The imperial finances’. Cambridge Ancient History X2 (Cambridge), 309–43. ——. 2000: ‘Ptolemaic to Roman Egypt: The Death of the Dirigiste state?’. In Lo Cascio, E. and Rathbone, D.W. (eds.), Production and Public Powers in Classical Antiquity (Cambridge), 44–54. Reynolds, P. 1995: Trade in the Western Mediterranean AD 400–700: The Ceramic Evidence (Oxford). Rowlandson, J. 1996: Landowners and Tenants in Roman Egypt: The Social Relations of Agriculture in the Oxyrhynchite Nome (Oxford). Scheidel, W. 2001: ‘Progress and problems in Roman demography’. In Scheidel, W. (ed.), Debating Roman Demography (Leiden/Boston/Cologne), 1–81. Shboul, A. and Walmsley, A. 1998: ‘Identity and self-image in Syria-Palestine in the transition from Byzantine to early Islamic rule: Arabs, Christians and Muslims’. Mediterranean Archaeology 11, 39–69. Tate, G. 1992: Les Campagnes de la Syrie du Nord du II e au VII e siècle I (Paris). Treadgold, W. 1997: A History of the Byzantine State and Society (Stanford). Tsafrir, Y. and Foerster, G. 1994: ‘From Scythopolis to Baysan: Changing conceptions of urbanism’. In King, G.R.D. and Cameron, A. (eds.), The Byzantine and Early Islamic Near East II: Land Use and Settlement Patterns (Princeton), 95–115. ——. 1997: ‘Urbanism at Scythopolis—Bet Shean in the fourth to seventh centuries’. Dumbarton Oaks Papers 51, 85–146. Walmsley, A.G. 1992: ‘The social and economic regime at Fihl (Pella) between the 7th and 9th centuries’. In Canivet, P. and Rey-Coquais, J.-P. (eds.), Le Syrie de Byzance à l’Islam VII e–VIII e siècles (Damascus), 249–61. ——. 2000: ‘Production, exchange and regional trade in the Islamic East Mediterranean: Old structures, new systems’ In Hansen, I.L. and Wickham, C. (eds.), The Long Eighth Century (Leiden/Boston/Cologne), 265–343. Watson, P. 1992: ‘Change in foreign and regional economic links with Pella in the seventh century AD: the ceramic evidence’ In Canivet, P. and Rey-Coquais, J.-P. (eds.), Le Syrie de Byzance à l’Islam VII e–VIII e siècles (Damascus), 233–48. Whitby, M. 1995: ‘Recruitment in Roman armies from Justinian to Heraclius (ca. 565–615)’. In Cameron, A. (ed.), The Byzantine and Early Islamic Near East III: States, resources and armies (Princeton), 61–124. Whitcomb, D.S. 1994a: Ayla: Art and History in the Islamic Port of Aqaba (Chicago). ——. 1994b: ‘The Misr of Ayla: Settlement at al- Aqaba in the early Islamic period’. In King, G.R.D. and Cameron, A. (eds.), The Byzantine and Early Islamic Near East II: Land Use and Settlement (Princeton), 155–70. Wickham, C. 1984: ‘The other transition: from the ancient world to feudalism’. Past and Present 113, 3–36; reprinted in Wickham 1994, 7–42. ——. 1988: ‘Marx, Sherlock Holmes and Late Roman Commerce’. Journal of Roman Studies 78, 183–93; reprinted in Wickham 1994, 77–98. ——. 1989: ‘Italy and the early Middle Ages’. In Randsborg, K. (ed.), The Birth of Europe (Rome), 140–51; reprinted in Wickham 1994, 99–118. ——. 1994: Land and Power: Studies in Italian and European Social History, 400–1200 (London). Wipszycka, E. 1972: Les ressources et les activités des églises en Égypte du IV e au VIII e siècles (Brussels). ——. 1998: ‘L’attivita caritativa dei vescovi egiziani. In Rebillard, E. and Sotinel, C. (eds.), L’Évêque dans la cité du IV e au V e siècle: Image et autorité (Paris/Rome), 71–80. ——. 2001: ‘Le fonctionnement interne des monastères et des laures en Égypte du point de vue économique à propos d’une publication récente de textes coptes de Bawit’. Journal of Juristic Papyri 31, 169–86.

MODELS, DATA OR BOTH? SOME PROBLEMS OF EVIDENCE FOR THE STUDY OF THE LATE ANTIQUE ECONOMY IN THE EAST N. POLLARD Of course, Richard Alston is quite right (see above p. 133) when he states ‘we seem to need . . . to break away from old models that no longer explain the complexities visible in the archaeological record, to develop new theoretical bases from which to interpret this evidence, and to write new kinds of economic history.’ New models and new theoretical approaches stimulate new questions asked of old evidence as well as fieldwork and archival studies that may throw up new evidence and encourage debate on other levels. However, this may be something of a historian’s perspective. From the point of view of an archaeologist with an interest in the economy of the late antique eastern Mediterranean and Near East (especially one with particular interests in Syria and Egypt!), perhaps most striking is the relative lack of data and its uneven distribution and publication. Large parts of the region are seriously underrepresented in a number of categories of evidence, notably quantified pottery assemblages and data on rural settlement. From the archaeological perspective, one might hope for more data as well as the new models and theoretical bases that Alston calls for. While it is imperative to try to make some kind of sense of the data available to us now, perhaps at this stage one should not demand too much complexity in its interpretation. The editors and authors of Economy and Exchange in the East Mediterranean seem to have struck about the right balance for our present state of knowledge. Alston’s focus perhaps leads him to pass over one of the notable virtues of the volume, which is how the contributors have drawn together scattered and uneven data, that often was originally recorded and published without broader economic study in mind. The papers by Decker and Karagiorgou come to mind in this respect, largely because the present author has some familiarity with the evidence they use—undoubtedly it is true of other papers in the volume too. Besides drawing together data, the contributors have taken good first steps towards synthesis of this data. The editors state in their first chapter, ‘New Rome, New Theories on Inter-Regional Exchange’ that one of the aims of the volume is to make some kind of broader sense of the economy of the late antique eastern Mediterranean. They have done a cautious but effective job of moving away from the largely individual site- and artefact-focused studies that we have often seen before.1 Certainly there is scope for new approaches in interpretation, but this is a good start. It is, perhaps, forgivable to dwell a little on the inadequacies of the data available to one studying the economy of the late antique east from an archaeological perspective. The aim of this is not to be pessimistic about the possibility of synthesis, but rather in the hope that more can be done to fill the gaps. While new fieldwork is invariably expensive and often difficult, in some cases evidence already exists, and further study of collections and archives may lead to its publication.

1 For example, Orssaud 1992 with its focus on pottery studies from Syria, and other papers in Canivet and Rey-Coquais 1992 that also tend to focus on specific categories of material or individual sites.

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The lack of data, or at least its uneven distribution, is a problem of which both Alston and the contributors to Economy and Exchange in the East Mediterranean are well aware. For example, in their introductory discussion of the quantification and publication of pottery assemblages, Decker and Kingsley state (p. 15) ‘equally evident is that many areas remain very poorly represented, especially Turkey, Cyprus, Syria and Egypt.’ This is virtually the entire eastern Mediterranean! Similarly, Alston (p. 14) notes ‘Byzantine Syria is a crucial test case’ of the problems of change and continuity in the 6th and 7th centuries AD. However, it is striking that most of the archaeological evidence he goes on to discuss in this context (Beth Shean/Scythopolis, Pella, Jerash) comes from beyond modern Syria, illustrating the problems of addressing such issues with evidence from Syria per se. In some respects, the current situation with regard to data for the study of the eastern Mediterranean economy is reminiscent of that for the central and western Mediterranean in the late 1960s and early 1970s. The crucial lacunae lie ( just as they did then) in the areas of quantified ceramic assemblages suitable for the study of trade and exchange and in the relative lack of data on agriculture and rural settlement from much of the region. The gaps are unevenly distributed, with excellent data for both these categories available from modern Jordan and Israel—Kingsley’s paper in Economy and Exchange in the East Mediterranean makes good use of the latter, for example. In contrast Syria and Egypt remain problematical, although the situation is changing in some respects. In Turkey, full publication of material from Amorium and Zeugma should fill some of the gaps. Pottery and Exchange The papers by Decker and Karagiorgou in Economy and Exchange in the Eastern Mediterranean show (as the authors are fully aware) that even our knowledge of the ‘well-known’ group of eastern Mediterranean late Roman amphorae (first recognised and studied as a distinct category by John Riley) is still very imperfect.2 Decker (p. 76) records finds of Riley’s Carthage Late Roman 1 amphorae, long associated with the export of olive oil from Syria, from a number of places, but ‘within Syria itself, examples have been noted at Anderin and Déhès.’ For a (probably, at least partly) Syrian amphora, we have very little published data from Syria!3 This is unlikely to be because of their absence from Syria (although their distribution may be more coastal than inland) but more likely because they haven’t been recognised or published to the extent that they have been elsewhere. Given that they appear in moderate quantities at Anderin/Androna, a site in inland central Syria some distance from river systems, let alone the sea, it is likely that they are to be found on other sites if looked for.4 However, the absence of adequate publication of such material

2

For early studies, see Riley 1981; 1982. Although they have been recorded in some quantity at Beirut—see Evans 1995 for an early summary, for example. 4 This author is engaged in preliminary study of this material, excavated in the course of work on the bath building at Anderin/Androna by the University of Oxford, directed by Dr Marlia Mango. I am grateful to Dr Mango for allowing me to study this material. The quantities of Riley Carthage Late Roman 1 amphora recovered there suggest imports rather than immediately local production, although they appear to be of the Syrian/Cilician fabric rather than Cypriot. 3

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(let alone in quantified form) from major sites such as Palmyra and Apamea makes our knowledge very incomplete. In fact modest quantities of Egyptian and Palestinian amphora fabric have also been identified at Anderin/Androna, a striking phenomenon on such an inland site, and one that raises questions about some of the gaps on distribution maps. However, it is difficult for this evidence to be anything but anecdotal in the absence of comparable assemblages from the region. As noted above, amphorae from Apamea, Palmyra and Hama have hardly been published at all, those from the important excavation at Dibsi Faraj very incompletely, leaving primarily Resafa, Déhès and Zenobias for comparison.5 For a long time Roman-Byzantine pottery from Egypt tended to be studied rather in isolation and was poorly published. Of course, more recent fieldwork (Mons Claudianus and Alexandria are just two projects that spring to mind) reversed this tradition, but there is much data available from the study of the archives and collections of older projects, originally published without economic study of archaeological material in mind and lacking the Mediterranean-wide perspective that is available now. For example, the University of Michigan’s collections from the 1930s excavations at Karanis in the Fayoum include substantial numbers of Riley’s late Roman amphorae. The preserved examples are mostly ‘Syrian’ Carthage Late Roman 1 (although at least some are probably of Cypriot production—the fabrics require closer study) along with smaller numbers of Carthage Late Roman amphora 2, Gaza (LR4) and Palestinian (LR5) vessels) and a few late Roman North African forms.6 These (along with the African Red Slip ware from the site)7 provide at least a qualitative insight into the Mediterranean economic links of this rural site in Egypt in the fourth to (perhaps) 7th century AD, even though the nature of collection and recording at the site make it impossible to quantify their importance. As mentioned, later Roman North African amphorae appear at Karanis, and, for example, have also been identified on the Red Sea coast.8 The relationship between Tunisian finewares and amphorae and eastern Mediterranean material in Egypt is a potentially interesting subject for study when more data becomes available. Another promising subject for future study that lies beyond these comparatively well-known eastern Mediterranean amphorae is the so-called ‘North Syrian amphora’, a bulbous form with red painted spiral decorations on the shoulder, recognised initially from fieldwork near Resafa.9 Examples of these amphorae show up at Anderin/ Androna, and also in some quantity at Zeugma (P. Kenrick, personal communication), suggesting, on the basis of preliminary information at least, a fairly widespread regional distribution. The location of production sites for these and more intensive, quantified study of distribution should prove interesting in the future. Undoubtedly there are other late Roman amphorae with a regional distribution in the eastern

5 A preliminary publication of the pottery from Dibsi Faraj can be found in Harper 1980. For Resafa, see Mackensen 1984 and subsequent volumes; for Déhès, Orssaud 1980; 1992; for Zenobia, Lauffray 1990. 6 Pollard 1998. 7 Johnson 1981 with reservations about chronology in Pollard 1998. 8 Riley 1989, 160–61. 9 Mackensen 1984, 50–52, examples on Tafel 12, 4–7 and a relatively complete example from Qseir es-Seile on Tafel 28, 1. Also examples at Dibsi Faraj; Harper 1980, fig. E 70–71 and Déhès; Orssaud 1992, fig. B/2 14.

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Mediterranean, outside the relatively well-known examples identified by Riley and discussed in this volume. Other categories of pottery that may have been traded over long distances are also potentially of value, but suffer from similar problems of identification and publication. For example, there is a striking absence from Syria of the otherwise widely distributed stamped unguentaria referred to by Hayes as ‘Late Roman Unguentaria’.10 However, these too appear in modest quantities at Anderin/Androna alongside the Phocaean and African Red Slip finewares, and one wonders if their absence from central Syria is more a matter of perception, brought about by limited recognition and publication, rather than reality. Similarly pottery referred to as ‘brittleware’, and appearing largely but not exclusively in cookware forms has been recorded across the region.11 Hopefully a typological and petrographic study of brittleware from Syria, currently being undertaken by Agnès Vokaer, will show whether this distribution provides evidence of long-distance trade in a specialised product or localised production of vessels that are relatively homogeneous in form and superficially so, at least, in fabric. Late antique shipwrecks from the eastern Mediterranean have also been studied and published rather unevenly, but since he edited Economy and Exchange in the Eastern Mediterranean, Kingsley has further contributed to our knowledge in this field with his publication of the Dor D wreck off the Carmel coast.12 The Countryside Rural settlement and production, of course, are crucial to any study of the ancient economy. However, like data from quantified pottery assemblages, our knowledge of the late antique countryside in the eastern Mediterranean is also uneven. Again, there is good information from modern Jordan and Israel. The archaeology of the countryside has not been a particularly high priority in Turkey, but things are beginning to change, and even some older projects provide some information on rural settlement hierarchies. In Syria there are major gaps. The standing remains of the villages of the limestone massif once studied by Tchalenko remain a focus and perhaps lead us to believe we know more about the countryside in Syria than we actually do. Sodini’s excavation and restudy of the village of Déhès has been tremendously important in providing stratigraphic evidence for the site’s development, not least (as Alston indicates) its continued occupation beyond the Islamic conquest.13 Likewise Tate’s re-study of the massif as a whole is important, although the detailed basis of his dating by architectural seriation remains to be set out in full in the second volume of his study.14 But rural Syria extends far beyond the limestone massif and more work needs to be done to establish whether its development is typical of the province as a whole, particularly of the more marginal areas on the edge of (and now part of ) the arid

10 I am grateful to Mr Erguen Lafli for pointing out to me the apparent absence of these unguentaria from Syria. 11 Well documented at Dibsi Faraj, Déhès and many other sites and survey projects across the region. 12 Kingsley 2002. 13 Sodini 1980. 14 Tate 1992.

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steppe. Limited publication of pottery from important sites also has implications here, for any survey that seeks to consider sites less substantial than the standing remains of the limestone massif requires good ceramic chronologies for the dating of surface remains. Imported African Red Slip and Phocaean Red Slip finewares serve this purpose into the 7th century, and Islamic glazed wares continue this sequence, but only after a break. Identification of the transitional period from Byzantine to Ummayad is still not entirely clear in Syria, with disagreement between, for example, German publications from the Resafa project and the French at Déhès over the chronology of some important categories of pottery.15 The stratigraphic evidence from Déhès seems to have gone some way towards clearing up these problems and making study of the Byzantine-Ummayad transition by surface survey more practical in Syria, and one hopes that more such work will be done. Similarly, despite Dominic Rathbone’s survey work in the Fayoum, the archaeological study of the Roman countryside in Egypt is still at an early stage, though there is potential for truly valid integration of documentary and archaeological evidence here. Karanis in the Fayoum is still viewed by many as a paradigmatic site, yet what we have long thought we knew about the site in late antiquity (decline in the 4th century, with subsequent abandonment in the 5th) needs considerable reevaluation. The substantial number of late Roman amphorae excavated from the site (mentioned above), along with moderate quantities of later African Red Slip vessels (including Hayes’s forms 103 and 104) suggest continued occupation and likely prosperity, with Mediterranean-wide economic links, through the 6th and probably into the 7th century AD.16 More fieldwork emphasising the rural economy certainly would be desirable in Egypt, but again, the case of Karanis highlights the possibilities for archival work, restudying older excavation records and collections from Egypt and elsewhere in the later Roman east with newer questions in mind. Conclusions This brief discussion of some of the huge gaps in our knowledge of the economy of the late antique Mediterranean is not intended to discourage the drawing of general conclusions about the subject from archaeological data. Rather it is to suggest a degree of caution in such synthesis, at present inevitably based on inadequate data. The contributors to Economy and Exchange in the Eastern Mediterranean have struck a good balance between assembling data and attempting broader explanation, given the current state of our knowledge. Certainly we need new theoretical and historical approaches, but we also need new data (along with mining and reconsideration of old data) to make those approaches meaningful. Department of Classics and Ancient History University of Wales Swansea Singleton Park Swansea SA2 8PP UK 15 Compare Harper 1982, Mackensen 1984 and Orssaud 1980 and 1992 for disagreements over the dating of some of the brittleware forms, combed decoration on amphorae and other potentially transitional characteristics. 16 Pollard 1998.

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Canivet, P. and Rey-Coquais, J.-P. (eds.) 1992: La Syrie de Byzance à l’Islam: VII e–VIII e siècles (Damascus). Evans, J. 1995: ‘Islamic and Roman Pottery: Preliminary Report’. http://www.aub.edu.lb/aubnline/faculties/arts_and_sciences/archaeology/pottery.html (viewed 1999). Harper, R.P. 1980: ‘Athis-Neocaesareia-Qasrin-Dibsi Faraj’. In Margueron, J.-C. (ed.), Le moyen Euphrate (Strasbourg), 160–85. Kingsley, S.A. 2002: A Sixth-Century AD Shipwreck off the Carmel Coast, Israel. Dor D and Holy Land Wine Trade (Oxford). Lauffray, J. 1990: Halabiyya-Zenobia, place forte du Limes oriental et de la Haute-Mésopotamie au VI e siècle vol. 2 (Paris). Mackensen, M. 1984: Resafa 1 (Mainz). Orssaud, D. 1980: ‘La céramique’. In Sodini 1980, 234–66. ——. 1992: ‘Le passage de la céramique byzantine à la céramique omeyyade’. In Canivet and Rey-Coquais 1992, 195–218. Pollard, N.D. 1998: ‘The Chronology and Economic Condition of Late Roman Karanis: An Archaeological Reassessment’. Journal of the American Research Center in Egypt 35, 147–62. Riley, J.A. 1981: ‘The Pottery from Cisterns 1977.1, 1977.2, 1977.3’. In Humphrey, J. (ed.), Excavations at Carthage 1977: Conducted by the University of Michigan 6 (Ann Arbor), 85–124. ——. 1982: ‘New Light on Relations between the Eastern Mediterranean and Carthage in the Vandal and Byzantine Periods: The Evidence from the University of Michigan Excavations’. In Actes du Colloque sur la céramique antique, Carthage 23–24 June 1980 (CEDAC, Carthage), 111–22. ——. 1989: ‘The Pottery’. In Sidebotham, S.A., Riley, J.A., Hamroush, H.A. and Baraka, H., ‘Fieldwork on the Red Sea Coast: The 1987 Season’. Journal of the American Research Center in Egypt 26, 149–61. Sodini, J.-P. (ed.) 1980: Déhès (Syrie du nord) campagnes I–III (1976–1978): recherches sur l’habitat rural (Syria 57), 1–304. Tate, G. 1992: Les campagnes de la Syrie du nord du II e au VII e siècle vol. I (Paris).

CYRENAICA AND THE LATE ANTIQUE ECONOMY ANDREW WILSON

Approaches to the Economy of Late Antiquity I welcome Richard Alston’s call for new work on the development of a coherent theoretical approach to the study of the economy of late antiquity. The subject has received relatively little attention in comparison with the study of the Roman economy of the late Republic and early Empire; and even for the Roman period there is little consensus on the nature of the economy—primitivism is out of favour, but no coherent vision has yet replaced it. Questions of particular interest involve comparing regions and periods: to what extent do the late antique economies of the eastern and western Mediterranean from the 4th century onwards resemble each other; and how do they compare with the economy of the Roman world in, say, the 1st–3rd centuries AD? I cannot attempt here to advance a comprehensive theoretical sketch of the late antique economy—nor is it clear to me from Alston’s piece that he sees how such a model should be constructed; but I want to clear up some misconceptions in Alston’s reading of my paper in Economy and Exchange in the East Mediterranean during late Antiquity, and to advance some further questions which seem to me essential for understanding the shape of the late antique economy, in addition to those posed by Alston. In my rather slight contribution to Economy and Exchange I attempted to gather some data on manufacturing activities in the cities of Cyrenaica and assess the evidence they provided for a picture of urban change between AD 200 and 642. The data were limited and often poorly dated, and I was certainly not trying to present a picture of the economy of Cyrenaica as a whole, let alone imply that Cyrenaica was typical of the wider eastern Mediterranean, or express any view on the extent to which economic activity and exchange were driven by the state. Yet Alston’s review makes my remarks bear a much heavier superstructure than they were intended to, using them as the starting point for a critique of macro-economic approaches to the ancient economy. Indeed, I shall argue below that in many respects Cyrenaica was exceptional. Much of Alston’s discussion revolves around trade, taxation and the important question of the role of the state. Here I am in full agreement with him that state influence and its effects varied greatly in different regions, and that the Byzantine economy was ‘more complex, diverse and commercial than state-driven macro-economic explanations would allow’. But his discussion of the state makes some major assumptions that are highly questionable; and these condition our views on the nature of the Roman and Byzantine economies, and on the relationship between them. Chief among these is the idea that the high cost of long-distance transport and the ability of the whole circum-Mediterranean region to produce a similar range of staple crops render long-distance trade uneconomic without state intervention in the market or in transport systems. It doesn’t, and this kind of argument is out of touch with postFinley thinking on the ancient economy: a host of recent studies, notably Horden and Purcell’s The Corrupting Sea, have shown that climatic unpredictability in the Mediterranean region leads to strategies of surplus production for storage and exchange, while regional variation in quality of wines, olive oil and other produce creates different

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market niches.1 Although Alston (correctly, in my view) argues for a lesser state role than do some historians, and emphasises the importance of private commerce, he accepts the long-held opinion that technological progress in antiquity had little impact on economic development and that, therefore, ‘in a model of a stable (less favourably, stagnant) economy, the state provides a major dynamic to explain change.’ Clearly the state is a major actor; but I have recently argued that historians have massively underestimated the degree of technological development in antiquity and its impact on the economy; and in particular that the industrial scale of extraction of precious metals at the Spanish mines is one of the contributory factors to the period of economic prosperity in the first two centuries AD that we can detect from a variety of proxy indicators in this period (building inscriptions, field survey data, etc.). Conversely, cessation of such mining operations was, together with increases in army pay, one of the reasons for coinage debasement in the late 2nd and 3rd centuries AD, further exacerbated by the loss of the Dacian silver mines in 258/9.2 Moreover, I question the assumption that the ancient economy was either stable or stagnant; a growing school of thought is arguing for intensive per capita economic growth in the first two centuries AD;3 and any consideration of the archaeological evidence strongly points in this direction. Can we identify periods of growth in late antiquity too? And what is the impact of technological development or regression? The metal supply is a crucial variable to consider in any macro-economic analysis. We are poorly informed about Byzantine mining and for the moment this hampers our analysis; the large Roman copper mines of Faeno (Wadi Faynan, Jordan) continued in operation into the Byzantine period,4 and Papacostas in Economy and Exchange points to copper mines in Cyprus, but we know little of the scale of operations. We can be sure, however, that with no equivalent of the vast Spanish mines or the Dacian gold and silver mines, the Byzantine state must have had at its disposal far less new bullion from its mines per year than did the Roman empire, and we should expect this to have made a difference. Yet Banaji’s compelling analysis of the late antique monetary economy points to the availability of large amounts of gold coin in circulation, and argues that the switch to a primarily gold currency ushered in an economic revival.5 Where did all this gold come from? Does the apparent mismatch between the gold mining resources available to the Byzantine state and the amount of gold in circulation lend some credence to the claim by the author of the De Rebus Bellicis (2.1) that the release of temple treasures in the mid-4th century fuelled inflation? One should expect the unlocking of the accumulated hoards of several centuries of votive offerings to have had an appreciable impact; if much of the new wealth went initially into private hands, could it have had the inflationary effect implied by the anonymous author of the De Rebus Bellicis, before feeding progressively into the state coffers through taxation? But another gold source is also indicated. In 1982 Timothy Garrard put forward a strong case that the commencement of gold coinage at the Alexandria mint in AD 294 and the Carthage mint in 296 indicate that supplies of gold from sources in

1 2 3 4 5

Horden and Purcell 2000; Mattingly 1988, passim but especially 34–35. Wilson 2002. Hitchner 1993; forthcoming; Mattingly 1988; Wilson 2002. Barker et al., 1998; Barker et al., 1999, 265. Banaji 2001.

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West Africa were starting to become available through trans-Saharan trade.6 Issues were sporadic at first, but seem to have become regular in the early 4th century, and by the 5th century various taxes from North Africa were increasingly being collected in gold. The argument is supported by the fact that metrological standards for the trade in gold dust in North Africa and the western Sudan were based on Roman units from the early Islamic period right up until the 19th century, even though the Islamic coinage of North Africa is based on non-Roman weight standards; these standards should therefore have been established in the trans-Saharan gold dust trade during the Roman period. West Africa and the trans-Saharan routes seem therefore to have provided a source of gold supply to late Roman North Africa; the Vandal conquest removed this from the grasp of the Western empire, but Justinian’s reconquest of North Africa restored it to the Byzantine world, and the Carthage mint struck Byzantine gold coinage extensively and continuously from 534 to 695. Garrard notes that, according to numismatic tables of rarity, Byzantine gold coinage from 527–685 ( Justinian I—Constantine IV) is extremely common, very common or common, whereas from 685–775 ( Justinian II—Constantine V) it is very scarce, rare, very rare or extremely rare. This suggests that the empire lost a major source of its gold supply in the time of Justinian II. This was precisely when the Arab invasion of North Africa reached its peak, forcing the Byzantine mint of Carthage to close in 695. But while the flow of solidi ceased, the Arabs immediately opened a new mint at Kairouan in Tunisia and began to strike gold dinars. It is evident that the gold lost to the Byzantines had been gained by the Arabs. Since the Arabs unquestionably drew on West African gold, we may conclude that this was also the source for the Byzantine gold of Carthage.7

Garrard’s thesis of a gold source external to the empire is especially useful because it helps to explain the otherwise puzzling discrepancy between the available sources of gold bullion within the Byzantine empire and the apparently plentiful supply of gold coin in the 6th–7th centuries. Alston refers to ‘state-like institutions’, but does not develop the point. The Church is, of course, the most important state-like institution in our period: a major landowner, builder, political actor, recipient of tithes and legacies, and a redistributor of wealth. Anne Leone has recently pointed to the archaeological evidence from late Roman and Byzantine Tunisia and Tripolitania for church control of urban property, including oil presses and possibly other productive installations.8 We lack comparable data from Cyrenaica, although the possible monastery at Siret Gasrin el-Giamel, with its oil and wine production facilities (discussed below), fits this pattern.9 Given the lack of ancient statistics on the economy, we must look for various proxy indicators of economic performance. Amphorae and imported ceramics are one such, discussed in Economy and Exchange; coinage is another. But the construction industry, so often used as a barometer of economic health in the modern world, is scarcely exploited by historians of the ancient or late antique economies, despite the possibility of studying it through standing remains and building inscriptions. The potential is well illustrated by Janet DeLaine’s excellent studies of the Baths of Caracalla and of the relative costs of different forms of construction at Ostia,10 but the building 6 7 8 9 10

Garrard 1982. Garrard 1982, 449. Leone 2001, vol. 1, 99–100, 102, 106–07, 245–46. Ward-Perkins and Goodchild 2003, 412–13. DeLaine 1997; 2000.

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industry has yet to figure large in any general analysis of the economy. The building industry can be taken as a visible expression of large-scale public and private expenditure, and therefore as a reflection of people’s capacity and willingness to spend. Here, though, we clearly encounter a major structural difference between the Roman world and the world of late antiquity; even in the Byzantine East, the number and scale of state building projects can hardly compare with those of the 1st or 2nd centuries AD, while private euergetism had dwindled to the point that new construction was largely limited to churches; in the west, of course, little is built except churches and fortifications. Not only does this reflect differing levels of surplus available for both state and private expenditure; it has a highly significant effect on the numbers employed in the building industry. The difference in this respect between the Roman period and late antiquity is most marked in the west; north of the Alps there seems to be no production of fired bricks after ca. AD 400, or construction in newly-made bricks. The loss of fired brick technology in north-western Europe suggests a contraction in the building industry to the point where it could no longer sustain a sector of specialised brick-makers mass-producing material to stock, or for specific building projects. The first production of fired brick in Britain after the end of the Roman occupation was the short-lived Coggeshall brick production in the 11th century, and then again at Hull in the early 14th century. Even in Italy, brick production in Campania ceased around the 5th or perhaps the early 6th century, and at Rome, where brick production continued into the 8th century, from the 4th century onwards it was on a much reduced scale from the production of the Roman period, with increased re-use of reclaimed bricks. After the 8th century brick production is barely attested on any large scale at Rome until the 14th, or more certainly, the 15th century.11 It is presumably significant, therefore, that in contrast to the situation in the western empire and its successor kingdoms, construction in newly made fired bricks is a feature of the building industry in parts of the Byzantine world (though not Cyrenaica); it suggests that levels of construction activity were still sufficient to support the massproduction of standardised building materials. Spoliation and re-use of building materials were of course widespread in the Byzantine world, just as in the west. In some cases, spoliation occurred on an impressive scale, and at Ephesus and Jerash the discovery of probably 6th-century water-powered sawmills for cutting up column drums into slabs of veneer indicate almost an industrialisation of spoliation.12 While this implies a certain technological vibrancy, the scale of Byzantine spoliation must have implications for reduced numbers of people engaged in quarrying vis-à-vis the Roman period. The evidence from the construction industry highlights a substantial difference between the eastern and western Mediterranean in late antiquity, and I cannot agree with Alston’s statement that: ‘Once the powerful unitary Roman state disappears from the West in the early 5th century, the Roman economies of the area seem to survive, apart from in a few peripheral areas.’ Possibly he is thinking of the fact that goods continued to be traded around the Mediterranean, though we have yet to have much objective quantification of how 5th-century trade compares with earlier periods (counting shipwrecks is not a reliable method). But in Spain the Ager Tarraconensis

11 12

Parenti 1994, 30; Wilson forthcoming. Ephesus: Vetters 1981; 1982; 1984; Jerash: Seigne 2002a; 2002b.

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survey indicates that although imported pottery continued to arrive at coastal sites, its penetration inland and to rural sites around towns was greatly reduced. The nature of the urban/rural relationship appears to have changed, and there is a profound change in the extent and efficiency of exchange networks. More generally, other factors suggest radical dislocation in many areas of economic life: contraction in 5thcentury rural settlement patterns in Italy; population decline at Rome; and the wide-ranging changes in towns of Africa.13 There may be continued long-distance trade, but the nature of 5th-century urbanism, the patterns of rural settlement, and the contraction and in some areas, virtual collapse, of large-scale building industries combine to render untenable the suggestion that the Western economy as a whole continued largely unchanged. The contrast with the East is striking, where we seem to see much greater levels of continuity, and one is tempted to suppose that this was due, at least in part, to the survival of a stronger, unitary state. I am not, though, suggesting that the state is the only significant factor; Alston is absolutely correct to point out the importance of private commercial interests as well. Alston seems to present the possible approaches to studying the late antique economy as a choice between macro-economics and micro-economics (or at least, regional studies), although his critique of both suggests an unhappiness with either in isolation. Surely, though, we need to combine the two; to develop a macro-economic approach, and test it regionally. Where the regional micro-economic performance differs from the macro-economic forecast, this needs to be explained, either by revising the model, or by identifying regional particularities that affect performance locally. The Economy of Late Antique Cyrenaica In Economy and Exchange my contribution reviewed some archaeological data for late productive installations in the towns of Cyrenaica. For the most part these were smallscale activities, relating to the processing of agricultural produce—olive oil and wine production, and the milling of grain. Most of these installations gave the impression of differing from rural installations only in their location, not in their size, and I suggested that in many respects the functional distinction between towns and villages was being eroded in late antiquity. It was beyond the scope of my article to attempt an analysis of the Cyrenaican economy as a whole; and here we face a lack of data. We have almost no information on land-holding patterns, and problems of security clearance have so far meant that surface survey has not been possible. Despite the extensive evidence visible on old air photographs for field systems of various periods around Cyrene, our knowledge of the settlement structures within the Cyrenaican landscape at any period remains poor, and largely limited to those gsur or late antique fortified farms that have been studied and which remain a visible feature of the landscape. The correspondence of Synesius complains about heavy taxation, but we can put no figures on this. Synesius, although bishop of Ptolemais, tell us relatively little about the economic role of the Church. Archaeological evidence allows us to make some limited preliminary guesses at the range of goods produced and exported, but much more fieldwork needs to be done. Salted fish and fish products (sauces) would seem to be an obvious product of the

13 Spain: Millett 1991; Keay 1991; Carreté et al., 1995, 280–81. Italian settlement (South Etruria): Potter 1979, 141–45. Africa: Potter 1995.

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region, but we have no archaeological remains of salting vats, or any amphorae identified as being for salted fish. The only evidence we have is anecdotal—Synesius’ reference to Andronicos of Berenice as originally having been a tunny fisherman (Letter 57). He also relates a story of how he astonished an inland community who had never seen fish before by showing them an amphora of salted fish—but the amphora was from Egypt, not Cyrenaica (Letter 148). Grain, horses and honey are possible exports suggested by literary sources of various periods, though unsurprisingly we can point to no archaeological proofs for this. Silphium was still cultivated, and its juice and extracts exported, in Synesius’ time (Letter 134); other products mentioned by Synesius as products of inland Cyrenaica are wheat, honey, milk (from goats only; he says cows are not milked), and of course olive oil and wine (Letter 148). Olives and grapes are crops well suited to the Cyrenaican landscape, but Synesius’ praise of Cyrenaican olive oil clearly indicates that it was a second-rate product—he praises its heaviness, and its utility as lamp fuel and as a massage oil for athletes, contrasting it to lighter oils from elsewhere (which were no doubt better for cooking with).14 In a letter probably dating from 406 Synesius refers to a cargo of wine he is sending to a friend, but says that the loading of a cargo of olive oil, saffron, silphium and ostriches has been prevented by the depredations of the Austuriani (Letter 134). Synesius appears to be sending these as gifts, rather than exporting them on a commercial basis. We would expect some commercial export of these products, but we cannot as yet estimate the scale of such activity. Although evidence is now coming to light for the export to Italy (Rome, Ostia and the Veneto) during the 3rd century AD of whatever was carried in Cyrenaican Mid-Roman 8 amphorae,15 no Cyrenaican amphora types from late antiquity have yet been recognised either inside or outside the region. This is not in itself evidence for a lack of exports in these products—it serves to illustrate how little work has been done on the archaeology of the Cyrenaican economy—and there remains the possibility that some produce may have been exported in re-used amphorae. At Berenice, a group of Late Roman 1 amphorae found in association with wine storage or fermentation vats were probably awaiting re-use.16 But one would expect that, had there been a substantial export trade in Cyrenaican amphorae-borne commodities, local amphora types would have been developed, and these should be more prominent in the archaeological record. The impression that Cyrenaica’s trading links with some other parts of the eastern Mediterranean were not extensive at this period seems supported by Synesius’ remarks that ships rarely sailed between Cyrenaica and Syria (Letter 148), and the implication in Letter 52 that a certain Athenian trader, selling boots and cloaks, called very infrequently at the Cyrenaican ports. Although we cannot, in our present state of knowledge, argue for the large-scale export of Cyrenaican oil or wine in late antiquity, we can point to a considerable number of sites where these were produced. It must always be borne in mind that

14 Modern Cyrenaican olive oil is also very heavy, and poor for cooking, but gives a good flame. 15 Ferrarini 1993, 158. From the morphology of the neck, I would suspect oil rather than wine as the principal contents of Mid-Roman 8 amphorae, although salted fish remains a possibility. 16 Lloyd 1977, 148. For reused amphorae in the Roman period, see, for example, the Grado shipwreck: Auriemma 2000.

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our evidence for oil and wine is going to be over-represented by comparison with e.g. grain or honey, because of their archaeologically distinctive and durable processing equipment. Besides the evidence for oil and wine production in urban contexts which I summarised in Economy and Exchange, we have numerous wine and oil presses from villages and isolated gsur (fortified farms). The most impressive such site is the village of Lamluda, east of Cyrene, which, apart from clearance of a church by Goodchild, has seen no formal excavation. The ruins appear to be predominantly late, and include the remains of two churches, the westernmost of which may be 6th century, a Byzantine bath-house, and numerous cisterns and oil presses.17 On brief visits in 2002 and 2003 I counted some 50 upstanding or exposed oil presses. This would appear to be an agro-village, where the majority of the population worked the land around the settlement, but the scale of production clearly indicates surplus for the market; whether this was all absorbed by late antique Cyrene, or if some of it found its way further afield, we simply cannot tell without better knowledge of what, if any, amphorae Cyrenaica produced at this period. At Siret Gasrin el-Giamel, 12 km west of Cyrene near El-Beida, there are two gsur, both equipped for the production of oil and wine; the occupation of both is dated on ceramic evidence to the 5th–7th centuries AD. One is a possible monastery, and the other a fortified agricultural centre.18 In the first phase of the latter, in the late 5th/early 6th century, there were a wine press and 17 terracotta dolia; later, in the first half of the 6th century, oil presses were added—one in an underground rockcut chamber, and three in an above-ground building.19 At Gasr Bandis, a settlement centred on a gasr includes houses, baths, cisterns and ‘numerous presses for olives and grapes together with vats, and a partially excavated mosaic floor’.20 Although the presses are undated, the mosaic floor is thought to be 6th-century on the basis of similarities with the Justinianic mosaics from Gasr Libia. Elements of oil presses (uprights, counterweight blocks, or rotary olive crushing mills) are commonly found at late but undated gsur, for example at Tansolluk between Hadrianopolis (Driana) and (Tocra). Many, perhaps all, of the late antique fortified farms of the region were producing oil, and some wine as well. One of the most revealing sites, though, is Tarakanet, a rock-cut underground chamber with a rotary olive mill and shallow oil separation vats; 6th-century Christian inscriptions celebrate, in extravagant terms, the construction of this rather humble installation by one Samphoudion, who appears to have been a praepositus among the Maurysii (Moors or Libyans) and subsequently elected a strategos by his unnamed city.21 The inscriptions give the impression that the creation of this single-press installation was a major and arduous achievement; the contrast between this and the functional, uninscribed simplicity of the vast oil factories of 3rd-century AD Tripolitania or south/central Tunisia, each with 6, 9, 10 or even 17 oil presses, is striking, and speaks volumes about the expectations of investment, expenditure and command of resources in the two different societies.22

17

Ward-Perkins and Goodchild 2003, 294–302. Ward-Perkins and Goodchild 2003, 413. 19 Catani 1976; 1998. 20 Ward-Perkins and Goodchild 2003, 393. 21 Ward-Perkins and Goodchild 2003, 415–17. 22 See, for example, Oates 1953, 97–100 (Henchir Sidi Hamdan, 9 presses); Cowper 1897, 279–82 (Senam Semana, 17 presses). 18

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The building industry is much reduced from its scale in the imperial period, with the exception of churches, and (predominantly) rural fortifications. In late antiquity imported marble is found almost exclusively in churches; the major sources are the Aegean quarries, especially Proconnesus. In the 4th century, non-monumental building techniques reach a low point after the earthquake of AD 365; recent excavations at Balagrae (El-Beida) have uncovered a modest and crudely built structure erected after the 365 earthquake on the ruins of its predecessor, which itself had been built of large re-used ashlars robbed from a Roman building.23 Nevertheless, a high-quality masonry tradition survives or revives later, with fine work at several of the 6thcentury rural gsur and monasteries, such as Siret Gasrin el-Giamel. Overall, our data on the economy of Cyrenaica are still very limited for both the Roman and the Byzantine periods, and drawing wide-ranging conclusions is hazardous. Olive oil was apparently an important product; so too was wine, and probably also a range of other crops and goods with minimal archaeological signatures. Without recognised Cyrenaican amphorae to prove export, we cannot say that there was a significant export trade, and the impression gained from Synesius’s Letters is of a province somewhat remote from the main currents of Mediterranean trade and communication. It is from the evidence of buildings, the decline of euergetism and the concentration in the built environment of late antiquity on religion and defence, that we really gauge the dislocation between the modest prosperity of the Roman period and the embattled subsistence of the 4th and 5th centuries. There are indications, from church building and from dated gsur such as Siret Gasrin el-Giamel, of a revival in the late 5th and the 6th centuries, notably in the Justinianic period; but we cannot go much beyond this without further excavation of a number of rural sites. Cyrenaica and the Rest of the Byzantine World Alston argues (see above p. 130) that A macro-economic or state political explanation for the archaeological evidence attesting urban decay in late Roman Cyrenaica falls not because it is inherently improbable or because macro-economics or the state had no effect on the situation in the provinces, but because of the urban and rural prosperity attested east and west, north and north-east of Cyrenaica. It is very difficult to know why communities capable of producing the sophisticated Alexandrian-trained scholar and bishop Synesius were unable to deploy sufficient resources to stop their cities being turned into war zones (at least on Wilson’s reading of the architecture), when in so many places the period from ca. 300 to at least 540 was one of relative peace and prosperity.

But there is no necessary link between the intelligence and training of an individual like Synesius—who, moreover, goes outside the region for his education—and the levels of private or civic wealth or state investment in the region. Synesius’ literary output is not an index of the Cyrenaican economy’s performance. More important is the point that Alston correctly highlighted; why does Cyrenaica behave so differently from, say, Egypt or Syria? (I dispute his implication that Tripolitania was significantly prosperous after the 4th century; apart from a brief revival under Justinian with stateinjected funds, marked largely by church-building and fortifications, the picture from the archaeology of the cities there is one of contraction and decay; and the rural

23

Buzaian and Bentaher 2002.

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landscape looks increasingly embattled, with the courtyard farms of the 2nd and 3rd centuries now replaced by gsur or fortified farms, with nothing on the scale of the large oil factories of the 2nd and 3rd centuries.) I would argue that the difference between Cyrenaica and Egypt is explained by the fact that Cyrenaica was never strategically critical or economically vital to the Byzantine empire. It never seems to have been a major exporter, unlike Egypt with the grain supply, or Roman and late Roman Tripolitania with its oil exports. The opportunity for local elites to amass wealth on the basis of trade on the scale which the elites of Tripolitania or Alexandria did was therefore limited. Geographically, the Djebel Akhdar or Green Mountain of Cyrenaica lies like an island of fertile terrain between the Syrtica and Marmarica, separated from Tripolitania and Egypt by hundreds of miles of desert. Strategically, to an empire that includes Tripolitania and Egypt, it makes sense to hold Cyrenaica too, to facilitate communications along the southern Mediterranean. But once the empire split and Tripolitania went with the Western empire, Cyrenaica became an isolated outpost on the south-west fringes of the Byzantine world. And when, in the late 4th and the 5th century, Cyrenaica suffered earthquakes, a plague of locusts, pestilence (Synesius, Letter 58) and then was repeatedly raided by the semi-nomadic tribes of the pre-desert, the state had more pressing concerns. Synesius makes it very clear that he thinks the state’s attempts at garrisoning the region and defending against tribal raids are woefully inadequate (Letters 78, 107, 125), and it may be that the imperial command in Byzantium did not take the threat to the region from desert tribesmen seriously enough to send an adequate force for defence, or provide sufficient monetary aid. The burden of defence was therefore thrown onto the local elites, men like Synesius who found themselves, by virtue of their position as church leaders, organising local militias (Letter 125), while farmers were constrained to fortify their farms and build gsur. So any profits from agriculture were ploughed into defence, so that the relatively low-intensity raids could be survived by sheltering in fortified farms and urban blockhouses until the Libyans went away again. But the long-term damage to the economy was done by the repeated burning of crops; the agricultural surplus must have been gravely threatened as each year the desert tribesmen came and torched the fields (Synesius, Letters 125, 130). And if the region was not a major exporter, the opportunities for disposal of surplus relied on local and regional markets; what little we can suggest about the demography of the period is not positive, with the cities showing clear signs of contraction. There is no market-driven expansion of agricultural production here. In such a situation, with reduced agricultural yields and increased costs of defence, the economy would be quickly crippled without state investment or relief. Small wonder, perhaps, that a century or two later Samphoudion viewed the building of a single olive press in a (defensible?) underground chamber as an achievement to boast about. This contrasts clearly with Banaji’s picture of Egypt in the same period; he argues from the papyrological evidence that until the late 4th century the Egyptian countryside had been dominated by families connected with town councils; but from the middle of the 5th century a new powerful and unified aristocracy was emerging, consolidating land holdings into vast estates and investing in them for profit. The wine trade was dominant and the large private estates (ousiai ) were largely controlled by Alexandrians; and the connections with Alexandria suggest that the estates were engaged in mass production for the urban market and for export further afield.24 24

Banaji 2001, 111, 132.

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Cyrenaica did not see the emergence of a super-rich aristocracy to the same degree, perhaps because it had no large urban port of the scale of Alexandria, and because the rural instability of the region required defence and inhibited investment in the productive infrastructure of estates. Cyrenaica, therefore, perhaps provides a model for what happens to provinces when their strategic and economic importance drops below the threshold that warrants the close attention of an empire only able to deal with a limited number of crises. Once the state is no longer able to protect the region against incursion, there is a severe knock-on effect on private investment in agricultural production, commerce and trade. The urban changes and the fortification of the countryside that we see in late 4thcentury Cyrenaica are paralleled in mid-4th-century Tripolitania and—for the towns at least—in 5th-century Africa once it has come under Vandal rule. Just as Cyrenaica was never very important in the pan-Mediterranean Roman scheme of things, so once the Tripolitanian export ports had been devastated in the 360s by the combined impact of the Austuriani and the earthquake of 365, olive oil export collapsed and the outlets for trans-Saharan trade failed, and the region effectively dropped off the imperial radar until its reconquest by Justinian. Fifth-century Africa was lost to the Western empire because even Italy was increasingly unable to defend itself. I am not, however, proposing a model that subordinates economic history to political history; quite the reverse, since one could make a case for seeing Cyrenaica as a province neglected in political terms precisely because it was not economically very important. But Cyrenaica is not typical. Therein, perhaps, lies its value as a region for study; if we can understand how it differs from other regions, that throws into sharper focus the local interplay of macro-economic and micro-economic factors. Acknowledgments I am very grateful to Dr Anna Leone for her helpful comments on an earlier draft of this paper. Institute of Archaeology 36 Beaumont Street Oxford OX1 2PH UK [email protected] BIBLIOGRAPHY Auriemma, R. 2000: ‘Le anfore del relitto di Grado e il loro contenuto’. Mélanges de l’École française de Rome (Antiquité 112), 27–51. Banaji, J. 2001: Agrarian Change in Late Antiquity: Gold, Labour and Aristocratic Dominance (Oxford). Barker, G.W., Adams, R., Creighton, O.H., Gilbertson, D.D., Grattan, J.P., Hunt, C.O., Mattingly, D.J., McLaren, S.J., Mohamed, H.A., Newson, P., Reynolds, T.E.G. and Thomas, D.C. 1998: ‘Environment and Land Use in the Wadi Faynan, Southern Jordan: the Second Season of Geoarchaeology and Landscape Archaeology (1997)’. Levant 30, 5–25. Barker, G.W., Adams, R., Creighton, O.H., Crook, D., Gilbertson, D.D., Grattan, J.P., Hunt, C.O., Mattingly, D.J., McLaren, S.J., Mohamed, H.A., Newson, P., Palmer, C., Pyatt, F.B.,

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Reynolds, T.E.G. and Tomber, R. 1999: ‘Environment and Land Use in the Wadi Faynan, Southern Jordan: the Third Season of Geoarchaeology and Landscape Archaeology (1998)’. Levant 31, 255–92. Buzaian, A.M. and Bentaher, F. 2002: ‘Preliminary report on two seasons of excavations at Balagrae (al-Beida)’. Libyan Studies 33, 125–31. Carreté, J.-M., Keay, S.J. and Millett, M. 1995: A Roman Provincial Capital and its Hinterland: The Survey of the Territory of Tarragona, Spain, 1985–1990 (Ann Arbor). Catani, E. 1976: ‘I frantoi della fattoria bizantina di El-Beida’. Quaderni di archeologia della Libia 8, 435–48. ——. 1998: ‘Fase edilizie e techniche murarie della fattoria paleobizantina di Siret el Giamel nella Chora Cirenea’. In Catani, E. and Marengo, S.M. (eds.), La Cirenaica in età antica (Pisa/Rome), 113–35. Cowper, H.S. 1897: The Hill of the Graces: A Record of Investigation among the Trilithons and Megalithic Sites of Tripoli (London). DeLaine, J. 1997: The Baths of Caracalla: A Study in the Design, Construction and Economics of Largescale Building Projects in Imperial Rome (Portsmouth, USA). ——. 2000: ‘Bricks and mortar: exploring the economics of building techniques at Rome and Ostia’. In Mattingly, D.J. and Salmon, J. (eds.), Economies beyond Agriculture in the Classical World (London), 271–96. Ferrarini, F. 1993: ‘Osservazioni su due tipologie di anfore della media età imperiale da Altino’. Quaderni di archeologia del Veneto 9, 157–64. Garrard, T.F. 1982: ‘Myth and metrology: the early trans-Saharan gold trade’. The Journal of African History 23.4, 443–61. Hitchner, R.B. 1993: ‘Olive production and the Roman economy: the case for intensive growth in the Roman empire’. In Amouretti, M.-C. and Brun, J.-P. (eds.), La production du vin et de l’huile en Méditerranée (Athens), 499–508. ——. forthcoming: ‘“The advantages of wealth and luxury”: the case for economic growth in the Roman empire’. In Manning, J. and Morris, I. (eds.), The Ancient Economy: Evidence and Models (Stanford). Horden, P. and Purcell, N. 2000: The Corrupting Sea (Oxford). Keay, S.J. 1991: ‘The Ager Tarraconensis in the late Empire: a model for the economic relationship of town and country in eastern Spain?’. In Barker, G.W.W. and Lloyd, J.A. (eds.), Roman Landscapes: Archaeological Survey in the Mediterranean Region (London), 79–87. Leone, A. 2001: Evolution and change: town and country in late antique North Africa (PhD Thesis, University of Leicester). Lloyd, J.A. (ed.) 1977: Excavations at Sidi Khrebish, Benghazi (Berenice) vol. 1 (Tripoli). Mattingly, D.J. 1988a: ‘Oil for export? A comparison of Libyan, Spanish and Tunisian olive oil production in the Roman empire’. Journal of Roman Archaeology 1, 33–56. ——. 1988b: ‘The olive boom. Oil surpluses, wealth and power in Roman Tripolitania’. Libyan Studies 19, 21–41. Millett, M. 1991: ‘Pottery: population or supply patterns? The Ager Tarraconensis approach’. In Barker, G.W.W. and Lloyd, J.A. (eds.), Roman Landscapes: Archaeological Survey in the Mediterranean Region (London), 18–26. Oates, D. 1953: ‘The Tripolitanian Gebel: settlement of the Roman period around Gsar edDaun’. Papers of the British School at Rome 21, 81–117. Parenti, R. 1994: ‘I materiali di costruzione, le tecniche di lavorazione e gli attrezzi’. In Brogiolo, G.P. (ed.), Edilizia residenziale tra V e VIII secolo (Mantua), 25–37. Potter, T.W. 1979: The Changing Landscape of South Etruria (London). ——. 1995: Towns in Late Antiquity: Iol Caesarea and its Context (Sheffield). Seigne, J. 2002a: ‘A sixth-century waterpowered sawmill at Jerash’. Annual of the Department of Antiquities of Jordan 46, 205–13. ——. 2002b: ‘Une scierie méchanique au VIe siècle’. Archéologia 385, 36–37. Vetters, H. 1981: ‘Ephesos, Vorläufiger Grabungsbericht 1980’. Anzeiger der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Wien, Philologisch-historische Klasse 118, 137–68. ——. 1982: ‘Ephesos, Vorläufiger Grabungsbericht 1981’. Anzeiger der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Wien, Philologisch-historische Klasse 119, 62–101.

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——. 1984: ‘Ephesos. Vorläufiger Grabungsbericht 1983’. Anzeiger der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Wien, Philologisch-historische Klasse 121, 209–32. Ward-Perkins, J.B. and Goodchild, R.G. 2003 (ed. J. Reynolds): Christian Monuments of Cyrenaica (London). Wilson, A.I. 2002: ‘Machines, power and the ancient economy’. The Journal of Roman Studies 92, 1–32. ——. forthcoming: ‘The Economic impact of technological advances in the Roman Construction industry’. In Lo Cascio, E. (ed.), Innovazione tecnica e progresso economico nel mondo romano.

POLARISING AND INTEGRATING THE LATE ROMAN ECONOMY: THE ROLE OF LATE ROMAN AMPHORAE 1–7 ROBERTA TOMBER Kingsley and Decker’s volume Economy and Exchange in the East Mediterranean During Late Antiquity comprises five case studies investigating the economy primarily through pottery, and three more general articles on the economy.1 Using these papers as a starting point, this contribution focuses on one approach, which forms a recurrent thread between them and is mirrored elsewhere in the literature: the adoption of polarised terminology in debating the economy. By their extremity, opposed constructs (such as town v. country or east v. west) oversimplify our picture of the Roman world, but they nevertheless provide a useful framework for discussion. Here three such pairs, relating to site type/location, economic scale, and the nature of exchange, will be examined to demonstrate how pottery can be used to investigate the issues behind them. Fundamental to this examination is an evaluation of the ceramic types most frequently relied upon for economic studies of the eastern Mediterranean. The argument for using ceramics as an index to the ancient economy is well known and need not be recited here; however, given the focus on amphorae in Kingsley and Decker, the relationship between transport amphorae, the subsistence economy and surplus agricultural products is worth emphasising.2 Any reader of the regional archaeological literature for the 4th–7th centuries will be familiar with a standard ‘package’ of transport containers. The core of this package, drawn on repeatedly by the Kingsley and Decker papers, normally comprises seven Late Roman (LR) amphora types from more than seven eastern Mediterranean source areas, most of which have an empirewide distribution. This terminology, coined by John Riley, was developed from his work at Benghazi during the 1970s3 and enshrined with the current numeration (which differs somewhat from that used at Benghazi) through his work at Carthage in 1977, published in 1981.4 Some scholars include an additional type, Benghazi LR 8, with this package.5 That, 20 years later, this classification system is still in common usage and accounts for the main amphora types reported on in publication, tells us much about LR pottery and the LR economy; at the same time this occasion provides an opportunity to evaluate whether emphasis on LR 1–7 remains a useful device for economic studies. The Amphorae: LR 1–7 and beyond While the general designation of LR 1–7 remains unaltered since the 1980s, Kingsley and Decker demonstrate how our knowledge regarding their date, source, contents

1

Kingsley and Decker 1999a. See particularly Wilson 1999 for a discussion and application of issues. 3 Riley 1979. 4 Riley 1981. 5 Karagiorgou 1999. The type refers to the spatheion, originating in North Africa rather than the eastern Mediterranean and will not be discussed here as part of the standard package. 2

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and distribution is constantly evolving. This advancement owes much to recent survey and excavation in the East, as well as detailed ceramic analysis particularly through scientific source characterisation.6 Although designated as ‘late Roman’ amphorae, LR 3,7 4,8 59 and 610 have near exact typological precedents from the 1st or 2nd century onwards, while LR 711 developed typologically from this same period. In the case of LR 1, amphora production is known in the region from the early Roman period, represented by the Pompeii V vessel,12 and a detailed typological sequence can be traced, possibly from as early as the 3rd century.13 Finally, LR 2 is known from the 4th century.14 Of the prototypes for LR 1–7, LR 3 had the widest distribution but, these vessels apart, distribution tends to be essentially regional until c. AD 375–425, after which they gradually dominate the Mediterranean. The shift in distribution patterns developing from the late 4th century can be related to Constantinople’s new status from AD 330.15 In the case of Alexandria, Majcherek notes that the diversion of the Egyptian annona from Rome to Constantinople in AD 330 had a major impact on supplies to that city.16 How closely one might expect political changes to be reflected in artefact distribution can be debated, but certainly there will be a time lag.17 Ultimately, the change of focus from the western to the eastern Mediterranean put in motion by the move to Constantinople gradually sweeps across the Mediterranean. Ripples from this shift in epicentre can be felt as far away as Britain where, for example, rare sherds of LR 4 are found from the mid-4th century.18 At present the following source areas are generally accepted for LR 1–7: Cilicia, Cyprus and possibly Rhodes (LR 1), Peloponnese, Argolid and Chios (LR 2), western Asia Minor/Meander Valley (LR 3), Gaza (LR 4), Palestine (LR 5), northern Palestine/Galilee (LR 6)19 and Nile Valley, Egypt (LR 7). Apart from LR 3, kilns are known for all the types, although they probably represent only a small proportion of the actual production sites that must have existed. LR 1 and 4 provide especially good examples of progress in our understanding of source areas since the 1980s.

6

See, for example, the scientific element throughout Peacock and Williams 1986. Lang 1955. 8 Majcherek 1995. 9 Riley 1975. 10 Magness 1992, 131. 11 Tomber and Williams 2000. Here LR 7 refers to all Egyptian amphorae of this date, both Peacock and Williams Classes 52–53 as well as other form variants. Majcherek forthcoming, for example, distinguishes between LR 7 and Egloff ’s Kellia 172 form. 12 Empereur and Picon 1989, figs. 20–21. 13 Arthur 1998, 164; Arthur and Oren 1998, 203; Reynolds forthcoming will present a unified typology for these vessels. 14 Karagiorgou 1999, 129. 15 See Slane 1990 for a similar interpretation. 16 Majcherek forthcoming. 17 For a discussion of the relationship between political events and pottery distribution, see Fulford 1984, 29–30 and 255–62. 18 Symonds and Tomber 1991, fig. 13, 119; 6 sherds of LR 4 have since been recorded in the London database, all with a terminal date of AD 400; a more complicated profile is evidenced by ca. 50 sherds of LR 3 most of which have a date as LR 4, but six have a terminal date of AD 250 or earlier and may belong to a different wave of exchange from the East. 19 The literature is somewhat conflicting on the sources of LR 5/6; for example, compare Arthur 1998, 159; Kingsley 1999, 50; Magness 1992, 131. 7

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LR 4, long considered to have held the fine wines of Gaza,20 has now been confirmed in this region by the identification of numerous kilns.21 As for LR 1, at one time thought to originate in Egypt, it is now clear that both Cilicia and Cyprus were important production centres. First identified by survey work undertaken by Empereur and Picon,22 kiln evidence, from Cyprus in particular, continues to grow.23 Amphorae produced in more than one region—such as LR 1—may be difficult to distinguish from each other visually on fabric grounds alone, and this modern problem raises interesting questions regarding the imitation of vessel types in antiquity. The most oft-quoted example of this comes from the early Roman period, with the ubiquitous copying of the ‘Dressel 2–4’ or double-rod handled vessel,24 in numerous provinces from the east to the west. The form has been associated with wine produced from the Aminean grape25 and thereby allied in both form and contents to renowned Italian products.26 In the same way, were LR 1s from Cilicia and Cyprus associated with oils of a certain quality, or wine from a particular grape? Or was imitation merely an attempt to benefit from a market already existing for a popular ceramic type? Standardised amphorae as a means of product identification provide an explanation for the copying of vessel types, and the originator at least may have been associated with high quality products,27 accounting for commercially led interregional trade in goods available throughout the Mediterranean littoral.28 It is interesting to speculate whether the ancients could distinguish between products of disparate centres from typological nuances within standardised vessels, or whether labels and dipinti alone served this purpose. Of LR 1–7, vessels from Gaza (LR 4) and Palestine (LR 5) seem particularly to have been associated with fine wines, and in this context it is interesting that LR 5 was imitated in Egypt.29 In contrast, within their home market, Egyptian vessels (LR 7) carried primarily wine and fish products, of which only the early Roman wines of Mareotis30 had a widespread reputation, and this may account for their extensive, but meagre, long-distance distribution. Amphorae and Egyptian fine wares occurring outside Egypt are more likely to be a by-product of the flourishing trade in perishable goods such as papyrus and textiles for which Egypt was renowned, rather than staple but undistinguished liquid foodstuffs. The occurrence of LR 1–7 dominates the literature: in terms of form and fabric they are the most readily distinguished and best sourced types. They are not, however, as might be considered implicit from their grouping, equally important. In the

20

Riley 1979, 222. Kingsley 1999, 50. 22 Empereur and Picon 1989, 236–39. 23 For example, the kiln at Zygi-Petrini published by Manning et al. 2000. 24 Peacock and Williams 1986, Class 10. 25 Empereur 1986. 26 See also Rathbone 1983. 27 Purcell 1985. 28 See R. Alston in the present issue, pp. 124–36. 29 Empereur and Picon 1992, 150–52; see Kingsley 1999, footnote 74 for a summary of the evidence. 30 Ancient authors referring to Mareotic wine include Virgil, Horace, Athenaeus, Pliny and Strabo, see El-Fakharani 1983, 178; Empereur 1986, 606. 21

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most simplistic terms, ignoring chronological distinctions, these observations can be made: LR 1 had by far the widest and longest circulation, LR 2 was particularly intense in the Balkan and Aegean regions, and LR 3 and 4 were also important throughout the Mediterranean. LR 5 had some widespread distribution, although it was most common in the Levant. LR 6 (a reduced version of LR 5) and LR 7 never achieved a quantitatively significant distribution beyond the regional level and as such were not as important as, particularly, LR 1–4. Of vessels other than LR 1–7, much less is known regarding their source, their contents and their overall distribution. As a result they are frequently grouped together as ‘unidentified’ or sometimes ignored altogether. In his 1981 article, Riley concentrated on LR 1–7, but examination of the raw data reveals only rare unidentified eastern Mediterranean amphorae.31 Amphorae recorded from the Italian excavations at Carthage reinforce this pattern: from the early 5th century onwards, eastern Mediterranean amphorae account for 15–40% of all amphorae, but less than 10% of them fall outside LR 1–7.32 Quantified figures from a mid-5th century deposit in Rome result in a similar picture, where eastern amphorae account for approximately 27% of all amphorae, and of these only some 2% do not belong to LR 1–5.33 Generally, therefore, in the west, this standard package accounts for most of the eastern amphorae, but western products, particularly African, remain important. It should be noted, however, that while unidentified eastern Mediterranean are quantitatively insignificant for both Carthage and Rome,34 in some deposits a large number of sherds are classified as ‘miscellaneous’: the significance of this cannot be assessed, although given the experience of the scholars involved they are unlikely to boost substantially the proportion of unidentified eastern Mediterranean vessels. Turning eastwards, quantified amphora figures are—as expected—dominated by eastern types. The growing statistics from Alexandria show, for example, that LRA 1–7 generally account for all but about 10% of the remaining amphora assemblage, which comprises western, residual and other eastern types.35 At Caesarea Maritima, a similar picture emerges, with unidentified imports from the Inner Harbour slightly higher than Alexandria at around 15%;36 although differing from the Inner Harbour in their internal composition, the Caesarea Hippodrome assemblages mirror this figure with unidentified groups consisting of ca. 13–19%.37 Similar statistics are not available from Constantinople, but illustrations of types not belonging to LR 1–7, and described as rare, would indicate a corresponding level of unsourced imports.38 Care is required in the implementation of the LR 1–7 system, to avoid stagnation through its use. Despite our growing understanding of production areas, LR 2, as a particular example, was doubtless produced in numerous workshops as yet not located. It therefore remains a priority to distinguish variants of LR 2 (as well as other types)

31

Riley 1981; for raw data see also Hayes and Riley 1978; Riley 1976. Panella 1983, 71. 33 Panella 1986, figs. 32–33. 34 See notes 32–33. 35 Majcherek forthcoming, figs. 2–5—the high quantity of unidentified shown on fig. 2 results primarily from residual vessels; Majcherek 1992, tables 1–3. 36 Tomber 1999. 37 Riley 1975, deposits 2A, 3A, 3B and 4A. 38 Hayes 1992, for example, Types 2, 11, 16, 18, etc. 32

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to refine our understanding, rather than masking variation within established categories. This is crucial in the east, where recognition of variation can contribute significantly to regional studies, although slightly less vital in the west where smaller numbers and greater distance from source mean that a more generalised estimate of provenance is nevertheless extremely informative. The use of detailed typology on the regional level is clearly illustrated through Reynolds’s work at Beirut, where careful study of amphora subgroups has led to an inter-regional economic model of production and exchange.39 Types other than LR 1–7 may be as quantitatively significant as, for example, LR 6 and 7 and it is misleading to group them with other unidentified vessels. Majcherek40 has separated the unsourced but probably Aegean Kapitan II, North African spatheion and Agora M273/Samos cistern type for Alexandria, while Reynolds41 also isolates the Agora M273 and the Samos cistern type from western deposits, both to good effect. Equally important is research into types not assigned to any typological group, and again usually recorded as unidentified. Illustrations from well-stratified deposits, in conjunction with wide-scale survey of potential production areas, should enable source areas to be identified with excavated vessels introducing the needed chronological control. Despite the need for further analysis and presentation of types beyond LR 1–7, there can be no doubt that LR 1–4 (or possibly LR 1–5) together with a few other types incorporate the most common and the most widely distributed amphorae circulating in the eastern Mediterranean, and in the west the most significant of the eastern Mediterranean types. The limited range reflects real patterns and forms an interesting contrast with the early Roman period, for which it would be difficult to draw up a similarly abbreviated pan-Mediterranean shortlist. This represents a contraction of major sources, with the Aegean islands most notably taking a reduced role. For example, Crete and Rhodes were both important during the early Roman period, but in late antiquity only minor production is presently known from Crete.42 This contraction indicates a degree of centralisation in agricultural and ceramic production for goods with long-distance distribution during this period, sometimes viewed as officially initiated.43 However, as already discussed, since the majority of these sources have their origins in the early Roman period they should be seen more as fostered than initiated at this time.44 The final point, in reference to the vessels themselves, is that the above patterns and comparisons rest heavily upon the availability of quantified ceramic assemblages. For some reason an emotive subject among pottery specialists, quantified data are fundamental to any attempt to use pottery to address economic questions. In an ideal world all specialists would adopt at least one similar method and, given the speed with which sherds can be counted or weighed, a lowest common denominator can be easily achieved. Nevertheless, if universal methods have not been employed, available data sets can and should be, as described by Karagiorgou, ‘homogenised’.45 When 39

Reynolds forthcoming. Majcherek forthcoming; Panella 1983 has also isolated the Kapitan II for Carthage. 41 Reynolds 1995, 182–83. 42 Arthur 1998, 166. 43 Karagiorgou 1999, 150. 44 The collapse of the African industry plays a role in this, but in its complexity should form the subject of another paper. 45 Karagiorgou 1999, 132. 40

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posing large-scale inter-provincial questions homogenised data provide an adequate level of resolution for relative comparisons, with statistically compatible types of quantification becoming essential for more detailed interrogation of assemblages. Polar Constructs for Interpreting the Economy Many economic models rely on extreme and opposite concepts: the dichotomy of town versus country is one example recently criticised by Parkins as part of the consumer city debate.46 By exploiting such dichotomies—which exist at some level—but at the same time linking them through ceramic evidence, an overall view can be achieved that allows for the complexity of the economy. Three sets of polar opposites that recur throughout Kingsley and Decker’s volume, and more generally in economic studies, are coastal v. inland sites, macro- v. micro-economies, and state v. commercially led exchange. Turning first to the difference between coastal and inland sites, quantified ceramic data show again and again that diversity and quantity of imported pottery will be much greater at coastal sites, particularly large ones. Although in part influenced by the greater number of excavations at coastal locations,47 the pattern is nevertheless replicated on an empire-wide scale. One of the most extreme examples of the lack of imported pottery at inland sites comes from the small city of Sagalassos in Pisidia. Only some 65 km from Perge, ceramic imports are essentially absent and local production, for a regional market, rules.48 There are numerous exceptions to this guiding principle, but these exceptions can be explained by site location (rivers, roads) or status (military, religious, Imperial industry),49 and even when they rival coastal sites in the range of types present, they usually do not compare quantitatively unless as the result of consistent, official supply. For example, the early Roman Imperial quarry at Mons Claudianus contains a similar range of imported amphorae as has been identified in Alexandria, but in vastly reduced numbers.50 In this context, Purcell’s51 discussion of the façade maritime is pertinent, emphasising the absolute importance of coastlines and harbours for achieving and maintaining political and economic status. This uneven access to imported goods between coastal and inland sites is relevant to the opposed concepts of macro and micro-economies. On its basest level, macroeconomy can be equated with goods travelling long-distances (inter-regional) with much of the evidence coming from coastal sites; micro-economies can be equated with local/regional distribution, for which inland sites are critical. Beyond their source region, on coastal sites or sites of special status, the longdistance distribution of LR 1–5 can be seen as evidence of the macro-economy, providing a unifying element between assemblages and representing an empire-wide or world economy. These same vessels, when viewed on a range of settlement types at the regional level, are more likely operating as artefacts of a micro-economy. Their

46

Parkins 1997, 86. Kingsley 1999, 54; Kingsley and Decker 1999b, 15 suggest excavation of more rural sites is needed. 48 Degeest 2000, where coarse ware imports are limited to unguentaria and small jars. 49 See also Ward-Perkins 1999, 168. 50 Tomber 1996. 51 Purcell 1996. 47

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differing roles according to context is visibly demonstrated by changes in function: for example, Kingsley suggests that on the local level Palestinian amphorae carried a variety of foodstuffs (e.g. oil, figs, wheat, barley) and water, while as items of longdistance exchange they held wine.52 Moving beyond LR 1–5, the complex interplay between macro- and micro-economies is well served by considering not only the supraregional fine wares,53 which are frequently studied in isolation, but particularly the unknown amphorae and the regional coarse wares. Compartmentalising coastal/inland sites and micro-/macro-economy is useful hyperbole, but it is the interaction between the two that enhances our understanding of the economy. This interconnected54 relationship between micro- and macro-economies has been described for Roman Egypt by Alston based on a model of complex central place theory that visualises interaction not just between the cities and villages, but also between cities, villages and other settlement types.55 A similar picture is drawn by Purcell, who sees the coast as uniting the maritime and inland realms into a single network, through local regions, ports and the wider world.56 By examining a range of site-types within a region it is possible to address questions on both a macro- and micro-scale. Relying on a diverse range of sites, Decker admirably shows the complex interplay between the hinterland and coastal cities in terms of agricultural and amphora production and eventual long-distance distribution of LR 1.57 This is reinforced by Papacostas, who notes uniformity between urban centres with rural settlements displaying greater variability58 and thus contributing to the more detailed picture of the regional economy. At the same time, Wilson’s59 study of cisterns within major settlements in Cyrenaica illustrates how differing levels of the economy can be investigated within a single site. Inevitably arising in economic discussions, most papers in Kingsley and Decker’s volume debate whether long-distance exchange in the LR period is state or commercially driven. An issue of critical importance, Ward-Perkins60 has suggested that the two are so intertwined as to make a conflict between them false. For the Principate Paterson61 has argued that state controlled enterprise cannot be separated from private, since private individuals frequently interface between the two, and a similar argument could be extended to the late antique period. Taking the broadest possible view, the shift in exchange as represented by pottery, emanating from the east rather than the west soon after AD 330, demonstrates the overriding role of the state in establishing trade routes that could be exploited for both official and commercial interests. The question that follows here is whether these two underlying mechanisms can be distinguished through the pottery. When patterns of importation differ drastically from elsewhere in the region an

52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61

Kingsley 1999, 50; see also Decker 1999, 80 for a similar example from LR 1. See especially Papacostas 1999; Kingsley 1999, 58. Ward-Perkins 1999, 169 refers to ‘interlocked’ regional and local networks. Alston 2002, 337–42, fig. 6.3.2, his argument draws upon ceramics. Purcell 1996, 272. Decker 1999. Papacostas 1999, 120. Wilson 1999. Ward-Perkins 1999, 174. Paterson 1998.

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unusual impetus behind supply is indicated, be it state, military or church. On this basis Karagiorgou62 has put forward a strong argument for the use of LR 1 and LR 2 to supply the annona militaris along the Danubian limes and the Balkan forts. At the same time, the distribution of LR 2 on non-military Danube sites resulted either from redistribution from the military or commercial supply.63 Exchange in fine wares has long been thought to represent commercial rather than official forces; handmade cooking wares, accepted as a sporadic subsistence strategy,64 also provide an exceptional opportunity to investigate commercial forces.65 Although it appears that when dealing with long-distance sea-borne exchange distance from source is not particularly sensitive,66 in other situations normal fall-off curves decreasing from source may well indicate commercial rather than official supply. In many cases a single amphora type may arrive at a single site by both private and state channels, and it will not be possible to disentangle the two from the vessel themselves. In these cases it may clarify patterns to focus on the less common types—which, in the case of amphorae, would make types other than LR 1–4 or 5 particularly significant. Here again, the use of fine and coarse wares with amphorae will help flush out the picture. Integrating the Economy Describing the late Roman economy using polarised terminology provides a useful framework, drawing attention to extremes in settlement, scale and exchange mechanisms, but at the same time there can be a danger of oversimplification. A stagnate picture can be created by the use of such polarised concepts. However this can be bridged by examining the material culture from a broad spectrum of sites, from rural settlements to inland cities or ports. Of the various artefact types, pottery dominates for the oft-cited reasons of ubiquity, quantity and precision of source; drawing upon a broad range of pottery types (not just amphorae) results in a more three-dimensional picture, further enhanced by the inclusion of other artefact types as elegantly illustrated by Mundell Mango.67 Despite its own antiquity, LR 1–7 remains a valid device for investigating the economy and emphasises the centralised nature of production during this period. However here, too, care must be taken not to oversimplify LR 1–7, but to continue refining variants that relate to source and chronological development and to supplement the package with other types; in this way our understanding of the economy, particularly on the regional level, will be enhanced. The potential of ceramic evidence for analysing the ancient economy is repeatedly illustrated by Kingsley and Decker’s volume and they should be congratulated for providing such a diverse stimulus for debate.

62 63 64 65 66 67

Karagiorgou 1999. Ward-Perkins 1999, 173. Peacock 1982, 75–89. Reynolds 1995, 187–88. Tomber 1993. Mundell Mango 1999.

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Acknowledgments I was fortunate to discuss various aspects of this paper with Donald Bailey, Archer Martin, Grzegorz Majcherek, A. Kaan enol and Paul Reynolds; I am grateful to all of them for their comments. I also thank Robin Symonds who provided me with the recent evidence from London. Grzegorz Majcherek kindly allowed me pre-publication access to his paper on Alexandria, while Mike Fulford and Catherine Johns both read a draft of this paper and made many improving comments. All errors are, of course, my own. Department of Archaeology The University of Southampton Southampton SO17 1BJ UK [email protected] BIBLIOGRAPHY Abbreviations BAR BASOR BCH CEFR JRA JRS PDIA RDAC Trans LAMAS

British Archaeological Reports Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique Collection de École Française de Rome Journal of Roman Archaeology Journal of Roman Studies Proceedings of the Danish Institute at Athens Report of the Department of Antiquities of Cyprus Transactions of the London and Middlesex Archaeological Society

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——. 1981: ‘The pottery from Cisterns 1977.1, 1977.2 and 1977.3’. In Humphrey, J.H. (ed.), Excavations at Carthage 1977: Conducted by the University of Michigan 6 (Ann Arbor), 85–124. Slane, K.W. 1990: Corinth XVIII.ii. The Sanctuary of Demeter and Kore: the Roman Pottery and Lamps (Princeton). Symonds, R.P. and Tomber, R.S. 1991: ‘Late Roman London: An Assessment of the Ceramic Evidence from the City of London’. Trans LAMAS 42, 59–99. Tomber, R.S. 1996: ‘Provisioning the Desert: Pottery Supply to Mons Claudianus’. In Bailey, D.M. (ed.), Archaeological Research in Roman Egypt ( JRA Suppl. 19), 39–49. ——. 1999: ‘Pottery from Area I14 Inner Harbour Sediments’. In Yule, B. and Barham, A.J. ‘Caesarea’s Inner Harbour: the Potential of the Harbour Sediments. In Holum, K., Raban, A. and Patrich, J. (eds.), Caesarea Papers 2. Herod’s Temple, the Provincial Governor’s Praetorium and Granaries, the Later Harbor, A Gold Coin Hoard and Other Studies ( JRA Suppl. 35), 295–322. Tomber, R. and Williams, D.F. 2000: ‘Egyptian Amphorae in Britain and the Western Provinces’. Britannia 31, 41–54. Ward-Perkins, B. 1999: ‘Specialisation, Trade, and Prosperity: an Overview of the Economy of the Late Antique Eastern Mediterranean’. In Kingsley and Decker 1999a, 167–78. Wilson, A. 1999: ‘Urban Economies of Late Antique Cyrenaica’. In Kingsley and Decker 1999a, 28–43.

BOOK REVIEWS NEW PUBLICATIONS ON HITTITE ARCHAEOLOGY AND HISTORY P. Neve (ed.), Die Oberstadt von attu a. Die Bauwerke. II: Die Bastion des Sphinxtores und die Tempelviertel am Königs- und Löwentor, Bo azköy- attu a Ergebnisse der Ausgrabungen XVII, Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, Philipp von Zabern, Mainz am Rhein 2001, XI+125 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 3–8053–2706–4 G. Wilhelm (ed.), Akten des IV. Internationalen Kongresses für Hethitologie, Würzburg, 4.–8. Oktober 1999, Studien zu den Bo azköy-Texten, Herausgegeben von der Kommission für den Alten Orient der Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur 45, Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2001, XXIII+759 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISSN 0585–5853/ISBN 3–447–04485–3 Die Hethiter und ihr Reich. Volk der tausend Götter. Ausstellungskatalog Bonn. Ed. by Kunst- und Ausstellungshalle der Bundesrepublik Deutschland, Konrad Theiss Verlag, Stuttgart 2002, 367 pages with more than 300 illustrations, many of them coloured. Cased. ISBN 3–8062–1676–2 K.A. Yener and H.A. Hoffner Jr (eds.) with the assistance of S. Dhesi, Recent Developments in Hittite Archaeology and History, Papers in Memory of Hans G. Güterbock, Eisenbrauns, Winona Lake, Indiana 2002, VI+212 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 1–57506–053–1 T. Bryce, Life and Society in the Hittite World, Oxford University Press, Oxford 2002, XII+312 pp., 2 maps. Cased. ISBN 0–19–924170–8 In recent years we can observe a stronger interest in Hittites that also finds an expression in more publications. A few selected volumes provide a survey of the most important new publications and the connected problems in research. The first work (P. Neve) leads us straight into the Hittite capital. This book constitutes the second volume in the series of the final publications concerning the excavations in the upper town of Bo azköy that roused particular interest owing to the numerous temple buildings found there.1 From 1978 to 1993 Peter Neve, who is an engineer by origin, led research there with a focus on the architectural remains. The author dedicates this book to the great complexes in the southern upper town. Chapter I describes the probably most impressive building, the bastion

1 The first volume (P. Neve, Die Oberstadt von attu a. Die Bauwerke. I. Die Bebauung im zentralen Tempelviertel., Bo azköy- attu a XVII [Berlin 1999]) deals with the central temple quarter. Moreover, two books were published on the ceramic finds in the temple quarter (A. MüllerKarpe, Hethitische Töpferei aus der Oberstadt von attu a. Ein Beitrag zur Kenntnis spät-großreichszeitlicher Keramik und Töpferbetriebe, Marburger Studien zur Vor- und Frühgeschichte 10 [ Marburg 1988]; H. Parzinger and R. Sanz, Die Oberstadt von attu a. Hethitische Keramik aus dem zentralen Tempelviertel. Funde aus den Grabungen 1982–1987, Bo azköy- attu a XV [Berlin 1992]). A first general description of the excavations in the Upper Town was published a few years earlier (P. Neve, attu a— Stadt der Götter und Tempel. Neue Ausgrabungen in der Hauptstadt der Hethiter [Mainz 1993]).

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of the Sphinx gate. Chapters II and III deal with the temple quarters at the King’s and Lion’s Gates respectively. This compilation, which also takes earlier research into account, only becomes intelligible when looking at the general concept the excavator had in mind for the upper town.2 Accordingly, the whole upper town was newly founded within a short period of time based on a unified, cult-orientated concept. The symmetrical outline characteristic of the city wall can, according to Neve, also be detected in the inner city buildings, hence he unifies the temples into quarters. The summary (Chapter IV) connects the three architectural periods that were found in the excavations in the upper town (O.St.2–4). Accordingly, the construction plan already existed in O.St.4. The final building of the cult city followed in the O.St.3 period under the leadership of the Great King Tut aliya IV, around 1240/35 BC. Neve does not explicitly claim the king’s responsibility for the development of the concept, but he does not discuss alternative possibilities. The concept is given up in the period O.St.2, when new buildings for living and working are constructed around a few remaining temples, before the city is ruined by a great catastrophe in 1190 BC. The publication is closed by a list of finds in Chapter V. Numerous figures and supplements provide exceptionally good documentation of the architecture. We might assume that this final publication and the underlying concept has led to a successful conclusion of the long years of work, but there are several problems associated with the upper town of attu a. For instance, the preference for architecture during the excavations over many decades has resulted in neglect of other types of sources and especially, other archaeological methods. This is particularly evident in the dating. Instead of dating the periods on the sound basis of the finds and by aid of scientific methods historical records were preferred. Thus, the statement that Tut aliya IV initiated the upper town buildings is documented by quoting from the inscription of Karakuyu, where he praises himself as the builder of a Tut aliyaattu a-City.3 It fits into the concept that an inscription and a relief stele by just this king were found in the upper town. This association, which is based on remarkably weak arguments, leads to difficult consequences. On the one hand, the complete upper city settlements were in use for only 50 years, which is a great surprise in view of the large number of building sites and the differences within the periods. On the other hand, the development of ceramics as a chronologically fine method is not even equalled by many dendrochronologically dated sites. This alone should have put any archaeologist on his guard, but the newly developed methods of fine dating were emphasised rather euphorically.4 This dating was never questioned, even when clearly older finds from a stratified context surfaced and proved just as well that the upper city existed in the Middle Hittite period (15th century BC).5 As all Hittite excavations are oriented towards the capital, this ‘fine chronology’ was widespread. For example, finds in recent years were

This concept is explained in the first volume (P. Neve, Die Oberstadt von attu a, 9–13); see also P. Neve, attu a —Stadt der Götter und Tempel, 21ff. 3 P. Neve, Die Oberstadt von attu a, 12f. 4 H. Parzinger and R. Sanz, Die Oberstadt von attu a, 91. 5 H. Otten, ‘Die Tontafelfunde aus Haus 16’. Archäologischer Anzeiger 1983, 372–75; A. MüllerKarpe, ‘Remarks on Central Anatolian Chronology of the Middle Hittite Period’. In M. Bietak (ed.), The Synchronisation of Civilizations in the Eastern Mediterranean in the Second Millennium BC II. Proceedings of the SCIEM 2000 Euro Conference Haindorf, May 2001 (Wien 2003, 383–395). 2

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nearly exclusively from the (late) Great Empire period. Only recently first doubts were voiced and it became apparent that the upper city chronology must be widely extended.6 Concerning further discussion on dating the archaeological levels of the capital we can be expectant for the effect of dendrochronology and radiocarbon dating that are now also used in Hittite archaeology. As far as the concept that is solely based on architecture is concerned, the present state of research allows neither for its proof nor disproof. However, the emphasised symmetrical outline is not as clear on closer inspection, especially when taking the new topographical survey of the ruins in hand.7 It remains to be said that the book does constitute an excellent account of the architecture, but the dating associated with the concept of the whole leads to problems. However, the presentation of the final publication allows a new evaluation of the archaeological finds. But it should be added that in many cases the descriptions do not go beyond the already detailed excavation reports.8 Wilhelm provides a survey of the whole array of Hittite research. These are the collected papers of the 4th Hittitology Congress, which has been held every three years since 1990. The publication following the congress succinctly presents 64 papers given by philologists, linguists and archaeologists. The opening paper ‘Hittitology Today’ was by Erich Neu, who died shortly after the Congress, and to whom the volume is dedicated. The diversity of Hittite research today, which even specialists find hard to overview, is evident. Were it not for the congress and the publication, the different areas of research are in some cases so far apart that they would not find a common ground. As it is impossible to provide an even slightly adequate overview I will concentrate on a few articles which are particularly relevant for archaeologists. Y. Co kun (pp. 83–88) contributes an article on the correlation of the vessels mentioned in text sources with archaeological finds. Following a short introduction, Hittite vessel designations are listed and assigned to the author’s translations and references to tables. First, the lack of evidence for the text sources is to be criticised. The tables are chosen at random and by no means are they representative. The main problem, however, concerns the author’s thesis that the spectrum of shapes only changed gradually from the Karum period to the Great Empire period (1950–1190 BC) and that this must also be correlated with the naming of vessels. This stands in total contrast with archaeological reality, with which the author does not seem to have dealt sufficiently. Thus, he emphasises the function as a particular aspect of identification while it is often not possible for archaeologists to define what a particular vessel was actually used for. The author just adapts the labels applied by archaeologists that are often only based on speculation. This essay exemplifies that it is often not sufficient to take only a superficial look at other scientific disciplines. It is moreover not comprehensible why the author does not mention the work by A. Müller-Karpe (1988, footnote 1), where an effort at connecting vessel designations with finds was made from the archaeological perspective.

6

A. Müller-Karpe, ‘Remarks on Central Anatolian Chronology of the Middle Hittite Period’. J. Seeher, ‘Die Ausgrabungen in Bo azköy- attu a 1998 und ein neuer topographischer Plan des Stadtgeländes’. Archäologischer Anzeiger 1999, 317–44. Neve’s thoughts are still founded on the old 1907 survey. 8 These excavation reports were published in Archäologischer Anzeiger 1979 and after. 7

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A prime example for the unification of archaeological and philological data is the article by H.A. Hoffner Jr. ‘Alimenta Revisited’ (pp. 199–212). The author refers to his book Alimenta Hethaeorum (1974) where he deals with nutrition and food production by the Hittites. While he could only rely on text sources at the time, recent years and particularly archaeobotanical research have resulted in new insights; especially the spectacular find of large scale grain storages in Bo azköy that relate to the texts should be mentioned.9 The subject Hoffner takes up touches upon a field where recent archaeological research leads to a new insight into farming, production and resource management.10 Jürgen Seeher takes up an aspect that has been taken for granted so far in his article ‘Die Zerstörung der Stadt attu a’ (pp. 623–34). It concerns the sudden end of the capital following a destructive fire. Following Seeher, there is no convincing evidence for such an assumption. Rather, everything points toward the inhabitants giving up the city over a period of time. This interpretation would fit in better with the weakening of the Hittite state at the end of the Great Empire period, resulting in the dissolution of the ruling power, a solution that has been under discussion for a while now. So far, the end of the Hittite empire has always been associated with disorder and catastrophe—however, after the re-evaluation by Seeher, other sites will also have to be discussed from a more differentiated point of view. Apart from the many interesting contributions the volume also contains less qualified articles. The editor is not to blame for this as it is unavoidable in a colloquium publication. One of these is ‘Un lieu de culte inconnu: Camız’lı Ma ara (La Grotte au Buffle)’ by H. Gonnet (pp. 156–60), where the author presents a cave she has explored. Allegedly, the cave contains relief-like murals of diverse animals (deer, eagle, bull, hare) which the author associates with a Hittite cult previously unknown, and her dating is hair-raising: only the site of the grotto amidst several large well-known Hittite excavation sites is mentioned and she ignores the fact that numerous archaeological remains from other periods are located in Anatolia, too. Even worse, the reviewer was able to make some observations while visiting the site himself: it soon became clear that the location is not a cave in the author’s sense but rather the rear end of a late antique cave dwelling or church. The traces of work with sharp iron tools to create the symmetrical cavity in the rock prove this. This technique, which was totally unknown in the 2nd millenium BC, is only one indication. Moreover, far more manmade caves that are better preserved can be found in the same valley, and a comparison would have left no doubt about the dating. The alleged reliefs have only recently been carved from the soot that has clung to the cave walls for centuries. The only relief-like elevations can be made out in the area of an ‘eagle’s wing’ without there being any evidence for their human origin. Thus we must conclude that the reliefs are a product of the author’s imagination and cannot, even if they should exist as such, be Hittite. It is devastating that this grotto now serves as a prototype

9 J. Seeher, ‘Getreidelagerung in unterirdischen Grosspeichern: Zur Methode und ihrer Anwendung im 2. Jahrtausend v. Chr. am Beispiel der Befunde in attu a’. Studi micenei ed egeo-anatolici 42/2(2000), 261–301. 10 A succinct overview on recent research results can be found in D.P. Mielke, ‘Leg ihnen Brot in die Hand . . .’. Archäologie in Deutschland 3(2002), 16–20.

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example for Hittite cave cults and that the article has found its way into the standard publication discussed next (contribution by V. Haas, ‘Die hethitische Religion’, pp. 102–10, particularly 109–10).11 Die Hethiter und ihr Reich accompanied a large Hittite exhibition shown in Bonn and Berlin in 2002. At first sight the book strikes the reader by its exceptional layout, the part dealing with the actual exhibition only taking up the last 39 pages. This is an advantage as the exhibits can hardly be counted among the most crucial Hittite finds, despite advance notices. The book derives its true value from the essays by renowned archaeologists, historians and philologists that have been structured into several parts. Nearly all facets of religion, cult, history and archaeology are presented. The introduction is followed by the first part ‘The historical framework: The Hittite Empire, its Prerequisites and Successor’. The next major part is dedicated to ‘The shapes of state and society’. The following part concerns ‘Religion and cult’. ‘The Hittite Capital and other Urban Centres of the Empire’ focuses on a limited selection of sites. However, we might ask here why, once more, Troy receives so much attention as to be dealt with in an article of its own, while constituting only a brief part of Hittite history, and other important excavation sites, such as Ortaköy, are not even mentioned. The next and on the whole largest part concerns ‘The forms of art and material culture’. The final section deals with ‘The Empire and its neighbours’. The publication is completed by an annex containing maps and a detailed chronology. It is a bit surprising to find an important essay on ‘The constitution of the Hittite empire’ here, which we might have expected in the third part. In conclusion, the 42 articles provide a detailed survey of the Hittites and, despite the occasionally too narrow perspective following the narrow choice of authors, this book can be seen as the new standard volume even among experts. The publication by Yener and Hoffner, which is dedicated to one of the most respected Hittitologists, aims at a more specified public and intends to provide an overview of recent developments in research. My first reservation concerns the fact that this overview does not take into account the whole realm of research. This book presents a collection of papers given at the American Oriental Society meeting on Anatolia that took place in 1997. Only about half of the 18 articles can meet the promise set by the title, as the other articles concern isolated and too specific subjects. Further, the long time between the finishing of the manuscripts and the publication of the book constitutes a disadvantage. Particularly with regard to excavations, five-year old finds can hardly still be labelled recent. Nevertheless, the book does offer an enrichment of the expert literature. This, however, is even more true of T. Bryce’s book, which can be seen as a supplement to an historical volume by the same author.12 He describes different aspects of daily life in Hittite society in 14 chapters, the selection is guided by text sources. Beginning with King, Court and Royal Officials, he covers Laws, Scribes, Farmers, Merchants, Warriors and Marriage, the Gods, Illness, Death, Festivals and Rituals as well as Myths. Descriptions of life in the capital and international contacts conclude the book. The perspective taken here plays a rather subordinate role in research today, and thus the publication of this volume is to be welcomed, particularly when

11 12

H. Gonnet, ‘Camızlı Ma ara: Tanınmayan Bir Kutsal Alan’. Arkeoloji ve Sanat 100, 16–18. T. Bryce, The Kingdom of the Hittites (Oxford 1998).

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considering that there exists no comparable depiction apart from A. Götze’s ‘Kulturgeschichte Kleinasiens’ (1957, 2nd edition). The author’s lively and easily legible style allows for colourful description of the actual people behind the archaeological and philological sources. The expert world will take a different stand on some statements and point out mistakes, such as that Hugo Winckler, who excavated the first clay tablets in Bo azköy, was an archaeologist (p. 2). On the contrary, it is important that Winckler, as an Assyriologist, did not pay attention to the in situ situation of the finds and ordered the cuneiform tablet archives, which were still intact at the time, to be cleared without documenting them.13 More recent research aspects are not taken into account either, such as for instance the thoughts on the end of attu a brought forward by J. Seeher in 1999.14 Accordingly the upper city is described as designed by Tut aliya IV. Nevertheless we cannot blame the author here as the latest considerations on dating have so far not been widespread. However, the evaluation of archaeological sources is weak in that the interpretations by archaeologists are often adapted without any criticism. Some statements seem to be derived from wrong ideas. Hence, the lion gate in attu a is labelled the main gate in a unsuitable analogy with the lion gate in Mycenai, even though its topographical situation offers the worst and least comfortable entry into the city (p. 238). All this does not lessen the importance of this book which presents a topic that is so important and interesting to the broader public in such a vivid manner. University of Marburg

Dirk Paul Mielke

TWO BOOKS ON ANCIENT FRONTIERS F. Hartog, Memories of Odysseus. Frontier Tales from Ancient Greece, translated by J. Lloyd, foreword by P. Cartledge, Edinburgh University Press, Edinburgh 2001, XIV+258 pp. Paperback. ISBN 0–7486–1447–8 C. Smith and J. Serrati (eds.), Sicily from Aeneas to Augustus. New Approaches in Archaeology and History, New Perspectives on the Ancient World 1, Edinburgh University Press, Edinburgh 2000, XIV+242 pp., with illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 0–7486–1366–8 The study of intercultural contact in the ancient Mediterranean has advanced tremendously in recent years. These two books are among the latest contributions which discuss some of the responses engendered by contact between Greeks and nonGreeks from the Archaic period to the Roman empire. Their subject matter is complementary, forming a handy pair for interested scholars. In his ‘Foreword: Odysseus in Auschwitz’ (pp. VII–XI), P. Cartledge sets the stage for Hartog’s book, providing an overview of the book’s contents and the intellectual

13 See C.W. Ceram [K.W. Marek], Enge Schlucht und Schwarzer Berg. Entdeckung des HethiterReiches (Hamburg 1955), chapter 3 ‘Winckler gräbt in Bo azköy’, esp. 59ff. 14 J. Seeher, ‘Die Ausgrabungen in Bo azköy- attu a 1998 und ein neuer topographischer Plan des Stadtgeländes’.

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context of its renowned author. Here, among other things, we learn that the work is a translation of a 1996 French-language original, Mémoire d’Ulysee: récits sur la frontière en Grèce ancienne, on Greek views of ethnicity, alterity and memory. These and other points are amplified by H. himself in the ‘Introduction: travellers and frontiermen’ (pp. 3–12). In note 38 of this introduction (on p. 216), H. supplies further details of the original book: ‘This book grew out of a number of articles published earlier. Some are reproduced here, with significant modifications.’ This helpful collection of six revised articles forms a largely coherent study, whose overall aims are described as follows (p. 4): ‘We shall simply pick out a few travellers and follow them for a while. So it will be a matter not of topography or geography, but rather of keeping on the move and looking: topology and keeping going.’ H. sums up the kinds of things his travellers saw in coming into contact with other peoples: ‘. . . strange peoples composed of both admirable sages and daunting savages, situated on the border between the human and the non-human, and yet further away, other strange beings, or frankly monsters . . . So it is not the voyage itself, in its material aspect, that is important here, but rather the voyage as a discursive operator and a narrative device: the voyage as a perception and resolution of a problem or as the answer to a question’ (pp. 7–8). In Chapter 1, called ‘The Return of Odysseus’ (pp. 15–39), the story begins with Odysseus, the traveller who lays the foundation stone for the ancient Greeks as a whole, so making him a logical and necessary starting point. H. treats us to a perceptive analysis of the Odyssey by placing partial focus on the hero’s voyage, the anthropology encountered during it, and his return to Ithaca. The chapter ends by considering the impact Odysseus’ story had in later times, from later periods of antiquity, through mediaeval times, to the 20th century. ‘Egyptian Voyages’ are contained in Chapter 2 (pp. 41–77). H. begins by inverting the order of the previous chapter, starting with modern views of ancient Egypt, particularly those that emerged out of Napoleon Bonaparte’s expedition and M. Bernal’s Black Athena. The debate stirred up by Bernal acted as H.’s stimulus (pp. 46–47) for re-examining Greek views of Egypt over a millennium (from Homer to the Neoplatonists). Excluded from this discussion are the attitudes of Greeks living in Egypt, a decision which receives the following interesting observation (p. 66): ‘When you actually live in a country (even if Alexandria was always said to be “close to Egypt”, not in Egypt), your attitude changes, you engage in a whole process of accommodation, and sometimes the result is that you no longer want to see clearly or, more often, that you no longer know what it is that you see.’ H. stresses how there was no single view of Egypt, other than its great antiquity and separateness as a region, and how these different viewpoints created as many Greek identities. These barbarians are the subject of Chapter 3, ‘The Invention of the Barbarian and an Inventory of the World’ (pp. 79–106). H. is right at home here, drawing on Herodotus and Hecataeus in particular to reveal Greek identity through alterity. Along the way, we see how Greekness and barbarianism underwent changes in definition, becoming in Isocrates’ time something cultural that could be acquired (already foreshadowed by Herodotus 8. 144). Chapter 4, entitled ‘Greek Voyages’ (pp. 107–60), focuses on the travels of Anacharsis, Pausanias, Plutarch and Alexander the Great. What is interesting about this chapter is how H. shifts attention towards the frontiers and boundaries that existed among the Greeks themselves, carrying out the analysis by exploring the division between humans and animals and the qualities associated with them. The chapter concludes

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with an investigation into Plutarch’s Alexander the Great and his purported ideas regarding identity and cultural fusion. The discussion of Plutarch lays the groundwork for the fifth and concluding chapter on ‘Roman Voyages’ (pp. 161–98), where some of the other writers who straddle Greece and Rome (Polybius, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Strabo and Aelius Aristides) are examined. The reader is taken on an absolutely amazing journey which reveals, among other things, how the Greeks came to grips with their new masters and their traditional division of the world into Greeks and barbarians. In Polybius, for instance, the first of such writers, we can see these challenges at work in his admission that Rome’s success resided in her politeia and ability to learn through copying, while at the same time upholding Homer’s geography, and by extension Greek knowledge and Odysseus’ travels in Italy and Sicily. In the ‘Conclusion: memories of Apollonius and the name of Pythagoras’ (pp. 199–209), H. comes full circle, a millennium later, with Apollonius of Cappadocia, and how Odysseus, the traveller, has fared since setting out. H. brings together the various threads of his story, and in doing so we are implicitly reminded of H.’s impressive range of reading and geographic coverage, as well as the ease with which he is able to draw out meaning from his various written sources. The second book under review complements H.’s. Its focus on Sicily, an island at the very crossroads of the Mediterranean, inextricably raises similar questions of ethnicity, identity, representation and cultural development. In this book, these issues are predominantly explored through material evidence, thus representing a sort of source inversion with the literary material employed by H. The 13 articles by 11 contributors that make up this book are the result of a conference held at the University of St Andrews in Scotland in June 1998.1 The book is divided into three parts and preceded by an introduction written by C.J. Smith (pp. 1–6). The introduction is important and in the long run among the most enduring parts of the book. S. adopts the vision of the Victorian historian E.A. Freeman, who treated Sicily as a kind of laboratory for the study of world history. ‘This makes any evidence from Sicily interesting as a test case for our views of models of change, adaptation, acculturation and identity that currently dominate many areas of research into antiquity’ (p. 4).2 Such wider scholarly appeal is seen in the composition of the book’s participants. After briefly summarising the book’s various contributions, S. continues with another important point: ‘Much previous debate on the ancient world has developed the model of core and periphery. This volume as a whole pushes to the fore the idea that the ancient world was fundamentally regional. There were too many centres and peripheries, and the relationships were far too multiple and disparate to allow simple dualisms’ (p. 6). In effect, the introduction has established a laudable programme of study that is ambitious and extends beyond the limits of this book. It points the way for future directions. Part I is called ‘Sicily and colonisation’ (pp. 7–70) and is comprised of four articles. J. Serrati introduces the three main articles with a thumb-nail sketch of Sicilian history

1 One of the conference’s addresses has been published elsewhere: F. De Angelis, ‘Estimating the Agricultural Base of Greek Sicily’. Papers of the British School at Rome 68(2000), 111–48. 2 Smith is not alone here: R.A. McNeal, ‘Archaeology and the destruction of the later Athenian acropolis’. Antiquity 65(1991), 49, 63; F. De Angelis, Megara Hyblaia and Selinous: the Development of Two Greek City-States in Archaic Sicily (Oxford 2003).

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called ‘Sicily from pre-Greek times to the fourth century’ (pp. 9–14). The intention of this sketch, as of a similar one found at the start of Part III (‘The coming of the Romans: Sicily from the fourth to the first centuries BC’: pp. 109–14), is to provide context for the book’s contributions, presumably in large part to make them accessible to the undergraduates and interested visitors mentioned on the back cover as possible audiences. The sketches no doubt serve these purposes well enough, but there is a problem with them that needs to be noted. The sketches have practically no archaeological history in them, relying primarily on literary sources. In other words, there is little here of the ‘new approaches in archaeology and history’ proclaimed in the book’s subtitle. Over-reliance on literary sources results in situations where the information given is incomplete and questionable, such as in the case of co-operation and integration between natives and Greeks (p. 10) and the apparent ‘renaissance’ Timoleon is said to have brought about in Sicily (p. 14).3 The use of archaeological data would have created richer and more reliable historical sketches. R. Leighton follows with an important and very lucid synthesis of native Sicily between the 9th and 6th centuries BC (pp. 15–40). Leighton, the leading English-language specialist in this area, is at his best here, offering a richly illustrated and thought-provoking text. One of the themes rightly emphasised by Leighton is that of change as a result of the meeting of the natives and Greeks during these centuries. Change is a theme also taken up by T. Hodos’s article (pp. 41–54), where she addresses the question of native acculturation through the medium of ceramic production, particularly Greek imported and imitated ‘wine wares’. This study carefully pushes the material to the extent that it legitimately can be taken. Hodos herself acknowledges the limitations of pottery for the study of acculturation (pp. 43–44). My main comment on it is that she sometimes makes questionable statements caused by focusing too narrowly on south-eastern Sicily, and often on one site, Monte Finocchito, to the detriment of what was going on in other parts of the island. After all, as underlined in the book’s introduction, the ancient world was regional. For example, we are told on several occasions that no class distinctions or wealthy tombs have been found in south-eastern Sicily (pp. 47, 49–50). But what about the material from nearby Sant’ Angelo Muxaro or Montagna del Marzo of slightly later date? One also finds missing (pp. 47–48) discussion of the possibility that the natives had their own alcoholic drink, such as mead, and how this could have played a role in the picture that Hodos paints. The last article in Part I is by G. Shepherd on the religious relationships that existed between Sicily and Greece in the Archaic period (pp. 55–70). Shepherd’s re-examination of the question contains several welcome correctives to the old idea that religion occupied a high place in inter-state relationships between homeland and overseas settlements. For instance, her comments on the so-called Athena Lindia figurines as evidence for such a relationship are warranted and echoed in a summary of a forthcoming major study of them that appeared in the same year as this book.4 But is Shepherd’s generalised

3 The traditional reconstruction of Timoleon continues to come under fire in recent work. For the arguments, see F. De Angelis, ‘Archaeology in Sicily 1996–2000’. Archaeological Reports for 2000–2001, 155, 164, 168, 176. 4 M. Albertocchi, ‘Le terrecotte di «Athena Lindia»: problema dell’influsso ionico nella creazione di un tipo coroplastico’. In F. Krinzinger (ed.), Akten des Symposions «Die Ägäis und das westliche Mittelmeer: Beziehungen und Wechselwirkungen 8. bis 5. Jh. V. Chr., Wien, 24. bis 27. März 1999» (Vienna 2000), 349–56.

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picture of few or practically no religious relationships valid? At present, as Shepherd’s careful choice of words and arguments betray, the evidence is too patchy and open to too many interpretations to settle the matter.5 Nevertheless this is a valuable revisiting of the question. Part II deals with ‘Greek settlement in Sicily’ (pp. 71–106) and contains three articles. In the first, N.K. Rutter explores Sicilian identity through coinage (pp. 73–83). Among the many interesting points made, Rutter notes that overall the coinage reveals ‘. . . a highly developed sense of place . . .’ (p. 80). In the next article, T. Harrison explores how Thucydides’ narrative of the Athenian expedition to Sicily mirrors other Greek representations of the Persian Wars, particularly those of Herodotus (pp. 84–96). He concludes that ‘. . . Thucydides’ echoes were deliberately planted for their effect’ (p. 95). In the third and final paper of part I, S. Lewis argues that the stories surrounding Sicily’s 4th-century tyrants were similar to those of Archaic tyrants (pp. 97–106). She argues that the later tyrants were attempting to explain their position via their predecessors. Part III is entitled ‘The coming of the Romans’ (pp. 107–93) and consists of five articles. After a thumb-nail historical sketch (pp. 109–14; and see above), J. Serrati turns to discussing the establishment of Roman administration in Sicily between the first two Punic Wars (pp. 115–33). This is a good attempt to tackle fundamental questions connected with the establishment of Roman administration in a recently acquired overseas territory, Rome’s first. Missing from Serrati’s bibliography is L. Gallo’s very important and related study, which, among other things, finds possible inspiration for the Hieronic taxation system in Carthage, and not with the Hellenistic monarchies of the eastern Mediterranean, as argued here.6 Sicily’s regionalism might explain better this development. In the article that follows, R. Wilson begins by arguing how unreliable Cicero’s Verrines are for reconstructing Sicily’s history in this period (pp. 134–60). Instead, he turns for a solution to the archaeological evidence, focusing in particular on urbanism, private houses, statues and sanctuaries, and the countryside. The text is richly illustrated and highly informative. Sicilian cultural identity in the early Roman empire is the subject of K. Lomas’s contribution (pp. 161–73). She stresses in particular how Sicily differed from neighbouring South Italy in its attitudes towards Philhellenism. In the final article of Part III, and of the book, G. Ceserani examines the place of ancient Sicily in modern historiography, tracing the island’s fortunes in historical reconstructions over the centuries (pp. 174–93). She raises many interesting issues, including how Sicily came to be marginalised in the Romantic period, since it did not fit the idealised canon (p. 190). Overall, this is a very welcome addition to ancient Sicilian history. On the whole, it does succeed in providing some new historical and archaeological approaches, and will certainly play a part in helping to change attitudes and attract more scholarly attention. Together with Hartog’s book reviewed earlier, it provides valuable insights into intercultural contact in the ancient Mediterranean. University of British Columbia, Vancouver

Franco De Angelis

5 To Shepherd’s evidence we can add the recently published 8th-century bronze spearhead of possible native Sicilian manufacture thought to have been dedicated at Isthmia by a firstgeneration Corinthian settler: C. Morgan, Isthmia VIII: the Late Bronze Age Settlement and Early Iron Age Sanctuary (Princeton 1999), 164–66. 6 L. Gallo, ‘La Sicilia occidentale e l’approvvigionemento cerealicolo di Roma’. Annali della Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa 22(1992), 365–98.

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Bosporskie Issledovaniya (Bosporan Studies), Issue 1, Crimean Branch of the Institute of Oriental Studies, Ukrainian National Academy of Sciences, Simferopol 2001, 272 pp., many illustrations. Summaries in English. Cased. ISBN 5–7780–0926–7 This collection of articles and brief communications is based on papers given at a session of ‘Readings’ (Chtenia) held at Kerch (the ancient Panticapaeum) in October 2000. It is intended that similar publications will appear annually in the future, to represent the work of the Institute of Oriental Studies (Centre for Archaeology), a Crimean affiliate of the Ukrainian Academy of Sciences. There are 17 contributions, all on the eastern Crimea, though in content they are very varied. Two of them treat mediaeval material—small structures in the Kerch Peninsula (look-outs of Khazar date?) and burnished pottery of the 8th–9th centuries AD, which is assigned here to the late Alans, rather than to proto-Bolgars, according to previous studies. The contributions on the ‘Ancient’ period include two brief notes on the deities worshipped at Theodosia and on the Bosporus generally; one follows the evidence of terracotta figurines, and the other discusses gypsum appliqué pieces. Two longer articles use the epigraphic material in the museums, and the published corpus of Bosporan inscriptions, to study the roles of the kingdom’s higher officials. Sidorenko’s view that they were military in character (pp. 137–45) can hardly be true of all, since the epi t s basileias was probably in charge of royal finances, epi t s pinakidos of records, epi t n log n of the treasury. Probably even the ‘governors’ of Theodosia and Gorgippia had administrative functions as well as military command in their outlying areas. The Kerch lapidarium is used by Matkovskaya, illustrated much more fully than any of the other papers, to discuss the style of male dress worn in the Bosporan cities (pp. 101–36). All the items of dress are shown to be well adapted to the conditions in the area north of the Black Sea. A collection of amphora stamps in Warsaw is republished with corrections (pp. 55–74); this is essentially a belated book review. The material is mainly from Myrmekion; but there are newly ‘passported’ stamps from Parthenion on the Bosporus, many from Elizavetovskoe in the Don delta, and a distinct group from Egypt. Another Polish museum (Wroclaw) provides the collection of bronze, Gothic and Alanic, mirrors for a study of typology (pp. 250–62); these were late 19th/early 20th century accessions from the Kerch/North Caucasus areas. There is an interesting short paper on the period of the Goths in the eastern Crimea (Magomedov, pp. 246–49), in which a first wave of the 230s–270s AD is noted in the south-western Crimea, and a second one, pressed on by the Huns in the late 4th and 5th centuries, in the Bosporus area. The, archaeologically distinguishable, Chernyakhovskaya Culture discussed here is that of the Goths, Borani and Heruli. Neither last, nor least, in this collection is an isolated archaeo-medical paper (Ponomaryev, pp. 240–45). Here are discussed the kidney-stones found in two burials in the eastern Crimea—rarely recognised in ancient skeletons, though sometimes seen in wrapped mummies. The title, ‘Palaeopathogeography’, is almost as disconcerting as the illustrations, which, though reproducing natural concretions of the body, look like nothing so much as battered lead sling-shot! Formation of these objects and their painful ancient remedies are discussed; we are assured that neither person is likely to have died directly ‘of the stone’! Gavrilov’s article (pp. 185–206) is an account of coins found inland at various points west and north of Theodosia, with a significant number suggesting an ancient site at Stary Krym. The long article by Maslennikov stands out for its deployment of the results of many years of excavation and survey-work done in the interior of the Kerch Peninsula

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and on its Azov sea coast. There is a heavy categorisation of rural sites (listed in ascending hierarchy), within which, strangely, ‘trading factories and emporia’ are mentioned, only to be dismissed in a rather inconclusive way (p. 76). A major omission in this paper is a map, or series of maps and plans, necessary when so many sites are mentioned. The defective reference to Strabo (p. 87) should be to Geogr. 11. 2. 8. But the paper is highly informative, as well as programmatic for the future, in its declared interest in trackways, wells, hill-top shrines, sea-moles and crossings of the straits (no less than three of these are suggested). The renewed attention to the third linear dyke (‘Ak-Monaisk’, fortified ditch/mound), with its presently identified fortlets, is also very welcome (p. 80). The article by Gavrilov and Kramarovsky on the Krinichka tumulus (west of Stary Krym) is, by contrast, equipped with numerous plans and line drawings. Of the six burials there, those of the Kizyl-Kobyno culture are put into the context (p. 36), of the Herodotean story (Herod. 4. 3) of the sons of the blind slaves of the Scythians. A mixture of their defeated remnants and of Scythians settled in the eastern Crimea may well be the basis of the population (in the 6th–3rd centuries BC) of the eastern Crimea north of the Tauroi. Oddly, in view of the title, the primary burials of the ‘Krinichka tumulus’ are assigned to the Kemi-Oba culture, Bronze Age 2nd–1st millennia BC (pp. 23–23, 31), but no wider context than the bare description is provided. The contribution by Zinko on the settlements surrounding Nymphaeum (pp. 207–12) puts forward suggestions, some acceptable, some without any real basis. It is reasonably stated that the Scythians were drawn to the city, because it lay at the western end of one of the crossings of the Bosporus; also that the rural territory of the city may have consisted of roughly 7 km square. On the other hand the assertions that a party of Athenians settled in the city in the second half of the 5th century BC, and that the Nymphaitai may have had an alliance with the Scythians before they were taken over by the Bosporan dynasts, are speculations dressed up in too much certainty (p. 210). Two articles give careful consideration to important specialised topics, one on the agricultural, the other on the monetary, economy. Vinokurov’s opening study (pp. 4–22) of the earliest stages of development of viticulture in the northern Black Sea area is full in its collection of information and clear in its conclusions. Native strains of vine, crossed with imported varieties, and tended with imported techniques, are said to have been the basis of the growing industry in the 5th and 4th centuries BC. Areas where the vine was cultivated locally at these early dates include Nikoneon on the Dniester estuary, Olbia, Chersonesus, and several cities and townlets of the Bosporus. Kulikov (pp. 219–32) re-visits a favourite topic of Russian numismatists— the economic crisis of the 3rd century BC as revealed in the coinage of Bosporus. Here the problem of the decreasing size of denominations, and the increasing use of overstrikes and counter-marks, is given an emended explanation. After an initial jolt from external forces, it is argued, the state- and treasury-authorities compounded their problems by passing off reduced denominations as of full value, thus causing inflation and lack of trust. This was not so much a sharp crisis as a ‘slide’ over decades. These ‘Bosporan Readings’ (now ‘Bosporan Studies’) are of interest and profit to the reader, not least for their focus on the regions around Nymphaeum and Theodosia. Both areas, but especially Theodosia, have been relatively little studied in the past; yet they played an important role initially as independent cities, and continued to do so in relations with the surrounding mixed (settled) Scythians and their dependent population groups. Leeds, UK

J.G.F. Hind

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R.E. Blanton, Hellenistic, Roman and Byzantine Settlement Patterns of the Coast Lands of Western Rough Cilicia, BAR International Series 879, Archaeopress, Oxford 2000, 123 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 1–84171–080–6 Die von R. Blanton geleiteten Feldforschungen in einer Küstenzone des westlichen Rauhen Kilikien, auf dem Gebiet der antiken Poleis Iotape, Selinus, Cestrus, Nephelion und Antiocheia/Cragus, hatten es sich zum Ziel gesetzt, Grad und Charakter der Urbanisierung, die ländliche Besiedlung sowie Demographie und Wirtschaft der Region zu erforschen. Sodann sollte die Einbettung der regionalen Entwicklung in den größeren Rahmen der hellenistischen und römischen Politik in diesem Raum erfolgen. Angeblich trägt das Unternehmen zu einem ‘comparative understanding of world-systems’ (S. 2) bei—was auch immer das bedeutet. Zwei Kampagnen wurden im Sommer 1996 und 1997 durchgeführt, die Publikation der Fundbeschreibung und historischen Schlußfolgerungen erfolgte mithin binnen lobenswert kurzer Zeit. Allerdings soll offensichtlich noch ein Beitrag zu den Architekturaufnahmen folgen. Das ursprüngliche Ziel, ein zusammenhängendes Areal von wenigstens 100 qkm in nur zwei Kampagnen zu begehen (S. 3), konnte nicht erreicht werden und mutet auch höchst anspruchsvoll an, wenn man bedenkt, daß die Forschergruppe nur etwa ein halbes Dutzend Personen umfaßte und das Terrain hügelig, zum Teil gebirgig und mit Macchie bedeckt ist. Die Notwendigkeit, die städtischen Zentren näher zu untersuchen, und Behinderungen durch die türkischen Behörden verhinderten, wie Blanton (S. 1) ausführt, die Erreichung dieses Ziels. ‘Nur’ 45 qkm wurden bewältigt, und schon dies ist eine wahrhaft erstaunliche Leistung, wenn es sich wirklich um einen intensiven Survey handelte, bei dem drei bis sieben Personen in 20–30 m Abstand das Gelände durchkämmten, wie Blanton ausführt (S. 3). Mit eben der gleichen Begehungsmethode in vergleichbarem Gelände, aber mit zwei bis drei Begehungsgruppen à vier bis fünf Personen wurde der Kyaneai-Survey durchgeführt, bei dem jedoch in jeder Kampagne im Durchschnitt nicht mehr als 10 qkm bewältigt werden konnten— bei ca. neun Stunden Survey-Arbeit pro Tag (vgl. F. Kolb [Hrsg.], Lykische Studien 1–6, 1993–2003). Ein weiteres Problem besteht darin, daß für einen Keramik-Survey, wie Blanton ihn durchgeführt hat, in unübersichtlichem, bewachsenem Gelände der Begehungsabstand von bis zu 30 m zu groß ist, um kleinere Scherbenkonzentrationen, etwa von Gehöften, sicher aufzufinden; nur wenn, wie im Gebiet von Kyaneai in Zentrallykien, die antike Besiedlung in Form von Architekturresten noch so gut wie vollständig erhalten ist, ist das von Blanton gewählte Verfahren sinnvoll. Problematisch ist ferner die Beschränkung von Blantons Survey auf einen schmalen, im Schnitt nur ca. 2 km breiten Küstenstreifen. Das fast völlige Fehlen klassischer Siedlungsplätze in Blantons Survey könnte teilweise davon herrühren, denn die Erfahrung zeigt, daß archaischklassische Siedlungsplätze an der kleinasiatischen Südküste oft mehrere Kilometer von der Küste entfernt im Hinterland liegen. Bedauerlicherweise wurde ein 35 qkm großes Areal im Hinterland von Selinus nicht begangen, weil die moderne Stadt Gazipasa und die intensive heutige agrarische Nutzung keinen systematischen Survey ermöglichten, wie Blanton ausführt. Deshalb wurde nur ‘vom Auto aus’ nach antiken Siedlungsplätzen Ausschau gehalten- und natürlich kein einziger entdeckt. Die geschilderten Probleme und Mängel der Begehungsmethode können sich erheblich auf die Resultate dieser Feldforschungen ausgewirkt haben. Die Zahl der entdeckten ländlichen Siedlungsplätze ist erstaunlich niedrig: 2 im Umland von Iotape, 10 in jenem von Selinus, 13 im Falle von Cestrus, 7 bei Nephelion, 1 (+ 2 Gräber)

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im Umland von Antiocheia/Cragus. Insgesamt nur 33 ländliche Siedlungsplätze (kaum Gehöfte, meist Dörfer) auf 45 qkm ergeben knapp 0,75/qkm, eine ungewöhnlich niedrige und unwahrscheinliche Zahl (zum Vergleich: beim Kyaneai-Survey beträgt die Relation mehr als 5/qkm), die eine Erklärung erfordert. Für Blanton liegt sie in den geringen Agrarflächen der Landschaft, wobei er in erster Linie vom Getreideanbau ausgeht und zu der Schlußfolgerung gelangt, daß nur ca. 10% der Bevölkerung der fünf städtischen Siedlungen aus den Agrarprodukten ihres Umlandes ernährt werden konnten und die Landschaft vor allem durch Holzexport den großen Bedarf an Nahrungsmittelimporten bezahlte (siehe bes. S. 70ff.). Dies ist ein wenig glaubwürdiges Szenario für antike Städte, und m.E. kalkuliert Blanton einen viel zu geringen Anteil an Oliven- und Weinproduktion ein, welche mit ihrer hohen Rentabilität das von ihm gezeichnete Bild völlig verändern könnten. Ebensowenig akzeptabel sind seine Bevölkerungsschätzungen (S. 57ff.), die sich z.T. auf Hausreste, aber meist auf Keramikstatistiken stützen. Plausibel ist allenfalls die Annahme, daß die Bevölkerung bis in die Kaiserzeit hinein anwuchs. Das fast völlige Fehlen von Keramikbefunden für die späthellenistische Zeit, in der das Piratenwesen in jener Landschaft eher einen Bevölkerungsüberschuß voraussetzt, zeigt zudem, daß eine Untersuchung des etwas küstenferneren Hinterlandes, in dem man die Rückzugsgebiete der Piraten vermuten muß, die Ergebnisse dieser Feldforschungen auch für die hellenistische Zeit hätte modifizieren können. Keramikstatistiken dienen Blanton auch dazu, die diachrone Entwicklung der Siedlungsgeschichte zu ‘rekonstruieren’. Blantons Glaube, mit solchen Statistiken Geschichte schreiben zu können, ist recht naiv. Er versucht, Bedeutung und Bevölkerungszahl von Siedlungen, gerade auch der fünf Polis-Zentren der Region, in den jeweiligen Epochen nach Zahl und Streuung der Keramikscherben zu bestimmen. SurveyErfahrungen unter den ähnlichen Bedingungen Zentrallykiens haben gezeigt, daß dies nicht möglich und eine exakte Analyse der vorhandenen Architekturreste für die historische Beurteilung der Siedlungsentwicklung wichtiger ist als die Keramikstatistik. Siedlungen, in denen nur wenige Keramikscherben der klassischen Zeit und viele aus der Kaiserzeit gefunden werden, können dennoch den Höhepunkt ihrer Geschichte, Bautätigkeit und Bevölkerungszahl in der klassischen Epoche gehabt haben. Es ist von daher bedauernswert, daß die Architekturforschungen zu Blantons Survey noch nicht vorliegen und die im publizierten Band abgedruckten Fotos derart schlecht sind, daß die Mauerwerkstypen auf ihnen nicht zu erkennen sind. Blanton stellt weitreichende Vergleiche mit den Ergebnissen anderer Feldforschungen im Mittelmeerraum an, aber nicht mit den nächstliegenden. Unbekannt sind ihm die Forschungen von W. Radt auf der Halbinsel von Halikarnassos, jene von H. Lohmann im Umland von Milet und in Attika, der Kyaneai-Survey in Zentrallykien, die österreichischen Forschungen im Umland des lykischen Limyra, die Arbeiten von J.J. Coulton im nördlichen Lykien usw. Bei der Erörterung der Funktion dörflicher ‘Gemeinschafts-Türme’ (S. 75f.) ist ihm offensichtlich das am besten bekannte Exemplar dieser Art in der Lyrboton Kome nahe dem pamphylischen Perge nicht geläufig. Noch erstaunlicher ist jedoch, daß er auch die 1998 publizierte Arbeit von S. Durugönül über ‘Türme und Siedlungen im Rauhen Kilikien’ nicht kennt (von neuesten Inschriftenpublikationen zu dieser Region ganz abgesehen). Blanton hat seine Survey-Methode in Mittelamerika entwickelt, und ihm ist zwar aufrichtiges Bemühen um Einarbeitung in die antike Mittelmeerwelt zuzugestehen, aber ganz gelungen scheint dies nicht zu sein. Ob seine exzessive Neigung zu—m.E. häufig wertlosen—Statistiken und zum Theoretisieren ohne hinreichende Faktengrundlage den Verhältnissen in Mittelamerika angemessener war, sei dahingestellt; für die von

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ihm untersuchte Küstenlandschaft des Rauhen Kilikien kann sein Unternehmen m.E. nur ein sehr verbesserungsbedürftiger Anfang gewesen sein. Universität Tübingen

Frank Kolb

J. Boardman, The History of Greek Vases. Potters, Painters and Pictures, Thames and Hudson, London 2001, 320 pp., 358 illustrations. Cased. ISBN 0–500–23780–8 After producing four handbooks of Greek vases for Thames and Hudson since 1975, in addition to countless scholarly articles on the subject reaching back for half a century, Sir John Boardman has now given us a grand synthesis, dealing with all aspects of the pottery industry in Greece from the Proto-Geometric of the 10th century to some of the latest Hellenistic wares of the 2nd century. As he explains in the Preface, the earlier handbooks treat the vases ‘art-historically’, while this book offers a history of the craft. What this means, in practical terms, is that the framework of Athenian painters as defined by Beazley, used in three of the handbooks, is here largely abandoned, and even the long chronological survey of vase-painting (Chapter 3) downplays the role of the individual hand and styles. In this book, connoisseurship is just one of many approaches to the study of vases, though the chapter devoted to it (Chapter 2) is given pride of place after the general survey and provides a spirited explanation and defence of Beazley’s method, as well as a fascinating biographical excursus on how Beazley might have arrived at it. The next eight chapters deal lucidly with any and every question the beginning student, the non-archaeological classicist, or the interested laymen might have about how Greek vases were made, decorated, used, traded, and studied. Some of the most successful chapters are those that do not attempt to condense and simplify things the author has dealt with in greater depth elsewhere, but rather synthesise massive amounts of scattered information that perhaps no one controls as he does. Thus, the discussion of ‘Greek Vases in Use’ (Chapter 7) offers a most satisfying answer to the simple question how the Greeks ate, what serving pieces they used, and the like—which one is not likely to find anywhere else. Similarly, the chapter of trade (Chapter 4), while generously acknowledging a debt to the work of Alan Johnston, provides a more concise and readable account than any I can think of. ‘Tricks on the Trade’ (Chapter 9) is a brief but fascinating summary of some of the more unusual techniques used to decorate the vases. Much of the middle section of the book is taken up by two chapters on ‘Pictures and People’ (Chapters 5–6, though, curiously, the Table of Contents calls them ‘Pictures and Painters’, which would be very different), essentially a survey of the iconography of Greek vases. Here one senses some of the frustration of trying to condense an enormous topic, and one to which the author has made so many original contributions, into something that will be palatable to those encountering the vases for the first time. The first, shorter section attempts to set out the principles of the ‘visual language’ of Greek vases; the second then applies these to a selection of scenes on what sometimes seem randomly chosen examples (or those for which the author had a photograph handy). For those readers with some experience in this area, it is disconcerting to try to follow the author as he leaps from a Geometric vase to an Attic red-figure cup, to a South Italian krater, to an Attic black-figure cup, all in the space of two pages! Some complex issues, such as the author’s pioneering, and

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controversial, studies of the role of Herakles in black-figure of the time of the Peisistratids, simply defy being compressed into the gnomic statements that he favours in this book. Some of these pithy, curmudgeonly remarks may delight the specialist who knows the scholarly background, but will puzzle the beginner for whom the book is mainly intended: the new Athenian democracy was ‘hardly at all non-upperclass’; the polis is ‘that overworked term for the Greek city-state beloved of taxonomic historians and some archaeologists’; for South Italian vases, ‘the debate continues between the “philodramatists” and the “iconocentric”.’ For the vase scholar, some of the greatest pleasures of the book will be found in the footnotes, a treasure-trove of recent bibliography, some of it in out-of-the-way places, sometimes accompanied by a highly condensed critique that will only make sense after one has read the book or article in question (e.g. p. 313, n. 21, on the book by B. Knittlmayer—here unfortunately called Knittlinger—and in addition to the AJA review cited here, see the very thoughtful review by R. von den Hoff in Gnomon 74 [2002], 36–42). The critique of a recent approach to vase imagery ‘from over the Channel’ (p. 302) is so elliptical that only insiders will recognise the target as such scholars as F. Lissarrague, A. Schnapp and C. Bérard, best known for the influential collaborative project La cité des images (1984; English trans. by D. Lyons, 1989). The book is handsomely produced and liberally illustrated with over 300 images conveniently scattered through the text. As in the earlier handbooks, B. is a master at selecting objects that can do double or triple duty, illustrating points made long after the piece is first introduced in a totally different context. Though most of the pieces will be known to specialists, the author does slip in some less familiar (to me, at least: the late red-figure hydria in Cape Town, fig. 137, or the black-gloss cup in Boston with scenes of the Perseus myth stamped in relief, fig. 142). It is, thus, disappointing to find that a few of the most generous, full-page illustrations have printed a little blurry (figs. 58, 68), though the originals (from Boston and New York) should have been quite good. Even more distressing is that, in an age when colour photographs of Greek vases have become commonplace (and de rigueur in museum and exhibition catalogues), the book is steadfastly black-and-white, even when dealing with technical aspects of vase decoration where the use of colour is crucial. The poor photograph of the Exekias cup in Munich (fig. 309) does nothing to convey the effect of coral red, and using the same vase as the book’s frontispiece—but not in colour— was truly a missed opportunity. The book is carefully edited, and I noticed only a few mistakes that crept in. The caption for Fig. 298, the Eretria Painter’s epinetron, describes the other side of the vase; this side is the wedding of Alcestis. W.J. Coulson in p. 309, n. 2 is really W.D.E. Coulson. On pp. 306–07, nn. 51–54, all the references to EGVP should be to ABFH. In one of many fascinating throw-away comments, B. remarks that Adolf Furtwängler (1853–1907) was ‘probably the greatest classical archaeologist of all time’ (p. 129). This is all the more astonishing when we consider tha Furtwängler died at 53, an age at which B. was just starting to crank out the series of handbooks and synthetic studies that have made him the greatest exponent of the value of studying Greek art and archaeology in the modern age. The book under review will do much to cement that reputation. One can only hope for the rapid appearance of a paperback edition, which will enable those of us who teach the subject to put the book into the hands of as many students as possible. Johns Hopkins University

H.A. Shapiro

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G. Carr and S. Stoddart (eds.), Celts from Antiquity, Antiquity Papers 2, Antiquity Publications Ltd, Cambridge 2002, II+338 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 0–9539762–1–1 The Journal Antiquity, now in its 75th year of publication, has been, and indeed continues to be, one of the world’s most influential archaeological journals. Under the careful and critical eye of its editors, O.G.S. Crawford and Glyn Daniel successively covering the first 60 years, and more recently Christopher Chippindale, Caroline Malone and Simon Stoddart, it has sought to publish new discoveries and critical debate across the whole range of archaeological endeavour. Many of the thousands of papers it has carried have become classics and deserve to be read and re-read. To facilitate this it was decided to select collections of papers on particular themes and to republish them with a short commentary. Celts in Antiquity is the second of these Antiquity Papers. The editors tell us that on the subject of Europe in the 1st millennium BC Antiquity has published over 200 articles in some 1500 pages! From these they have selected 26 (250 pages) which focus specifically on the subject of the Celts and the question of Celticity. The original texts and illustrations are published in full but in the interests of consistency the footnotes and the referencing systems have been reformatted to conform to the journal’s currently-used scheme. With such a disparate mass of material to choose from selection cannot have been easy, nor does an obvious arrangement present itself, yet what has emerged from these processes is a coherent volume that is both useful and entertaining. The chosen 26 papers are divided into four groups each prefaced by a short introduction by the editors. The first deals with the nature of ‘Celticity’, recently a much debated theme. It opens, quite properly, with Georg Kraft’s 1920 paper on ‘The origin of the Celts’ and then passes quickly to a clutch of interdependent papers by the Megaws, James and Collis, all published between 1996 and 1998, which consider, in a politicised, and sometimes rather bad-tempered way, the whole question of what is meant by ‘Celticity’ and whether the concept of the ‘Celt’ is of any validity at all in archaeological thought. Needless to say there is some disagreement on these matters, but the debate is entertaining and this fin de siècle collection will have a place in the history of archaeology, at least for British readers. The second section deals with Continental Europe and presents seven papers, all of them classics, which have proved themselves over the years. The old familiar sites are there in force—Wittnauer Horn, Manching, Hirschlanden, Vix and Hochdorf— as well as Ralston’s thoughtful discussion of central Gaulish society at the time of Caesar, and Bergquist and Taylor on the Gunderstrup Cauldron. It is a rich batch of offerings demonstrating Antiquity’s well-focused European interest particularly under the editorship of Daniel. The second part of the book (by far the greater part) deals with more parochial matters—sites and finds from the British Isles. This is divided into two sections— ‘The southern British Iron Age’ and ‘The Scottish Iron Age’. The southern British batch begins with Christopher Hawkes, ‘The ABC of the British Iron Age’ (1959) which, in reality, marked the end of an era of archaeological thought. It would have been interesting to have had his far more innovative ‘Hillforts’ (1931) offered alongside it. It was here that he set out his pioneering thoughts on the ABC scheme which was to dominate Iron Age studies in Britain for three decades. What follows is a rich mix: a retrospect on Bersu’s Little Woodbury excavation; vintage Wheeler on

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Verulamium; Cadbury–Camelot; Gussage All Saints; the East Chisenbury midden; the Snettisham Treasure; cart burials from Wetwang; and the Folly Lane burial—all valuable contributions though it might have been helpful to alert the general reader that several of them have been superseded by fuller definitive publications. Most of this collection are essentially reportage but Fitzpatrick’s review of the Snettisham Treasure introduces a useful debate about the nature of hoards and why they were deposited— a debate all the more pertinent at the time when Britain still laboured under the archaic laws of Treasure Trove. Of this collection the paper that stands out for sheer verve, style and efficient presentation is undoubtedly Wheeler’s 1932 contribution ‘A Prehistoric Metropolis: the first Verulamium’. Beginning ‘Westward across the valley from St Albans, the horizon is today fringed by a tract of secluded woodland’, it is compulsive reading—a small masterpiece for us all to relish. The final section on ‘The Scottish Iron Age’ concentrates more on debate with four papers focusing specifically on brochs. It is a useful reminder both of the quality of the Scottish archaeological record and of the invigorating uncertainty that underlies all excavation data. Altogether this is a carefully-chosen selection nicely blended with sensible introductory essays provided by the editors. Producing compendia of this sort is always a risk—but here it succeeds. Celts from Antiquity is a valuable contribution in its own right and a tribute to the vision of successive editors of Antiquity. University of Oxford

Barry Cunliffe

M. Cruz Fernández Castro and B.W. Cunliffe, El yacimiento y el santuario de Torreparedones. Un lugar arqueológico preferente en la campiña de Córdoba, BAR International Series 1030, Archaeopress, Oxford 2002, VIII+155 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 1–84171–408–9 It is not particularly common to come across monographs in Spanish about Iberian archaeology that, while still being rigorous and comprehensive, emphasise the interpretative and analytical aspects, transcending the mere exposition of findings, methodological approaches and graphs. El yacimiento y el santuario de Torreparedones is one of these unusual cases, located in a fruitful middle ground between the ‘soulless method’ and the ‘methodless soul’. María Cruz Fernández Castro is a lecturer in Classical Archaeology at the Universidad Complutense de Madrid. Her main fields of interest include the prehistory and protohistory of the Iberian Peninsula. On these subjects she has published much and she is now preparing the publication of Las villas romanas en España. Barry W. Cunliffe, Professor of European Archaeology at the University of Oxford, has published extensively since the early 1960s both for professional archaeologists and the public at large. He is currently involved in the fieldwork projects of Danebury Environs, Le Yaudet and Najerilla (the latter in conjunction with Fernández Castro). Both Fernández Castro and Cunliffe have also been involved in the Guadajoz Project since 1987, the year in which the survey and excavation programme for the hilltop urban site of Torreparedones was developed. Although the initial programme has now been completed, further work is still planned. In this book, the authors make the most out of the potential of a site that, as

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affirmed by the subtitle itself, is situated in a privileged position in the countryside of Córdoba and was occupied intensively from the Early Bronze Age to the Roman period. A reduced version of The Guadajoz Project: Andalucía in the First Millennium (Oxford, Oxford University Committee for Archaeology, 1999), the text does not aim to constitute an exhaustive outline of minor findings and methodological procedures (information which is readily available in the Depósito de la Consejería de Cultura de la Junta de Andalucía and in the more extensive English publication). Instead, a conscious effort is made to avoid the regurgitation of raw data systematically extracted from the excavation memoirs, and the book is organised in a clear chronological order that contributes to the fluidity of the text and the better understanding of particular subjects and discussions. Addressed to an audience of archaeology university students and those with an interest in the prehistory and antiquity of the southern Iberian Peninsula, El yacimiento y el santuario de Torreparedones deals with specific and relevant debates such as the process of urbanisation of the oppida in the Guadalquivir Valley, the role played by Torreparedones in the commercial routes throughout the southern and eastern territories of the Peninsula or the development of metallurgy in Sierra Morena. The data provided and the questions arising from them are constantly related to other sites and set in a broad historical and archaeological perspective for the reader. As a result, the vast amount of information that can be drawn from the site is clearly structured and easy to follow, making the book a particularly suitable and useful text for its intended audience. The authors start by locating Torreparedones geographically, illustrating its outstanding archaeological potential, describing its effects on the local and academic communities throughout the last centuries and outlining the relevant aspects of the excavation programme applied to the site from 1987 until 1993. Next, the structural elements of the site are discussed. These include the settlement, the defensive wall with its towers, and the sanctuary. Unlike most traditional archaeological studies, the mediaeval stage is far from ignored, and so the 10th century AD Arabic castle of Torreparedones receives due attention in its own sub-section. The monograph then moves on to an analysis of the site throughout its various stages of occupation: from the chalcolithic to the mediaeval. This chapter, however, is not intended to act exclusively as an orientating timeline. More importantly, it analyses the contribution of Torreparedones to the archaeology of Córdoba’s countryside and produces abundant interpretations on the social aspects of the settlement (e.g. the role of aristocracy and the agricultural exploitation of the land in the context of an increasing presence of Iberian oppida throughout the region of present day Jaén). In fact, it is in this section of the book that the authors’ efforts to relate Torreparedones to relevant archaeological debates and sites become most evident. The Bronze Age and Phoenician periods, for instance, are linked to the recurrent debates of the colonial influences throughout the southern coast and the introduction of metallurgy into the Peninsula. In addition, Torreparedones is related to sites such as Cerro Veleto, el Espino or Cabezo de Córdoba in the discussion of the commercial routes throughout the Iberian period, and the site’s role as a settlement bordering on the mediaeval kingdom of Granada is examined. The last two chapters of the monograph are dedicated to an in-depth analysis of the site’s sanctuary. As evidenced by the nature of the rituals that took place in it and by its formal characteristics, the construction cannot be situated within an exclusively Roman period. However, it does not appear to be entirely indigenous either. It is in this intriguing cultural symbiosis and the archaeological evidence produced

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for it through the Guadajoz Project that resides one of Torreparedones’s most significant contributions to Iberian archaeology. In the first of the chapters, Cunliffe and Fernández Castro outline the structural aspect of the sanctuary throughout its different phases and provide a description of its exvotos, religiously significant objects and figurines. In the following chapter, the interpretative aspect of the sanctuary is emphasised, paying particular attention to the religious building’s significance and use within its own spatial and temporal location. As a monograph written with university archaeology students in mind, the style of El yacimiento y el santuario de Torreparedones is technical when necessary, although unpretentious and very readable. The logical and clearly structured organisation of the book, added to the authors’ efforts to relate Torreparedones to relevant sites and debates, contribute towards the monograph’s comprehensive and well developed arguments. Fernández Castro and Cunliffe consistently offer plentiful evidence throughout the text to sustain and illustrate their various points. These include, not only concrete examples drawn from the site itself, but also figures such as maps, graphs, tables and Harris matrices. There is, in addition, a vast section at the end of the book containing photographs of the site, its surroundings and findings. As affirmed by authors themselves, though, this information is not gratuitous, but always intended to support or illustrate specific explanations or discussions. The outstandingly broad-ranging and balanced discussions of El yacimiento y el santuario de Torreparedones clearly set it apart from other monographs that deal with similar subjects. The book is engaging, extremely useful to archaeologists and historians and efficient in meeting its original aims. In this book, Cunliffe and Fernández Castro successfully combine Spanish and contemporary British approaches to archaeology, producing a text that, without getting lost in idealistic conjectures and overambitious quests, nor limiting itself to a mere exposition of findings and graphs, offers a comprehensive account of a site with much to offer to many of the active debates in modern Iberian archaeology. St Peter’s College, Oxford

A. Alzola Romero

R.H. Hewsen, Armenia: A Historical Atlas, The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 2001, 336 pp., 232 colour maps, 3 line drawings. Cased. ISBN 0–226–33228–4 Robert Hewsen’s Armenia: A Historical Atlas is an important milestone in the development of Armenian studies in particular and post-Soviet studies in general. The volume represents the realisation of a 20-year project that endured radical transformations in both the medium of production, with the emergence of computer-based cartography, and the object of study, with the collapse of the Soviet Union and rise of Armenia’s third republic. That the resulting volume should not only be a technical achievement but an intellectual one as well speaks to the patience and scholarship of the author and the skills of the production team that saw the project to completion. The book includes 278 maps and plans distributed across five historical epochs: ancient, mediaeval, early modern, modern, and contemporary. Each historical section is introduced by a chronological chart and a narrative overview of the period. But what gives the atlas its intellectual weight are the extensive textual accounts that accompany each of the maps. The maps do not, in H.’s volume, speak for themselves,

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but rather are presented in the context of a broader account of Armenian social and political history. This adds considerably to the power of the work as it does not rely upon the iconography of the maps alone to inform but supplements their visual appeal with a detailed and sophisticated analysis of the forces that shaped the world as depicted. And there is no question that the maps are visually quite appealing. As the introduction makes clear, an intense amount of thought went into every detail of the volume’s cartographic aesthetics, from the colour palette to the fonts. The book opens with a series of short contributions (including eight maps) that locate the work technically (Preface), intellectually (Introduction), and historico-geographically (an historical introduction, including maps devoted to orography, hydrology, climate and vegetation). In the first section, titled ‘Ancient Armenia’, 56 maps are devoted to the Caucasus and eastern Anatolia from early prehistory down to the partition of Armenia between Rome and Sasanid Persia. There a few problems with the earlier maps. First, the map of ‘Prehistoric Armenia’, covering sites from the Palaeolithic through the Bronze Age, is not particularly useful as it lumps together such diverse phenomena (not to mention over 5000 years, more than the entire span of the remainder of the book) that it is impossible to develop an understanding of the region in relation to shifting patterns of settlement, economy, and politics that in many concrete respects set the scene for later forms of cultural development and social cohesion. Second, there seems to be some confusion regarding the Early Bronze Age in particular since ‘Early Transcaucasian’ sites are attributed to the Eneolithic (here placed, rather peculiarly, just after or parallel with the Early Bronze Age) when in fact this horizon (more generally known today as the Kura-Araxes) is, at least in most of Caucasia and eastern Anatolia, synonymous with the Early Bronze Age. Similarly, a note on map 9 suggests Hurrian emergence in the Taurus area in the Eneolithic period which would be, by most conventional dating, sometime in the early 4th millennium BC—far too early given the available sources. Again, this suggests a certain degree of confusion regarding the archaeological bases for the prehistory of the region. H. arrives on firmer ground as the book moves closer to the historical periods but it is worth noting that an initial reliance upon toponymic data from Urartian texts to describe the regional situation in the early 1st millennium BC introduces a foundational narrative contention to the work in map 10: that in the Caucasus, ethnicity is and always has been, the principle axis of cultural and territorial organisation. There is much to be said both for and against the analytical privileges that have been accorded to ethnicity in the historiography of the Caucasus. However, it is noteworthy here in that it is one of the few moments in the work where such a critical convention is allowed to slip by without comment. Maps that follow on Caucasian Albania, ancient Georgian kingdoms, and the formation of the Arsacid empire provide new views upon these polities and the pre-Roman situation of the region. In the second section of Armenia, 64 maps portray the shifting kingdoms and principalities of the Mediaeval period from the initial Byzantine expansion into the region through the fall of the Cilician kingdom. It is in this section that the atlas achieves its most profound historical impact as it accomplishes, as only cartographic materials can, an understanding of historical process enacted in place. In tandem with the excellent textual materials, H. draws the reader past an encounter with maps as a representation style and into the power of maps to make an historical argument. At the close of this period, he narrates, ‘the Armenians had . . . lost control of their country, seen their culture come to a virtual standstill, and begun to emigrate in numbers sufficient to reduce them to a minority in most parts of their ancestral homeland’ (p. 81). Not only do we find here the sense of loss that runs through much writing

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on Armenian history, but we see an implicit reflection upon the contemporary situation read through the Mediaeval crisis. The third section of the volume encompasses the early modern period from the beginnings of the Ottoman empire to the Russo-Ottoman treaties of 1878 with 35 maps. The overarching theme of this section is the increasing integration of Armenia with a wider world and thus we find a detailed set of maps attending to the global situation of Armenian diasporic communities across the Old World during the 17th and 18th centuries. These migrations provide, for H., cultural links beyond Caucasia that re-energise the nation culturally even as the region becomes caught up in the trilateral conflicts that attended the expansion of the Russian empire to the borders of its Ottoman and Persian rivals. ‘Modern Armenia’ (70 maps) is the focus of the fourth section of the atlas, a short yet highly significant period that encompasses the 50 years or so between 1878 and the emergence of the first Armenian republic. Although this is the shortest chronological period discussed by the atlas, it is also central to the book’s theme and central to its mission within the intellectual context of Armenian studies. These are the years of the Armenian Genocide and the play of intense ‘Great Power’ conflicts in the Caucasus. H. has done an excellent job of portraying cartographically the roots of rival claims upon territories and the 20th century Armenian diaspora communities that so profoundly shape the post-Soviet era. It is this succeeding era, the Soviet and post-Soviet periods, that is the focus of the fifth and last section of the book, including 38 maps that describe the shifting situation of the region during the 20th century. This section includes a number of maps that position Armenia and the Caucasus within larger global contexts established by the 20th-century diaspora. One of the great strengths of the work as a whole, and the concluding section in particular, is that it consistently avoids the sort of narrow parochialism that can often be the downfall of historical atlases. That is, Armenia re-emerges in each of the periods at hand, not as a colourful island awash in a sea of unrelated grey neighbours, but rather as a place closely tied to its geographic context. Indeed, this remains the case even as that context expands dramatically in the 20th century to place Armenia at the centre of both geopolitical rivalries and global patterns of migration. As a number of recent works in cartographic theory have demonstrated, all maps present a certain point of view and the maps in the present volume are no exception. By taking Armenia as its principle object rather than, for example, southern Caucasia, the story told in the atlas has a very specific narrative arc to it that is shaped by the themes of triumph, loss, and resurrection that form the cornerstone of many specifically ‘national’ histories. However, H. artfully uses the map as a form of spatial representation with the potential to explore, and perhaps undermine, such understandings. As such, I have no doubt that numerous readers will alternatively be enamoured by and enraged by the depiction contained in the pages of Armenia: A Historical Atlas. But this is a compliment to the author of the highest order. The book is not only a remarkable achievement as a reference volume that can be counted upon to provide details both obscure and obvious at moments when the specifics of place and territory slip the scholar’s mind. It is also a graphic spatial history of a part of the world where shifting landscapes have long been crucial to understanding both history and the present order of things. To achieve the former takes remarkable scholarship; to achieve both, as H. has done, takes real imagination. University of Chicago

Adam T. Smith

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G. Kitov and D. Agre, Vavedenie v trakiiskata arheologiya (Introduction to Thracian Archaeology), IK ‘Avalon’, Sofia 2002, 429 pp., many black and white and colour photographs, drawings and plans. Paperback. ISBN 954–9704–07–6 The present book is written by two well-known Bulgarian archaeologists, who have long field experience. Since the 1970s Georgi Kitov has excavated a great number of Thracian tumuli across Bulgaria, thus providing important data and discovering dozens of fascinating monumental tombs, while Daniela Agre has also excavated a number of burial sites. The book has claims to be the first general survey of the rich material found in the northern parts of the Balkan Peninsula, dated from late 2nd millennium BC to the end of the Hellenistic period, i.e. the so-called Iron Age in Thrace, although some finds from the Late Bronze Age are described, too. It begins with an historical introduction written by Margarita Tacheva and is divided into 15 chapters presenting different topics such as settlement patterns, mortuary practices and funerary architecture, art, toreutics and jewellery, pottery, weapons and also some methodological issues, whilst numerous good quality illustrations enliven the text. Such a structure gives a general idea of various aspects of Thracian archaeology; moreover the chapters provide a very good synthesis of the studies made by various Bulgarian scholars, and the authors discuss important data from their own excavations as well. The geographical scope of the study is limited mainly to present-day Bulgaria, but, since ancient Thrace spread beyond these modern political borders, one might have wished for some more material from Romania, the former Yugoslavia, northern Greece and European Turkey to be presented in a similar survey. But, as the first general study ever published in Bulgaria, the book gives a good picture of ancient Thrace as a whole and provides important information on various material. It may be recommended to all students of Thracian archaeology. For the future, it is to be hoped that the authors will study this fascinating evidence in a broader context and will present their work in a Western language so that foreign scholars may learn more about ancient Thrace. Sofia University St Kliment Ohridski

Nikola Theodossiev

H. Koch, Persepolis. Glänzende Hauptstadt des Perserreichs, Zaberns Bildbände zur Archäologie, Philipp von Zabern, Mainz am Rhein 2001, IV+112 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 3–8053–2813–3 In the tradition of the ‘Zaberns Bildbände’, this book provides an excellent pictorial presentation of the monuments of the Persepolis area, combined with a concise but up-to-date text by an authority in the field. Contrary to what the title may suggest, however, the subject is not limited to the Achaemenid capital of Persepolis. It also covers the other important Achaemenid and Sasanid monuments in the Persepolis area, such as those at Naqsh-i Rustam, Istakhr and Pasargadae. The book aims at the general reader interested in the Achaemenid and Sasanid periods. At the same time it is an excellent guidebook for anyone visiting these historical and archaeological sites. Chapter 1 is a concise historical introduction to the Achaemenians, their religion and the discovery and excavation of the Persepolis monuments (pp. 3–12). Chapter 2 introduces Achaemenid Old-Persian cuneiform script (pp. 13–14). Chapter 3 discusses

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the origin of Persepolis, the terrace as it was designed and constructed at the time of Darius I (pp. 15–20) when he moved his capital from nearby Pasargadae. The major part of the book is presented as a visit to Persepolis in its present condition in which all the different buildings, halls, gates and tombs are considered (Chapter 4, pp. 21–76). Chapter 5 mentions the buildings in the immediate vicinity of the Persepolis terrace, such as the Fratadara temple and Takht-i Rustam. Chapter 6, which covers the four royal Achaemenid tombs and the Kaba-i Zardusht at Naqshi Rustam (pp. 79–83), is followed by a short description of the eight Sasanid rock sculptures at the same site (Chapter 7, pp. 84–86). The rock sculptures at nearby Naqsh-i Radjab (Chapter 8, pp. 87–88) and the archaeological site of Istakhr, with its Achaemenid, Sasanid and Islamic remains (Chapter 9, pp. 89–90), are then listed. The Achaemenid monuments of Pasargadae, which include the royal tomb of Cyrus the Great and several palaces, are discussed in Chapter 10 (pp. 91–97). The last chapter discusses some of the antiquities from Persepolis which are now kept in the collection of the National Museum in Teheran (Chapter 11, pp. 98–102). It is a sensible addition to the previous chapters, which concentrate on the architecture and the monumental sculpture, and, like Chapter 4, it is presented as a visit, guiding the reader through the exhibits in the gallery. Although this chapter might become outdated after some internal reordering of the museum, most finds are well enough illustrated for it to remain good reading. One regrettable addition, however, is in the ‘Nachwort’ on p. 103 where an unprovenanced object is added. It is part of a large lapis lazuli disc (about 30 cm in diameter) with the representation of a winged bull within a band of rosettes. It belongs to the collection of the Reza Abbasi Musem in Teheran and, although the style is Achaemenian, one may doubt its authenticity. This book is a well balanced general introduction to the Achaemenid and Sasanid monuments of the Persepolis region that will provide good reading for all those interested in Iran’s past. The combination of plans and reconstructions with photographs of the present remains allows the reader to imagine the original splendour of these monuments. At the same time, it is also an excellent guide and reference for anyone planning a visit to Persepolis. Although the author has refrained from using references in the text, she has added a thesaurus and concise bibliography for the more demanding reader (p. 106). Kapellen, Belgium

Bruno Overlaet

J. Luke, Ports of Trade, Al Mina and Geometric Greek Pottery in the Levant, BAR International Series 1100, Archaeopress, Oxford 2003, IV+81 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 1–84171–478–X This is a praiseworthy study. Joanna Luke has trimmed her 1994 Cambridge thesis (o si sic semper omnes!) and updated it, while understandably retaining her main conclusions which had been based on rather less evidence than is now available. She is modest and thorough and explores several areas barely touched otherwise in this rather overworked area where prejudice is often rife. The main innovation and perhaps the most controversial is to explore the site in terms of a Polanyan Port of Trade and to decide that it was one controlled if not sponsored by an inland power, for trade. To do this Criteria have to be established and then the primary evidence

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judged in terms of them, rather than in its own right, and this can give rise to some controversial views on matters which, by other criteria not directed to predetermined ends, may look very different. Thus, her Table of Criteria align very uneasily indeed, as is commonly the case with such prescriptions: ‘architecture’ and ‘kitchenware’ depend on debatable views on what is possible and appropriate in a settlement in a totally different environment from home, whether a port or not; ‘foreign production’ and ‘imitations’ (of pottery) need not be produced on the site itself—at any rate, we have of the site very little of the early period, only what might be part of either or both habitation and store, we know nothing of other possible relevant sites and production centres, and can be too easily misled by thinking we have all there is to know; ‘distribution’ is to sites where independent traders might well have operated, while of the alleged import trade Greek pottery was demonstrably unworthy and worthless to the Syrians, while it is very doubtful whether iron was a Euboean export in the 8th century BC. The Greeks (and Cypriots) could only have been there with Syrian permission, but if this was deliberate on the Syrians’ part it was quite remarkably selective of the Greeks involved in the early period. Too many criteria cannot be judged at all, such as religion; but this is a brave attempt to satisfy those who feel that modern classifications are a necessary aid to historical judgment. With only three Port Types on offer from Theory, the challenge is to consider the many other variants possible and observable in the archaeology of the early Mediterranean; in this case one where the traders are the promoters though juniors, and the hinterlanders were unlikely at first to profit much, and so were indifferent to what was no real threat to their prosperity or security. Perhaps a Criterion of Relative Status and Need is required. The codification of poleis, colonies, alterity, trade and other processes, by scholars of the last generation, is beginning to look rather vieux jeu today, and better account needs to be taken in each case now of the imponderables and inadequacies of evidence which they were meant to circumvent, with closer attention to the primary evidence; not that L. ever shirks this. Forget Theory and think Naukratis, where the Greeks were the prime movers and the Egyptians accommodated them? L.’s good survey of Greek pottery in the Levant draws the right conclusions and admits a probable, if minor Greek presence at Al Mina, but cannot plausibly account for the massively greater proportion of Greek wares, and wares for Greeks and Cypriots, found there in the first two generations. Name any non-Greek site with a comparable record! What Woolley might have thrown away (very little to judge by what he kept, and Alex Fantalkin tells me that he clearly kept for the BM masses of plain Greek kitchenware of levels 7/6) or is hidden in Antioch (nothing of substance recorded) are not serious grounds for dissent. I address some of these matters, and the Port of Trade criteria, in AWE 1.2(2002), 315–31, including the point that architecture abroad (and cooking!) is determined by local conditions not home practice. The case for thinking that the Greek pottery, notably the many cups, were a commodity sought out by the easterner for feasts cannot stand in the face of the clear evidence of its total unsuitability for eastern tables. The recently fashionable ‘pots do not equal people’ slogan can be self-defeating. Her sensible account of the shapes used in another Euboean town, on Ischia, does not admit that totally different environments might require very different pot-behaviour, and these are not so very different. The Euboeo-Levantine and Cypro-Levantine wares which are in Al Mina in such high proportions can hardly be import items for Syrian feasts, but only for some sort of Greek and Cypriot population, the latter apparent perhaps elsewhere in the general

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area, to as far as Tarsus. Such mixed populations were surely commonplace, but in this case, at Al Mina, the overwhelming majority is foreign, and the purpose, in such a place, obvious. Again, preconceived criteria for what does or does not constitute evidence for presence can produce implausible solutions. There is no straight answer to the role and origins of Al Mina in its early years and none of the issues is quite clear cut; there is always a strong ‘yes, but . . .’ factor. In the view of the reviewer the years have only confirmed the excavator’s assessment of the general character of his site, and further understanding of the sources of the Greeks and the effects of their trade through Al Mina are now far better appreciated, as well as the significance of the excavated finds; but L.’s contribution has been more important and thorough than most and it can be unreservedly welcomed. Woodstock, UK

John Boardman

N. Luraghi (ed.), The Historian’s Craft in the Age of Herodotus, Oxford University Press, Oxford 2001, X+340 pp. Cased. ISBN 0–19–924050–7 It would be hard to find another canonical author whose work has gone, or indeed had the potential to have gone, through such transformations and induced as much recent interest as Herodotus. Rosalind Thomas’ Herodotus in Context (Cambridge 2000), Rosaria Vignolo Munson’s book on ethnographic and political discourse in Herodotus, Telling Wonders (Michigan 2001), and Brill’s Companion to Herodotus (2002) attest to this renewed activity. The past decade has seen significant shifts in assessing Herodotus both as narrator and historian, recognising the sophistication of his text, on the one hand, and its contribution to the evolution of historiography on the other; there remains, however, much work to be done to unite these approaches. The 13 essays, introduction and ‘Epilogue’ address this need, both in their range of subjects and by attempts within given essays to unify the fractured and competing identities (sophisticated story-teller, proto-historian) ascribed by modern scholarship to Herodotus. The product of a workshop, ‘The Dawn of Historiography’, held in Turin in 1997, this book re-evaluates several major areas in the consideration of Herodotus as historian: orality and literacy, his sources, generic antecedents both in poetry and prose, predecessors and contemporaries, the competition between these other narrators and forms of narrating the past, his style and the method and agenda of the narratives he presents. Both explicitly and implicitly, the essays examine the eternal paradoxes of historiography: the extent to which the traditions of the past are congruent with the concerns of the present and the inevitable subjectivity of the historian as the producer of his/her text. Ewen Bowie considers the poetic antecedents of historiography, particularly the movement from accounts of single poleis to ones that supply an overarching narrative, as Panyassis’s Ionika. Bertelli’s essay on Hecataeus explores the evolution of historiography from genealogy. Möller considers the beginnings of chronography, examining the case of Hellanicus’ Hiereiai. Nicolai’s piece on the rhetoric of Thucydides’ Archaeology complements Möller’s, examining the element of competition between contemporary purveyors of the past, and the extent to which the assertion of methodological principles corresponds to the desire to create a unique rhetorical stance: the foregrounding of principles of epistemology are never far from the historian’s agenda in carving out a (privileged) niche for his/her own subject and narrative.

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The involvement of the present in constructing the past is the subject of Giangiulio’s article on colonial traditions, particularly the meaning of such narratives for the audience among whom they have currency, and the historian as ‘catalyst’ for tradition. Gehrke’s article ‘Myth, History, and Collective Identity: Uses of the Past in Ancient Greece and Beyond’, is theoretically extremely important, but unfortunately engages little with Herodotus directly. Blösel’s essay on the Herodotean bipartite construction of the character of Themistocles is among the most exciting in the volume, in which he argues that this depiction mirrors contemporary attitudes towards Athens: ‘During the Persian wars the Athenians—like Themistocles until Salamis—led the Greek defense against the Persians; but after the war, in the time of the league, the Athenians degenerated—like Themistocles after Salamis—into lawless oppressors of other Greeks and fell victim to exactly those vices which Herodotus attributes to Themistocles: pleonexia and hubris’ (p. 196). The most illuminating essays are those dealing closely with Herodotus’ style and the ambitions of his work. Fowler’s essay ‘Early Historie and Literacy’ recognises Herodotus as a great theorist of the methodology and purpose of narrating the past. Luraghi analyses the status and function of source references in Herodotus, seeing source attributions as ‘metaphors not metonymies’, and as such manages to salvage to some extent what Fehling’s unfortunate style has allowed too many historians to overlook. The one weakness of the essay is its Hellenocentrism: the ambiguity of recollection which Luraghi identifies as characteristic of the Persians is in fact a feature pointedly shared with the Greeks (e.g. 7. 139). Griffiths’s essay on the latent meaning to be found in Herodotus’ juxtaposition of stories attests to the sophistication of both authors. His conclusion that ‘the play of narrative at several levels . . . deserves scrutiny and understanding for its own sake, and indeed cannot be used as raw material for the composition of history books until it is given the close attention it demands’ (p. 178) is satisfyingly followed by Blösel’s excellent essay. Vannicelli’s ‘Herodotus’ Egypt and the Foundations of Universal History’ sees Book 2 as undertaking to subdivide historical space into epochs of universal value from which emerges an inherent critique of Greek traditions. The implications of his conclusions should have a wider impact on evaluations of the purpose and contemporary reception of the Histories. The attempt to align different cultures and their historical space fits into the larger agenda of cultural comparison and identification of universal principles rendering such comparison both possible and desirable. Some unfortunate traces of an older patronising approach to Herodotus do, however, appear too often for comfort, even in some of the most sensitive contributions: Herodotus was ‘not aware’ (p. 24), ‘could not understand . . . nor recognise . . . nor apply . . . where we might expect him to’ (p. 115), ‘does not seem to have fully realized’ (p. 153), ‘doesn’t notice’ (p. 153), etc. Surely the fate of Cambyses should serve as a warning to scholars about the dangers of glib assumptions. I leave to the end a peculiarity of this otherwise forward-looking book. L.’s introduction provides a eulogy to the ground-breaking nature of Oswyn Murray’s 1987 piece, ‘Herodotus and Oral History’, an article reprinted as Chapter 2, the reconsideration of which by Murray forms the book’s last chapter. While the introduction to Herodotean studies of anthropological approaches to oral tradition at that time was undoubtedly important, the premises and assertions of this article have not aged well, as L.’s own essay (rather ironically) demonstrates. Among these the most striking is a deep-seated anxiety pervading the essay that political agenda must never have guided Herodotus’s selection and presentation of his logoi. This unease is witnessed

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in Murray’s careful coinage of a ‘neutral’ word to describe Herodotus’ manipulation of his sources, whose only permitted motivations are certain ‘nobler’ motivations, moral and aesthetic, but never political: In this discussion I would prefer to avoid using words which suggest deliberate intent to mislead or deceive; this may of course be present; but often the factors which have caused a particular tradition to take on a particular shape are not reasons of self-interest or conscious political distortions, but aesthetic or moral considerations. Words like bias, Tendenz, or prejudice have the wrong connotations; we need a more neutral word, covering both conscious and unconscious self-interested distortion and literary or aesthetic distortion, as they operate over time within a tradition. The world (sic) I would offer is ‘deformation’ (p. 28).

Granted that was in 1987, but Murray concedes little in his conclusion, notably avoiding the challenge implicit in Blösel’s essay, that the Histories contain a contemporary critique of Athenian arche: ‘In any event his own deformations are not to be interpreted politically, but as a function of his literary personality: they are related both to his method and his sources’ (p. 318). Even when he acknowledges the strong influence of the present on both oral traditions and on the writing of history, the implications are ignored. Although granting (couched significantly in a conditional) that ‘If modern history is the creation of useful myths for the present, then Herodotus is the father of history precisely because he is a teller of useful tales designed to explain the present condition of the Greek world,’ he proceeds not only to avoid applying the principle to the Histories (he retreats immediately to an 1846 quotation from Grote), but by tying Herodotus closely to modern historians (‘recognizing him indeed as a fellow historian’) attempts to render these latter-day colleagues reluctant to cast stones, raising the question of whom Muray is defending, Herodotus or the discipline and its modern-day proponents. Certainly modern examples (such as the Israeli-Palestinian conflict) should demonstrate the impossibility of constructing a politically neutral account of the past (should even an author with all good intentions try, this will not generally be how his/her work will be received); moreover, given the close association of democracy and imperialism in the Anglo-American political traditions, incendiary at present, we ought as ancient historians to be carefully scrutinising what may be influencing our own readings of the past. Girton College, Cambridge

E. Irwin

S.Y. Monakhov, Grecheskie amfory v Prichernomor’e. Kompleksy keramicheskoi tary VII–II vekov do n.e. (Greek Amphorae in the Black Sea Littoral. Complexes of Ceramic Containers of the 7th–2nd Centuries BC), Saratov University, Saratov 1999, 680 pp., 238 tabls. Cased. ISBN 5–292–02186–5 This substantial volume presents, fully described and illustrated, almost 200 archaeological complexes containing what have lately come to be called ‘trade amphorae’ or ‘transport amphorae’. These chronologically closed assemblages of material come in the main from ancient settlements on the Black Sea (wells, pits and basement areas), or from tumulus-burials of Scythians and other native peoples (grave goods, remains of funeral feasts and pyres). A very few are from wells and cisterns in the Athenian Agora, from Rhodes, and from one or two shipwrecks of 4th-century or Hellenistic date (pp. 15–27).

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In eight chapters of varying length Monakhov discusses assemblages of the Archaic period, first half of the 5th century, its second half, the first two decades of the 4th, the 370s and 360s, the long period 360–320, the late 4th and early 3rd century, and the mid-3rd to the mid-2nd century BC. Those of the first three periods are relatively few, and dependent, for identification and dating, on form and fabric of the amphorae, along with any accompanying decorated or black-glazed tableware. Zeest and Brashinskii (in Soviet Russia) and Virginia Grace (in the West) had already made great contributions in this field (pp. 7–23). From the end of the 5th century BC identification of producing centres becomes more secure, and the relative and absolute chronology likewise is more precise and reliable to an expected accuracy of 10–15 years. Long sequences of makers’ and magistrates’ stamps are available for six cities— Thasos, Herakleia, Sinope, Chersonesos, Rhodes and Knidos. There has been built up a fine tradition of study of amphora-stamps as evidence for ancient economic history, both in Russia (Pridik, Grakov, Brashinskii) and in the West (Grace, Garlan). M. uses these fairly well established chronologies, applied to numerous assemblages from South Russia and the Ukraine, to establish the relative and absolute dating of the ‘Royal Scythian’ tumulus-burials of ca. 390–330 BC (pp. 239–433, 573–74; see also Il Mar Nero 2 [1995–96], 29–59). The dates of occupation of the Chersonesite settlements in the north-western Crimea, ca. 350–280 BC, and of the end of the settlement of the Scythian period and the brief Bosporan katoikia at Elizavetovskoe in the Don delta (ca. 300–270 BC) are also given much more secure bases (pp. 497–521; 484–96). These are very substantial advances, showing the virtue of his procedure in compiling numerous, overlapping, chronologically arranged, groups of amphorae. It is worth noting here how data have accumulated over time: Zeest had disposed of eight complexes (mainly settlements) in 1960; Brashinskii assembled some 46 (predominantly burials) by 1984 (p. 14). The method followed for each sub-period is the same. The amphorae from the burial, well, store-deposit or shipwreck, are listed. The most commonly represented types for the period are treated first; rarities or unidentified types last. All are given full descriptions and drawn as an outline figure, if they were available to the author. Complete amphorae and ‘archaeologically complete’ ones (the author’s commonly applied phrase), rims, bases, and handles of distinctive type or with stamps, are all given this treatment. A general tendency from bulbousness to a slenderer elegance is noted in all species of amphorae over time. The texture and colour of the clay and any inclusions within it are remarked upon. Other similar complexes appear in full and in forward- and back-references. Previous views as to the position in sequence, date and place of production are given. Thus the reader is allowed full participation in the evidential chain that makes up the body of the book. In this the hundreds of line-drawn, full and near-complete amphorae, rims and bases, in the 238 text-figures play an essential part. Four very detailed appendices add to the value of this book. First is a list of the complexes dealt with; second a list of makers and magistrates at the main producing cities—Thasos, Herakleia, Sinope, Chersonesos, Rhodes and Knidos; thirdly measurements of the typical amphora-types are given; last there is a synchronisation of the magistrates’ stamps on Thasian, Herakleian and Sinopean amphorae of the 4th century. The whole is a ‘Herakleian task’ in itself, a heroic grappling with Hydralike material (though with amphorae, not hydriae!). It is hardly possible for someone outside the former Soviet area to add substantially to the body of material dealt with here, which is well-nigh exhaustive. But it is in place to mention a find from Olbia. This is the small piece, of trade-amphora shape, dating to ca. 525–500 BC, which

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was found in the Olbian agora in 1952 (E.I. Levi, SA 21, 334–35). It bears decoration in the form of a black-figured sphinx on the neck, and scales of typical East Greek (‘Klazomenian’) style on the body. Found in a pit, and with this combination of form and ornament, it merits status as a ‘complex’ itself, dating to the late Archaic period. It is not within the present scope of this book to lay out definitive identifications of amphorae from the various producing centres. Indeed that was to have been the subject of a section of text, which was omitted because of length (p. 24, n. 43). What remains on those matters, scattered throughout the existing sections, makes the publication of fuller discussion highly desirable. One particularly hopes for further clarity in the ‘Samian’, ‘Thasian’ and ‘Protothasian’ (according to Zeest) groups of the Archaic period, and for some argumentation in favour of, say, Knidos or Kos, for the ‘Solokha I’ type amphorae of the 4th century. One might think that Kos was the more probable, in view of Demosthenes’ mention of Koan wine imports into the Black Sea area alongside Thasian, Mendean and Peparethian (Against Lakritos 35. 35). But the borrowing of amphora-types between the neighbouring cities, Rhodes, Knidos and Kos, in the 3rd and 2nd centuries seems to have been a continuing process (pp. 533–35), that may have already existed in the 4th century. All the same, Kos is at the moment the one missing wine-producer from Demosthenes’ list, and invites the identification that has only recently been given to Mendean and Peparethian. Zeest, Brashinskii and Avram have all, with varying degrees of conviction, pointed to the ‘Solokha type I’ amphorae as ‘possibly Koan’. This excellent study of relative and absolute chronology excites expectation of another, devoted to typology and identification of production-centres, and promises further strides towards the understanding of this branch of the ancient economy. Leeds, UK

J.G.F. Hind

M. Pfrommer, Greek Gold from Hellenistic Egypt, with E. Towne Markus, The Getty Museum Studies on Art, J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles 2001, XVI+74 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 0–89236–633–8 This new book on Hellenistic jewellery by Michael Pfrommer is devoted to the publication of the spectacular assemblage of gold jewellery acquired by the J. Paul Getty Museum in 1993, including two finger-rings, a stephane, a pair of earrings with Erotes, two pairs of hoop earrings with animal heads, two snake armlets and two snake bracelets, and a hairnet, as well as beads once belonging to one or more necklaces. Although their provenance is unknown, the objects contain numerous clues pointing to Egypt. The first part of the publication (pp. 1–9) describes the objects, which date most probably to the late 3rd–early 2nd century BC. The most spectacular of them are a stephane with a polychrome Herakles knot in the centre and a hairnet with a bust medallion showing Aphrodite and Eros. The major part of the book is devoted to a brief historical survey of the Ptolemaic kingdom, starting from Alexander the Great and covering almost three centuries to the reign of Cleopatra VII. This serves as a background for a discussion of its culture and art, whilst new acquisitions made by the Getty Museum are used to illustrate the development of various trends in iconography, styles of jewellery, etc. For instance,

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finger-rings with intaglios showing Tyche with the double cornucopia (p. 35f., fig. 24) and Artemis with a deer (p. 39, fig. 27) provide the starting point for a discussion of the personification of Arsinoë II as Tyche and Artemis. A chapter is devoted to the historical and cultural background to the emergence of the hairnet (pp. 46–57), its association with four gods—Aphrodite, Eros, Dionysos and Herakles—and its relation to the Ptolemaic ruler-cults. P. comes to the conclusion that ‘on the Getty hairnet this symbolism was used to demonstrate the loyalty and the Ptolemaic affinities of its owner’ (p. 56). The final chapter (pp. 59–64) poses the question of to whom the Treasure belonged and when it was buried. The absence of the royal insignia means that it could hardly have belonged to a queen, rather to an upper-class lady with connections to the Alexandrian court. Analysis of the composition of the assemblage allows P. to suggest that certain pieces were not found, or were separated from the hoard after its discovery; that it is most probably not a tomb-group but more likely a Treasure concealed under the threat of imminent danger, as P. supposes, in the wake of the assassination of Arsinoë III. The book is furnished with a bibliography, organised according to the chapters and their main topics (pp. 65–69), and a simplified genealogical tree of the Ptolemaic dynasty (p. 70). Published as part of the Getty Museum Studies on Art series, which is designed to introduce small groups of related works to the general public, P.’s book admirably fulfils its purpose, although it may also prove useful to students investigating the problems of Hellenistic jewellery. For those undertaking research in this field the book is a welcome source of information, as are its high quality illustrations and drawings,1 although they may prefer to consult P.’s own detailed commentary.2 Bonn, Germany

Mikhail Treister

A. Rodríguez Díaz and J.-J. Enríquez Navascués, Extremadura tartésica. Arqueología de un proceso periférico, Bellaterra Arqueología, Barcelona 2001, 366 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 84–7290–174–2 In this synthesis, Rodríguez Díaz and Enríquez Navascués set themselves no easy task: to study the Extremadura region in a period that for over 30 years has been labelled simply ‘Orientalising’ or ‘Tartessian’ by Spanish scholars. It begins with the Late Bronze Age, spreading through the Early Iron Age to the last centuries of the 1st millennium BC, covering a powerful post-Orientalising phase in the 5th century BC and a complex transitional phase around 400 BC. Towards the end of this period, with the dissemination of Roman practices, the indigenous culture in Extremadura

1 See also P.’s discussion of the same assemblage in M. Pfrommer, Alexandria. Im Schatten der Pyramiden (Mainz 1999), 125–34. 2 M. Pfrommer, ‘Hellenistisches Gold und ptolemaische Herrscher’. In Studia Varia from the J. Paul Getty Museum 2 (Los Angeles 2001), 79–114.

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was changed and new patterns established and consolidated. It is not a simple question because of various factors, but the authors handle it successfully. First, the extended chronology. Far from limiting themselves strictly to the 1st millennium BC, the authors track an historical process from the Copper Age to the Late Republican period. This time-span easily surpassess that given in the title, and in little more than 300 pages all significant aspects of Extremadura’s Tartessian archaeology are skilfully systematised and integrated within the longue durée, to borrow Braudel’s expression. A diachronic approach, adapted from M.E. Aubet’s pioneering works in this field (applied in her case to Andalusian protohistory), is used for the successive stages of the remote history of Extremadura (Chapters 2–7). In this long journey of more than 3000 years (whose rhythm becomes slower and more detailed when the 1st millennium BC is reached), phenomena including social and cultural transformation, crisis, change and rupture are intercalated through analysis of the archaeological evidence. The authors focus their approach on economic, environmental and demographic aspects by following the premises of a previous volume (A. Rodríguez Díaz [ed.], Extremadura protohistórica: paleoambiente, economía y poblamiento, Cáceres 1998). They also include social, technical, ideological and symbolic expressions, and, in the final stages, ethnic and political evidence, important in calibrating the evolution of the communities that inhabited Extremadura at the end of the prehistoric period. Second, particular features deriving from the geographical framework. Extremadura, located in the south-western quadrant of the Iberian Peninsula, is the nexus of three regions differentiated by culture and geography: the Atlantic fringe of Portugal, the Meseta (or central tableland) and, to the south, Andalusia. From its peripheral and frontier position (a characterisation developed by G. Barrientos, which is emphasised by the authors from the outset), the region enjoyed contacts with other cultural spheres. From this nexus of interaction flowed one of the most varied protohistoric processes in the Iberian Peninsula. Hence, megaliths, Bronze Age Atlantic connections, the demands of Phoenician colonies for natural resources and the subsequent Orientalisation of the Tartessian elites, the Indo-European substratum and the (debatable) process of continentalisation, and, finally, Romanisation are given as vivid examples of cultural dynamism. Underpinning these phenomena were two key features of this frontier region: its strategic character and natural potential. The authors call attention to the interconnectedness of Extremadura and its neighbours, especially the intense link with south-western Andalusia at the height of Tartessos (pp. 138–89). They label Extremadura ‘peripheral’, by which they mean a socially complex and differentiated territory in relation to a core with which socio-economic and cultural interests are closely shared (p. 11). As the authors state in their informative introduction, their intention is to take up the challenge of looking from a peripheral perspective at an historical process that has been traditionally weighed from a central point of view. Yet Extremadura is not uniform but heterogeneous, divided into diverse environments whose main characteristics are delineated in a first chapter devoted to landscape (pp. 15–35). They rightly distinguish two geographical units, articulated by the middle valleys of the Tagus (to the north in Cáceres province) and Guadiana (to the south, province of Badajoz). In succeeding chapters the diverse economic practices and patterns of settlement of the territory are contrasted according to the natural conditions of these areas. Two main economic features of protohistoric Extremadura are identified: on the one hand, animal husbandry (sheep, goats and cattle) and subsidiary exploitation of mineral resources (especially tin) are characteristic of the small village-communities of the middle Tagus, whilst the potential to control extended agricultural territories along watercourses characterises the middle Guadiana, an area more open to southern influences.

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Third, the uneven archaeological record. Extremadura contains extraordinary archaeological sites which, for many years, have been obligatory points of reference for scholars (Medellín, continuously occupied throughout the 1st millennium BC, the emblematic sanctuary-palace of Cancho Roano, the gold jewellery of Aliseda and Serradilla, etc.). At the same time, however, there is an absence of the most basic archaeological data for some parts of the region, particularly the northern part of Cáceres province, through the absence of fieldwork. The authors, from their base at the University of Extremadura, have played an active role in the development of Extremaduran archaeology over two decades, including the leadership of research projects, and possess a good command of this subject. Despite the difficulties, they provide a complete, accurate and up to date survey of the archaeological evidence. Their historiographic reviews of various topics (metal deposits of the Late Bronze Age, carved decorated stelai, the Orientalising period, Extremaduran hillforts of the Late Bronze Age) and sites (La Pijotilla, Cancho Roano, Medellín) are remarkable. Above all, they make valuable contributions to recent debates that have arisen from their own fieldwork. The following should be highlighted: 1. The rise of chiefdoms in the 2nd millennium BC, beginning with the evolution of complex Copper Age societies, which was spurred on by agricultural colonisation and territorial hierarchical structures, as well as the formation of Tartessian culture. 2. The meaning of ‘prestige architecture’ in the middle Guadiana Valley in the light of recent excavations at La Mata de Campanario, which provide an explanatory context for understanding the hitherto exceptional site of Canch Roano. All of this parallels the emergence of rural aristocracies as new units of power in the 5th century BC. 3. The consolidation of three main ethno-cultural identities (Lusitano-Vettonian, Celtic and Turduli-Turetanian) as a consequence of the so-called generalised crisis of the 400s BC (an issue slightly overemphasised by the authors, in my opinion). 4. The elaborate ethnogenesis of pre-Roman Beturia. 5. The roots of the lower Extremaduran oppida and their function in the context of changes brought to the landscape by Roman occupation. 6. The Roman presence as a regulatory factor for understanding the increased exploitation of minerals, contributing to migratory activity in Extremadura by the 2nd–1st centuries BC. With this last point, it is salutary to reflect on the controversial phenomenon of celtiberisation of Extremedura, which the authors interpret as an indirect result of contact with Roman culture (pp. 308–13). This interpretation distances them from other invasionist and ethno-political explanations popular in current scholarship. The book is written in convincing and lively prose, and the only reproaches I would make are the abuse of inverted commas and a few misprints: tholos instead of tholoi (p. 72, line 5; p. 75, line 4), solo instead of sólo (p. 202, line 3), etc. The book is enhanced by the inclusion of 100 well-chosen figures (maps, photographs, reproductions and tables). These are very useful, for instance figures 89 and 91 on the chronological sequence of Iron Age archaeological sites, and an appendix with 14C dating and an alphabetical index. The bibliography is ample and updated to 2001. Whether omitted on purpose or too late in publication for inclusion, a couple of relevant titles are missed.1

1

S. Celestino Pérez (ed.), El yacimiento protohistórico de Pajares. Villanueva de la Vera. Cáceres. 1.

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In any case, the authors are familiar with those scholars and refer to their work where appropriate in the text. In sum, the contents, magnitude and quality of production make this book a turning point in our understanding of the protohistory of the region. This is an important volume, very much welcome in the study of the archaeology of pre-Roman Extremadura. Universidad Autonoma de Madrid

Eduardo Sánchez-Moreno

M. Rousseva, Trakiiska grobnichna arhitektura v balgarskite zemi prez V–III v.pr.n.e. (Thracian Tomb Architecture in Bulgarian Lands during the 5th–3rd Centuries BC), Izdatelstvo ‘Ya’, Yambol 2002, 203 pp., text in Bulgarian, many black and white photographs, plans, tables and maps. Paperback. ISBN 954–615– 086–X A few years ago Malvina Rousseva published her first book on the Thracian tombs, which was reviewed by Sir John Boardman (AWE 1.1[2002], 194–95). Now we are very pleased to have a second publication on this important subject by a scholar who has worked for more than 20 years on various aspects of tomb architecture. In fact, this is R.’s dissertation, completed in 1983 but published only now, principally on account of the censorship and political control that ruled scholarly research in the totalitarian era. The present book is the first complete study on tomb architecture in ancient Thrace and gives a general view on the monuments discovered in Bulgaria until 1980. And although many of R.’s ideas were published in Bulgarian periodicals during the 1980s and 1990s, the present book provides a full study of different architectural and cult features and what is very important, R. proposes a detailed classification of all funerary monuments known in ancient Thrace. Extremely welcome is the catalogue that includes 55 different burial constructions from Thrace, well described and illustrated by photographs and plans; some tombs from elsewhere in the ancient world form another part of the catalogue, which may serve for a comparative database. The few tables and maps at the end of the book give a clear idea of the location of the different types of funerary monuments, and the bibliography includes all publications of the numerous tombs discovered in Bulgaria. Here I should note that since 1980 some other very important and fascinating tombs have been excavated in Bulgaria. Although there are several preliminary publications, a future comprehensive study will certainly change some of our ideas about Thracian funerary architecture. This was one of the most important political and religious manifestations of the local aristocracy showing various interactions and relationships with Asia Minor, Greece, Macedonia and other parts of the ancient world. Therefore, we may hope that R. will extend her important research on this interesting subject in order to present recent discoveries in Bulgaria in a similar way (preferably in English), thus enabling Western scholars to form a clearer picture of the tomb architecture of ancient Thrace. Sofia University St Kliment Ohridski

Nikola Theodossiev

Las necrópolis y el tesoro áureo (Mérida 1999); and L. Pérez Vilatela, La Lusitania. Etnología e Historia (Madrid 2000).

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J.-P. Roux, L’Asie Centrale. Histoire et civilisations, Fayard, Paris 2001, 528 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 2–213–59894–0 This volume not only discusses a wide geographical area but also covers a long time span, from the 3rd millennium BC up to the present, ending with an evaluation of the political balance after the collapse of the Soviet Union and its withdrawal from Afghanistan. Chapter I introduces the various geographical regions that are discussed (Mongolia, Gansu/Kansu, Xinjiang/Sinkiang, Tibet, West Turkestan and Afghanistan) and the trade routes which pass through Central Asia (pp. 21–34). Chapter II discusses the origin of the various ethnic and linguistic groups and their way of life (pp. 35–50). A separate chapter on art and religion, which includes topics such as Mazdaism and Shamanism, provides the artistic, religious and cultural background for the following historical surveys of Central Asia (pp. 51–64). The next 26 chapters are chronologically arranged and focus upon specific regions (e.g., Chapter IX, the birth of Tibet: pp. 153–62), historical periods (e.g. Chapter XXI, the Khanate of Djaghatia: pp. 327–38), events (e.g., Chapter XI, the Arab invasion: pp. 181–96), cultural phases (e.g., Chapter XXIV, the Timurid renaissance: pp. 361–72) or pivotal figures (e.g., Chapter XIX, Genghis Khan: pp. 297–308; Chapter XXII, Tamerlane: pp. 339–50). The book ends with a discussion of some crucial present-day problems in Central Asia, mostly linked to the collapse of the Soviet Union and the ethnic and ideological diversity of its peoples. The only illustrations are ten black and white line maps, certainly indispensable for anyone who is not very familiar with the complex geography of Central Asia. These maps are the absolute minimum necessary, however, and some additional ones would certainly have helped the clarity of the work. In an annexe, Roux provides a concise chronology (pp. 449–55), a select bibliography for each chapter (pp. 457–80) and a glossary (pp. 481–85). Together with no less than five separate indexes (topics; peoples, tribes and dynasties; geography; historical figures; cited authors) (pp. 487–520), this turns an impressive volume into a reference work for anyone who needs an introduction to one of the many aspects of Central Asia. Kapellen, Belgium

Bruno Overlaet

R.J. Rowland Jr, The Periphery in the Center. Sardinia in the Ancient and Medieval Worlds, BAR International Series 970, Archaeopress, Oxford 2001, VIII+313 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 1–84171–257–4 Robert Rowland’s monograph on Sardinia joins a steadily increasing collection of publications in English about this western Mediterranean island. Despite the relatively recent surge in interest in both prehistoric and ancient Sardinia in the Anglophone world, there has actually long been a small group of foreign scholars working in and on this island. R., who started studying Sardinian history in the early 1970s, takes a prominent place among them. As only the second synthesis of Sardinian archaeology published in English, The Periphery in the Center obviously complements Gary Webster’s A Prehistory of Sardinia.1 1

Monographs in Mediterranean Archaeology 5 (Sheffield 1996).

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Whereas the latter was strictly limited to the prehistoric periods and focused in particular on Nuragic society, R.’s study takes a much longer-term view of the Sardinian past and goes well beyond prehistory into classical antiquity and the Middle Ages. Even in the much more extensive Italian literature, such ventures are rare and are never undertaken by a single author: the only publication offering a concise overview with a comparable chronological breadth is an edited volume that covers the Sardinian past from prehistory until the end of the Byzantine period.2 Otherwise, there are two multi-volume series in which a large array of authors use many thousands of pages to cover the whole of Sardinian prehistory and history.3 While R.’s main objective was to provide a succinct chronological overview, as his introduction makes clear, he is adamant that his study should be more than a ‘synthesis of secondary accounts’, because he also draws on three decades of archaeological fieldwork and studying historical documents (p. I). He is thus often not content merely to outline different interpretations and regularly puts forward his own views. The Periphery in the Center, moreover, differs from a straightforward chronological overview, because it emphasises classical antiquity, singling out in particular the Roman period. Indeed, as R. explains, the long-term view has been motivated by his wish to consider Roman Sardinia in the context of the ‘pre- and post-Roman developments’ of the island (p. I). The chronological emphasis is evident from the organisation of the volume which is made up of nine chronologically ordered chapters, preceded by a geographical one describing the natural setting of Sardinia. The Roman period is the only one discussed in two successive chapters (Chapters 7 and 8: pp. 89–125). Since the preceding Punic period is also quite extensively examined (Chapter 6 and part of Chapter 5: pp. 65–88), it is evident that the classical world receives most attention in this study. The post-Roman period is nevertheless also amply considered in two long chapters on the Byzantine, Pisan and Genoese periods (Chapters 9 and 10: pp. 126–78). In terms of page numbers, least attention is paid to prehistory, as the three chapters dedicated to the pre-Nuragic and Nuragic periods count no more than 42 pages (pp. 10–52). In this respect, it nicely complements Webster’s study of prehistoric Sardinia (1996). The total of 178 pages of text are complemented by six appendices on a range of specialised topics such as proto-nuraghi and Roman villas (pp. 179–91), 12 maps (two general ones and a dedicated one for each chapter) and 73 figures, all of mediocre quality. All these are relegated to the end of the volume (pp. 192–210 and 212–313) with a separate listing of the sources of the illustrations (p. 211). As the huge number of references suggests (pp. 212–65), R.’s study arguably can also be regarded as a chronologically and thematically annotated bibliography. It contains a wealth of references in many languages to both interpretative studies and basic reports of finds and fieldwork. It includes less common sources such as web sites and brief notifications of finds that have only been published in the Sardinian daily Unione Sarda (whose archive conveniently may be searched on line www.unionesarda.it). This bibliography is not only a convenient starting-point for anyone wishing to read up

2 M. Guidetti (ed.), Dalle origini alle fine dell’età bizantina (Storia dei Sardi e della Sardegna 1) (Milan 1987). 3 A. Boscolo (ed.), Storia della Sardegna antica e moderna (Sassari, Chiarella; 10 vols.) and M. Guidetti (ed.), Storia dei Sardi e della Sardegna (Milan; 4 vols.).

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on Sardinian archaeology and history but because of its breadth it also represents an invaluable resource for scholars actively involved in Sardinian studies. Its only shortcoming is the failure to cite page numbers for articles in journals and edited volumes. This is not just a minor editorial grumble but an omission that will present a real problem to many readers interested in following up references, as most people will have to rely on inter-library loans for getting hold of many of these publications and consequently will need full references. The extensive references match the encyclopaedic nature of the text, which discusses numerous topics and items for each period, usually highlighting and referencing relevant diverging views. Instead of constantly returning to a limited number of major themes in all periods, R. has opted for a more flexible approach that adheres closely to the conventions and preoccupations of the various periods considered. Since this complicates diachronic comparison, an analytical index is sorely missed. A more serious consequence of this approach, however, is the continuously shifting focus of the discussion in the post-Roman chapters: no doubt because these rely much more heavily on historical documents at the expense of archaeological evidence, an elite history of events basically replaces issues of settlement and domestic pottery that featured more prominently in the earlier chapters. While R.’s principal motivation for his long-term view is widely shared among Mediterranean archaeologists and historians since Braudel,4 his intention to ‘com[e] to grips with the pre- and post-Roman developments’ and to study ‘Sardinia toute court’ (p. I, original emphasis) is unfortunately not borne out by his text. This holds true in particular for the prehistoric periods, which are not only discussed rather cursorily, but which also, and more crucially, suffer from an outdated culture-historical conception of culture. The pre-Nuragic period in particular (Chapter 2) is somewhat crudely presented as a succession of cultures that exist and interact as autonomous entities. While this does represent the present general conceptual level of Sardinian prehistory,5 it falls obviously well short of what might be expected of an American author. As a consequence, the prehistoric chapters provide little information beyond basic sites and dates and certainly contribute little to the understanding of social and economic organisation in later periods. The culture-historical or ‘Childean’ notion of culture6 resurfaces in a different guise in the chapters on Punic and Roman Republican Sardinia, where R. discusses interaction and acculturation between Phoenician, Carthaginian and Roman colonisers and indigenous Sardinians (Chapters 6 and 7). While rightly emphasising the basic continuity of population throughout these colonial situations (e.g. pp. 80–81), he implies time and again that cultural and social identities remained similarly unchanged. Despite his assertion that ‘most of the material evidence . . . is best explained as the effects of punicization on those Nuragic folk . . .’ (p. 80), R. adopts a so-called ‘nativist’ stance and emphases evidence of ‘indigenous Sardinian elements persisting’ (p. 82). As a consequence, it is of critical importance for him to decide whether ‘a burial is Punic rather than indigenous with Punic material’ (p. 83) or whether ‘the inhabitants

4

See P. Horden and N. Purcell, The Corrupting Sea (Oxford 2000), 2–3. Webster, A Prehistory, 18. 6 S. Jones, The Archaeology of Ethnicity. Constructing Identities in the Past and Present (London/New York 1997), 15–39. 5

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were Punic or punicized natives’ (p. 81). It is the latter question in particular which exposes his nativist assumption, as the expression ‘punicized native’ is meaningless unless one assumes that people can somehow adopt Punic culture but yet maintain their ‘original’ native, i.e. Sardinian identity. This primordialist conception of an innate and unchanging identity concurs closely with his culture-historical conceptual framework.7 It is also evident in comparisons between Nuragic features and early modern ‘traditional’ customs in Sardinia: even when discussing very simple and common items such as wooden spoons and tools, R. concludes that ‘most . . . must have originally been developed in antiquity’ (p. 71) without citing any compelling evidence. Such differences of opinion about how to interpret the past, however, lie at the very heart of academic debate and they do not in the least detract from R.’s achievement. His study will no doubt become a valuable point of reference, both for Sardinian specialists who may or may not take issue with some of his views, and for a wider audience of Mediterranean archaeologists and historians wishing to take note of the vicissitudes of the island’s history. University of Glasgow

P. van Dommelen

P. Ruby (ed.), Les princes de la protohistoire et l’émergence de l’état, Actes de la table ronde internationale organisée par le Centre Jean Bérard et l’École française de Rome, Naples, 27–29 octobre 1994, Collection du Centre Jean Bérard 17/Collection de l’École française de Rome 252, Centre Jean Bérard/École française de Rome, Naples/Rome 1999, 206 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 2–903189–58–7; ISSN 0223–5099/ISBN 2–7283–0589–7 The first comment to make about the volume under review, is the wide range of areas and subject matter covered by it: the papers encompass the Mediterranean, temperate Europe and the Black Sea, and range from discussions of Roman attitudes to wealth and power to 20th century Polynesian chiefdoms. The volume includes an introduction by Pascal Ruby and articles by M. Godelier, (‘Chefferies et États, une approche anthropologique’); P. Brun, (‘La genèse de l’État: les apports de l’archéologie’); J. Bintliff, (‘The origins and nature of the Greek city-state and its significance for world settlement history’); I. Morris, (‘Iron Age Greece and the meanings of “princely tombs”’); B. d’Agostino, (‘I principi dell’Italia centro-tirrenica in epoca orientalizzante’); A. Bottini (‘Principi e re dell’Italia meridionale arcaica’); A. Ruiz (‘Origen y desarrollo de la aristocracia en epoca iberica, en el alto Valle del Guadalquivir’); J.A. Santos Velasco (‘Les origines de l’État dans la sud-est de la Péninsule Ibérique à l’époque pré-romaine’); V. Schiltz (‘Le roi Scythe. Iconographie du pouvoir scythe au IVe s. avant J.-C.’); J.P. Demoule (‘La société contre les princes’); M. Dietler (‘Rituals of commensality and the politics of state formation in the ‘princely’ societies of early Iron Age Europe’); P. Lévêque (‘Avant et après les Princes. L’Afrique mineure de l’Age du fer’); and M. Rowlands (‘The cultural economy of sacred power’). One should in particular congratulate the editor for the decision to publish the extensive discussion of the proceedings. 7

Cf. Jones, The Archaeology, 65–72.

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It would be an injustice to the collective impact of the volume to discuss each paper separately. The volume succeeds in raising general issues that are dealt with, although from varying endpoints, in all the papers. We can distinguish three general topics, which are already present in the title of the volume: a) can we talk about a phénomène princier in general?; b) can we speak about the emergence of the state in general?; and c) what is the connection between the two phenomena? The phénomène princier has been originally conceived in relation to the rich furnishings and elaborate architecture of a particular category of tombs, but it is highly important that many authors have extended its reference to other forms of evidence, such as settlement function and hierarchy. Yet, the argument raised by many contributors, in particular Morris and d’Agostino, is that this all-encompassing term is misleading. They argue that the connotations of rich tombs can be understood only within their specific social, political and cultural context; separation of them from this context and their attribution to a general phénomène princier will face serious difficulties. Morris argues that in Iron Age Greece, political, social and religious relations and ideas create and transform the rich tomb into a hero tomb; the concentration and reproduction of power become problematic, as the community manages to appropriate the messages of private burials for its own needs. D’Agostino stresses regional divergence and the multiplicity of ‘princely’ models: the warrior grave, the heroic grave, the rich female grave. The manipulation of material culture, then, is always context-specific: the same luxury goods, the same practices, can have very different connotations in different contexts. Similar problems are encountered in a consideration of the second question. Many contributors express their dissatisfaction with the evolutionary typology of the transition from chiefdom to state and its corollary, the idea of unilinear and irreversible technological, economic or political changes. Demoule presents the clearest case against evolutionism: he shows how often social hierarchy is based more on the manipulation of l’imaginaire, than on control of production; but this does not lead him to an idealist approach. On the contrary, he argues that, because of that, centralisation of power is inherently unstable and collapse is always nearby. Elite control is continuously undermined by processes such as communal appropriation of elite symbols and practices and population movements. The unidirectional transition from chiefdom to state is a theoretical reification: there is no obligatory link between economic, political and ideological spheres that notions like chiefdom necessitate. The limits of the contextual approach begin to emerge when one encounters the last question. If we agree to abandon the old models, how are we to understand social, political and economic change? The old models might be wrong, but at least they had explanatory force. They did have direction (from simplicity to complexity), causation (technological, social, ideological changes) and agency (an elite taking progressively more control with either more beneficial [liberal] or more exploitative [Marxist] effects). The contextual approach is in danger of creating a model where elites change attitudes simply because they have nothing else to do. Dietler’s paper, which examines the politics of commensality, shows eloquently the hazards of this approach. His discussion of ideology and hegemony, of elite claims to power and subaltern resistance through the medium of feasting, is highly stimulating; but it is difficult to see how common people manage to resist elite claims or how different elite claims succeed in gaining hegemony. Morris’s argument for communal resistance to ‘princely’ claims from among the elite in Iron Age Greece is compelling; but, left alone, it cannot explain how indeed other elites manage to centralise and monopo-

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lise power. After all, ‘princely’ burials are rare in Iron Age and Archaic Greece, while they abound in e.g. Cyprus or France. It is here that we have to appreciate the benefits of the alternative approach, mainly represented by the papers of Brun and Bintliff. Brun presents his model of the économiemonde, linking together Greek, Italian and European communities. It is a linking between the multiple times of different societies. The outcome of the social, political, ideological struggles of a particular society can be seriously determined by the existence or indeed intentional establishment of links with other societies that furnish (or drain) goods, ideas and manpower to wage these struggles; the use of the goods or the ideas by each society depends on its specific contexts and modes of economic, political and ideological appropriation; but the historical conjuncture linking various times scales is crucial. Along with time, space. Bintliff shows the spatial element of the formation and change of communities and settlements. If vacant space is available, social pressures might end into fission; if available space has been exhausted, then the outcome of the various struggles might be quite different. In conclusion, the two approaches that we have delineated are not necessarily contradictory; in fact, they need to be complementary. This is a highly stimulating volume, opening paths for new approaches, questions and answers. King’s College, Cambridge

Kostas Vlassopoulos

S.M.M. Young, A.M. Pollard, P. Budd and R.A. Ixer (eds.), Metals in Antiquity, BAR International Series 792, Archaeopress, Oxford 1999, XII+348 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 1–84171–008–3 This volume contains the proceedings of the International Symposium ‘Metals in Antiquity’, held at Harvard University in 1997 in honour of Prof. K.C. Chang. The conference aimed to promote the integration of all aspects of ancient metallurgy, bringing together anthropologists, archaeologists and metallurgists. The 44 papers (called ‘chapters’) in this work duly reflect these different approaches and disciplines. Most are the joint efforts of several scholars, in one case a paper has nine co-authors, itself an indication of the need for co-operation in these disciplines. The papers are grouped according to geographical region and/or the period they cover. After an initial chapter by D.B. Wagner on the earliest use of iron in China (pp. 1–9), there follow 24 contributions under the heading ‘Copper and Bronze Ages’ (pp. 10–210), 12 contributions under ‘Iron Ages’ (pp. 211–300), and a final five (pp. 301–47) on ‘The Americas’ (which fall outside the scope of AWE ). The coverage includes European, the Near Eastern, Far Eastern and African metallurgy. A world map (pp. 352–53) indicates the regional coverage of the chapters, a chronological table on p. 354 their period, and a further table (p. 355) gives a chronology of each of the regions under discussion. These illustrate the difficulty of grouping contributions spanning a vast array of disciplines, regions and cultures; none of these maps and tables is listed in the table of contents (pp. V–IX). The following papers are methodological studies, strictly technological contributions aimed at analysing metals and ores or technical processes, or focus on subjects related to the ancient East or West. I omit chapters dealing with Africa (Ghana) and the Far East (Thailand and Korea):

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Chapter 3. T.F. Taylor, ‘Envaluing metals: theorizing the Eneolithic “hiatus”’, pp. 22–32 (in the table of contents this is erroneously entitled ‘Metals and middle-range theory: how copper became bronze’). Chapter 4. W. O’Brien, ‘Arsenical copper in early Irish metallurgy’, pp. 33–42. Chapter 5. R.A. Ixer, ‘The role of ore geology and ores in the archaeological provenancing of metals’, pp. 43–52. Chapter 6. R.J. Watling et al., ‘The application of Laser Ablation Inductively Coupled Plasma Mass Spectrometry (LA-ICP-MS) for establishing the provenance of gold ores and artefacts’, pp. 53–62. Chapter 7. B. Comendador Rey, ‘The early development of metallurgy in the NorthWest of the Iberian peninsula’, pp. 63–67 (all figures missing—see editorial note on p. 348). Chapter 8. A. Perea, ‘Project Au for the study of goldwork technology and the concept of technological domain systems’, pp. 68–71. Chapter 9. R.C.P. Doonan, ‘Copper production in the eastern Alps during the Bronze Age: technological change and the unintended consequences of social reorganization’, pp. 72–77, 348. Chapter 10. J.P. Northover and C. Gillis, ‘Questions in the analysis of ancient tin’, pp. 78–85. Chapter 11. S. Blakely Westover, ‘Smelting and sacrifice: comparative analysis of Greek and Near Eastern cult sites from the Late Bronze Age through the Classical periods’, pp. 86–90. Chapter 12. V. Kassianidou, ‘Bronze Age copper smelting technology in Cyprus— the evidence from Politico Phorades’, pp. 91–97. Chapter 13. A. Bernard Knapp, ‘The archaeology of mining: fieldwork perspectives from the Sydeny Cyprus Survey project (SCSP)’, pp. 98–109. Chapter 14. N.H. Gale, ‘Lead isotope characterization of the ore deposits of Cyprus and Sardinia and its applications to the discovery of the sources of copper of Late Bronze Age oxhide ingots’, pp. 110–21. Chapter 15. B. Scaife et al., ‘Lead isotope analysis, oxhide ingots and the presentation of scientific data in archaeology’, pp. 122–33. Chapter 16. A.P. Woodhead et al., ‘An investigation into the fractionation of copper isotopes and its possible application to archaeometallurgy’, pp. 134–39. Chapter 17. C. Gillis, ‘The economic value and colour symbolism of tin’, pp. 140–45. Chapter 18. E. Baboula and P. Northover, ‘Metals technology versus context in Late Minoan burials’, pp. 146–52. Chapter 19. G.R. Rapp jr et al., ‘Using neutron activation analysis to source ancient tin (Cassiterite)’, pp. 153–62. Chapter 20. E. Pernicka, ‘Trace element fingerprinting of ancient copper: a guide to technology or provenance?’, pp. 163–71. Chapter 21. M. Abraham, ‘Analysis of a collection of metallurgy and ICP’, pp. 172–78. Chapter 22. I. Segal et al., ‘A study of ingots and metallurgical remains from Ein Ziq amd Be er Resisim, central Negev, Israel’, pp. 179–86. Chapter 23. M.K. Prange et al., ‘Is Oman the ancient Magan? Analytical studies of copper from Oman’, pp. 187–92. Chapter 24. D.P. Agrawal, ‘The role of central Himalayas in Indian Archaeometallurgy’, pp. 193–99. Chapter 25. S. Srinivasan, ‘Preliminary insights into the provenance of south Indian

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copper alloys and images using a holistic approach of comparisons of their lead isotopes and chemical composition with slags and ores’, pp. 200–10. Chapter 26. C.P. Ferrari et al., ‘Ice archives of atmospheric pollution from mining and smelting activities during antiquity’, pp. 211–17. Chapter 27. R.H. Ehrenich, ‘Archaeometallurgy: helping archaeology bridge the gap between science and anthropology’, pp. 218–22. Chapter 28. G.R. Thomas and T.P. Young, ‘A graphical method to determine furnace efficiency and lining contribution to Romano-British bloomery iron making slags (Bristol Channel Orefield, UK)’, pp. 223–26. Chapter 29. I. Schrüfer-Kolb, ‘Roman iron production in the East Midlands, England’, pp. 227–33. Chapter 30. R.G. Schmidt et al., ‘A study of Roman mining and metallurgy and their environmental consequences at Plasenzuela, Extremadura, Spain’, pp. 234–42. Chapter 31. I. Joosten and H. Kars, ‘Early historical iron production in the Netherlands: estimations of output’, pp. 243–51. Chapter 32. ‘T. Rehren, “The same . . . . . . but different”: a juxtaposition of Roman and Medieval brass making in central Europe’, pp. 252–57. Chapter 33. R.A.R. McGill et al., ‘The investigation and archaeological applications of anthropogenic heavy metal isotope fractionation’, pp. 258–61. Chapter 35. J.A. Atkinson and E. Photos-Jones, ‘“Brave at heart”: clanship and the work of the Highland smith’, pp. 271–79. Chapter 36. E. Photos-Jones et al., ‘“The manner how it grew was like unto the haire of a man’s head”: The early 1600’s discovery and exploitation of native silver at Hilderston in Scotland’, pp. 280–89. Chapter 37. J. Montgomery et al., ‘LA-ICP-MS evidence for the distribution of lead and strontium in Romano-British, Medieval and modern human teeth: the implications for life history and exposure reconstruction’, pp. 290–96. Kapellen, Belgium

Bruno Overlaet

NEW PUBLICATIONS IBERIAN ARCHAEOLOGY Observations The task of writing a section on new publications dealing with the Iberian Peninsula in antiquity is not an easy one; the many subjects, and the extraordinary vitality of scholarship in Spain produces hundreds of new studies (books, conference reports, collection of articles, periodicals) each year. My main intention, in this first delivery, is to present just a selection of recent publications dealing mainly with Iberian culture in a broad sense. My selection is not exhaustive, but I have tried to mention some of the major works which have appeared in recent years in Spain; new works, as well as other not included in this review, will be considered on another occasion. Monographs M. Molinos Molinos, El santuario heroico de ‘El Pajarillo’ (Huelma, Jaén), Jaén 1998, XI+368 pp. Hardback. ISBN 84–89869–36–7 This is the publication of an interesting Iberian sanctuary of a kind not before attested in Spain. It comprised a greatly elaborated podium with a complex repertory of sculpture, found at its foot. The sanctuary was erected to mark the symbolic control of access to the valley of the River Jandulilla and a heroic character has been suggested for it. The sculptures show the fight of a hero against a wolf trying to devour a child; the scene was flanked with sphinxes and reclining lions. Greek pottery suggests a date in the first half of the 4th century BC. M. Almagro Gorbea and T. Moneo, Santuarios urbanos en el mundo ibérico (Bibliotheca Archaeologica Hispana 4), Madrid 2000, 219 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–89512–58–2 Iberian sanctuaries have been the object in recent years of many studies. Different scholars have suggested different kinds of classifications; Almagro and Moneo advance their own (not without problems) and study all those sanctuaries which have been found within urban contexts. M. Bendala Galán, Tartesios, iberos y celtas. Pueblos, culturas y colonizadores de la Hispania antigua, Madrid 2000, 295 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–7880–849–3 The book presents a comprehensive panorama of the main cultures of southern Iberia, as well as in the central Meseta; it includes an outline of available data, and devotes especial attention to foreign influences on the native world, mainly those of Phoenician culture. J.M. Blázquez Martínez, Los pueblos de España y el Mediterráneo en la Antigüedad. Estudios de Arqueología, Historia y Arte, Madrid 2000, 727 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–376–1806–1 Professor Blázquez is one of the leading scholars in the field of the ancient history of the Iberian Peninsula; in this book, he republishes more than 30 articles dealing with many different subjects, but giving especial attention to the relationships between the different native cultures in the Iberian Peninsula and the colonists, both Greek and Phoenician. E. Sánchez Moreno, Vetones: historia y arqueología de un pueblo prerromano, Madrid 2000, 322 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–7477–759–3

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J.R. Álvarez-Sanchis, Los Vettones (Bibliotheca Archaeologica Hispana 1), Madrid 2003, 423 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–95983–16–8 Two books on one of the native peoples who inhabited the Spanish southern Meseta, the Vettones. The emphasis in each book is very different, because while Álvarez-Sanchis deals mainly with archaeological evidence, Sánchez Moreno deals also with literary sources. In any case, both books are in a certain sense quite complementary, and a joint reading would be very useful for a scholar. F. Vives Boix, La Dama de Elche en el año 2000. Análisis tecnológico y artístico, Valencia 2000, 141 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–95314–91–6 The Lady of Elche is one of the most important masterworks of Iberian craftsmanship in sculpture, although in recent times subject to absurd doubts about its authenticity. This book presents a thorough study of the techniques used by the Iberian sculptor to make it. It includes a very innovative analysis of the garments worn by the Lady which throws a very interesting light on Iberian costume, especially pertaining to elite groups within Iberian society. A. Oliver Foix, La cultura de la alimentación en el mundo ibérico, Castellón 2000, 210 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–89944–62–8 This book is an excellent demonstration of the recent advances in the study of the Iberian culture. The plentiful data found in excavations, which refer to food in the Iberian world, are united and analysed in this innovative book. The production of food and beverages (mainly wine) by the Iberians through agriculture shows an efficient organisation which allowed also the production of surplus, as well as trade. M.C. Valenciano Prieto, El Llano de la Consolación (Montealegre del Castillo, Albacete). Revisión crítica de una necrópolis ibérica del Sureste de la Meseta, Albacete 2000, 334 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–95394–10–3 The Iberian necropolis at Llano de la Consolación was excavated early in the 20th century and part of its material was dispersed; it was also excavated in the 1940s but never fully studied. This book studies old excavations and their material, reassembles tombs and grave-offerings, and offers new perspectives about one of the most important Iberian tumuli necropolis in south-eastern Spain. F. Gómez Toscano and J.M. Campos Carrasco, Arqueología en la ciudad de Huelva (1966–2000), Huelva 2001, 273 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–95699–08–7 P. Rufete Tomico, El final de Tartessos y el periodo turdetano en Huelva, Huelva 2002, 204 pp. Paperback. ISSN 0211–1187. The city of Huelva has been the centre of very extensive archaeological research since the 1960s. The first book gives a repertory of all archaeological excavations carried out in Huelva over almost 40 years; it summarises each one in order to obtain a general overview of the archaeological panorama. The second book, published as a monograph issue of the journal Huelva Arqueológica, presents a study of some select excavations carried out also in Huelva, in which the end of the Orientalising (or Tartessian) period and the beginnings of the Iberian-Turdetanian age are considered. While the Tartessian period has been the subject of several studies in recent years, the Turdetanian age had been slightly neglected. Rufete’s study gives an interesting panorama of this historical period in Huelva.

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L. Abad Casal and F. Sala Selles, Poblamiento Ibérico en el Bajo Segura. El Oral (II) y La Escuera (Bibliotheca Archaeologica Hispana 12), Madrid 2001, 293 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–89512–97–3 This book presents the results of the excavations carried out in this Iberian fortified settlement during the 1990s. The importance of El Oral lies in it being the best preserved Iberian settlement of the 5th century BC. The authors study the urbanism of the settlement, the types of houses, their groupings, as well as the material remains. They advance the hypothesis that the inhabitants moved to nearby La Escuera when they left El Oral and, consequently, they revise the conclusions of older excavations. I. Grau Mira, La organización del territorio en el área central de la Contestania ibérica, Alicante 2002, XII+353 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–7908–663–7 This book is an exhaustive analysis of the central part of the territory occupied by the Contestani, an Iberian people who inhabited the south-eastern part of the Iberian Peninsula. The author offers very detailed information about settlement, historical development, defence, food acquisition, as well as a catalogue of the known sites within the region. It represents the use of the most recent techniques devoted to the study of ancient territories. A. Uriarte González, La conciencia evadida, la conciencia recuperada. Diálogos en torno a la arqueología de la Muerte y su aplicación al registro funerario ibérico. La necrópolis de Baza, Madrid 2001, 193 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–607–1799–2 The necropolis at Baza was excavated in the 1970s, with the discovery of the important sculpture, the Lady of Baza. However, there are many still unsolved problems raised by this Iberian cemetery. In this book, the author, through a provocative method (a kind of ‘Socratic’ dialogue), presents his own reflections about the Archaeology of Death, and the application of its methodology to the study of this necropolis. The book presents a very detailed analysis of all the grave-offerings of the cemetery, their distribution in the tombs, and the significance of many of these objects as markers of status. C. Quintana Abraham, La ceràmica superficial d’importació del Puig de Sa Morisca, Calviá 2000, 117 pp. Hardback. ISBN 84–95065–87–8 This book presents the results of preliminary survey in a settlement on the southwestern coast of the island of Majorca, the Puig de Sa Morisca. The importance of this settlement lies in the fact that it seems to have been one the first places where foreign influence can be detected since the 6th century BC, coming mainly from the nearby island of Ibiza, occupied then by the Phoenicians. It contains data about foreign pottery found and its quantification. The settlement is currently being excavated, although the results have not been fully published. M.P. García-Bellido and C. Blázquez, Diccionario de cecas y pueblos hispánicos. I.- Introducción. II. Catálogo de cecas y pueblos, Madrid 2002. 2 vols.: 232 pp.; 404 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–00–08015–7 Numismatics is becoming an increasingly valuable source for the study of ancient peoples in the Iberian Peninsula, now that scholars are beginning to deal with this material in a scientific way. This book presents a comprehensive analysis of all the known issues in ancient Spain, in the form of a dictionary. It includes a catalogue of the mints in Spain in antiquity as well as a study of the peoples or cities responsible. This is the most recent general analysis on ancient coinage in Spain.

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A.M. Adroher Auroux, A. López Marcos and J.A. Pachón Romero, La cultura ibérica, Granada 2002, 171 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–7807–327–2 This is an up-to-date synthesis of Iberian culture, especially related to the southern territories. It deals mainly with the historical development, as well as the distribution of settlements and study of the main necropoleis. The book presents the most recent hypothesis on the territorial organisation of Iberian culture and it is richly illustrated with colour photographs. J.M. García i Martín, La distribución de cerámica griega en la Contestania ibérica: El puerto comercial de La Illeta dels Banyets, Alicante 2003, 414 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–7784–418–6 The site of the Illeta dels Banyets, placed in ancient Contestania, was an important harbour in Iberia. The harbour and its possible status as emporion led to it receiving a great quantity of imports, among them some of Greek origin. In this book these imports are studied and related to Greek trade along the Iberian coast. Most imports date to the 4th century BC, although some pieces of earlier date were also found. J.M. García Cano, Las necrópolis ibéricas de Coimbra del Barranco Ancho (Jumilla. Murcia). I. Las excavaciones y estudio analítico de los materiales. II. Análisis de los enterramientos, catálogo de materiales y apéndices antropológico, arqueozoológico y paleobotánico, Murcia 1997, 1999. 2 vols.; 550 pp.; 184 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–8371–074–9 The necropolis excavated at Coimbra del Barranco Ancho is one of the best researched Iberian necropoleis; this book presents the results of a long series of excavations in the several cemeteries belonging to an ancient Iberian settlement. The study groups the grave-offerings in their corresponding tombs and analyses society, economy, ideology of the burials; besides, their rich material (Iberian pottery, Greek pottery, weapons) is exhaustively and authoritatively studied. Conference Papers C. Mata Parreño and G. Pérez Jordà (eds.), Ibers. Agricultors, artesans i comerciants. III Reunió sobre Economia en el Món Ibèric, Valencia 2000, 439 pp. Paperback. ISSN 0210–37–29 This book, published as a supplement to the Journal Saguntum, contains the proceedings of a conference held in Valencia in 1999. It is divided in four sections dealing, respectively, with Production and Transformation of Food, Manufacturing Activities, Exchange and Experimental Archaeology. It contains 39 papers, which deal with a very wide spectrum of the economic activities in Iberian culture. M.P. García-Bellido and L. Callegarin (eds.), Los Cartagineses y la monetización del Mediterráneo Occidental, Madrid 2000, 192 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–00–07888–8 The book publishes the proceedings of a conference held in Madrid in 1999 and contains 13 contributions dealing with the origins of native coinage in the Iberian Peninsula and its historical context. Many of the papers stress the weight of Carthaginian influence in Spain, as promoters of the economical development which favoured the production of a good deal of native coinages. R. Buxó and E. Pons (eds.), L’habitat protohistòric a Catalunya, Rosselló i Llenguadoc occidental. Actualitat de l’Arqueologia de l’Edat del Ferro, Gerona 2000, 206 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–393–5270–0 This volume contains the papers given at a conference held at Gerona in 1998, and includes 15 contributions dealing with the Iron Age and Iberian culture in north-

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eastern Iberian, also including the Iberian world of south-western France. Besides general analysis of all this territory, this publication contains studies devoted to some select Iberian settlements. It presents an updated synthesis on this particular region of the Iberian world. A. Martín Ortega and R. Plana (eds.), Territori polític y territori rural durant l’Edat del Ferro a la Mediterrània Occidental, Gerona 2001, 330 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–393–5596–3 The conference whose proceedings are published in this book was held in 2000 in the Ullastret section of the Archaeological Museum of Catalonia. The issue of the organisation of territories within the Iberian world is a subject increasingly studied. A series of settlements in the north-eastern part of the Iberian Peninsula as well as several selected sites in southern France were considered during the conference, especially from the point of view or their integration within their territories; the ‘political’ consequences of the rise and development of territories within the Iberian world were also addressed by several papers, as well as their economic implications. R. García Huerta and J. Morales Hervás (eds.), Arqueología Funeraria: Las necrópolis de incineración, Cuenca 2001, 312 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–8427–131–5 This book contains nine papers devoted to the cremation cemeteries found in different regions of the Iberian Peninsula (Tartessos, Iberian culture, Phoenician necropoleis, and Celtiberia), as well as studies more restricted to particular cases. It is a valuable repertory of information about the spread of this funerary ritual through a good part of ancient Iberia. There is, besides, an introduction dealing with issues of the Archaeology of Death and the use of cemeteries for reconstructing ancient societies. P. Fernández Uriel, C.G. Wagner and F. López Pardo (eds.), Intercambio y comercio preclásico en el Mediterráneo, Madrid 2000, 338 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–931207–6–6 This book publishes the proceedings of a conference, held in Madrid in 1998, about pre-classical exchanges and trade in the Mediterranean. It was the first public manifestation of the recently established Centre of Phoenician and Punic Studies. The conference discussed Archaic trade from very different points of view, embracing both Greek and Phoenician activities as well as their impact on native cultures all around the Mediterranean. There were also some papers about more theoretical issues, mainly the mechanism of interaction and the character and development of the emporion. P. Moret and F. Quesada (eds.), La guerra en el mundo ibérico y celtibérico (ss. VI–II a. de C.), Madrid 2002, XVI+215 pp. Paperback. ISBN: 84–95555–29–8 Several aspects of war in the Iberian and Celtiberian worlds were addressed in a conference held in Madrid in 1996, whose proceedings are published in this book. Studies about the character, development and chronology of the Iberian panoply, fortification in the Iberian world, military institutions in the Indo-European world of the Iberian Peninsula, were some of the main topics dealt with. D. Ruiz Mata and S. Celestino (eds.), Arquitectura oriental y orientalizante en la Península Ibérica, Madrid 2001, 274 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–607–1743–7 A seminar held in Madrid in 1998 is the origin of this book; the different papers study the Oriental impact (mainly Phoenician) on the Iberian Peninsula, mainly from the point of view of architecture and urbanism and, at the same time, the influence exerted by the Phoenicians on native architecture, mainly in the so-called Tartessian culture. The consequences of these cultural contacts on the development of the native cultures of the southern and eastern regions of Iberia are also considered.

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A.J. Lorrio (ed.), Los Iberos en la comarca de Requena-Utiel (Valencia), Alicante 2001, 184 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–7908–640–8 The proceedings of a conference held in Caudete de las Fuentes (province of Valencia) are published in this book. The different papers deal with the Iberian culture in a restricted territory, giving thus more weight to micro-spatial analysis. The main features and development of the Iberian city of Kelin (identified with the settlement of Los Villares, within the territory of Caudete itself ) as well as other settlements, sanctuaries and funerary remains in the same region are the main topics dealt with. Together with more general studies, monograph issues such as this, dealing with more restricted territories, help us to observe in more detail the particularities of the different territories in which Iberian culture thrived. Collections of Articles C. Aranegui Gascó (ed.), Argantonio. Rey de Tartessos, Seville 2000, 316 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–89777–93–4 This book was published as the catalogue of an exhibition presented in several cities of Spain during 2000 dealing with the Tartessian culture, embodied in the name of its mythical king Arganthonius. Besides a complete catalogue of the pieces exhibited, it contains several articles dealing with origins, language, territory, foreign influences, cemeteries, arts of the Tartessian world. It constitutes a very welcome and up-to-date general panorama of this culture, which survived in the southern Iberian Peninsula from the later Bronze Age to the late 6th century BC. S. Celestino Pérez, (ed.), Cancho Roano VIII. Los Materiales Arqueológicos I, Mérida 2003, 366 pp.; S. Celestino Pérez (ed.), Cancho Roano IX. Los Materiales Arqueológicos II, Mérida 2003, 358 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–7671–735–0; 84–7671–736–9 The sanctuary (or perhaps the palace-sanctuary) at Cancho Roano is one of the most interesting structures so far known in south-western Iberia, with prototypes of clearly Phoenician origins, and with a long history embracing at least three centuries (and perhaps more). The excavations began in 1978 and ended in 2001. Several monographs have already been published, but these two books publish the archaeological material found. Greek pottery, gold objects, scarabs and other trinkets, iron and bronze utensils, etc. are analysed by leading specialists, thus completing the publication of this interesting site which has provoked much discussion about the expansion of Tartessian culture beyond its nuclear area in the lower Guadalquivir Valley. E. Pons i Brun (ed.), Mas Castellar de Pontós (Alt Empordà). Un complex arqueològic d’época ibèrica (Excavacions 1990–1998), Gerona 2002, 596 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–393–5942–X Mas Castellar de Pontos was a settlement placed in the hinterland of the Greek city of Emporion and was related to it during the most part of its history. This book presents the results of eight years of excavations, which revealed its different stages. During the first periods of its existence, Mas Castellar was a fortified settlement, an oppidum, so frequent in the Iberian culture. However, during the last phases, the site became a place which specialised in the production and storing of great quantities of grain in dug-out silos, presumably to be traded to the Greek city. All these aspects are conveniently studied in the book by a strong team; the vegetal and animal remains are also analysed in order to give a clearer picture of the environment.

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F. Quesada Sanz and M. Zamora Merchán, El caballo en la Antigua Iberia. Estudios sobre los équidos en la Edad del Hierro (Bibliotheca Archaeologica Hispana 19), Madrid 2003, 253 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–95983–20–6. The study of the role played by the horse in the Iberian Peninsula in antiquity has advanced notably in the last years thanks to the studies led by F. Quesada. This book is the result of a multidisciplinary approach to the horse, with studies dedicated to its iconography on coins, in sculpture, in literary sources, etc. Some reports on horses excavated in the Iberian Peninsula are also included. J.M. García Cano, P.A. Lillo Carpio and V. Page del Pozo (eds.), Emeterio Cuadrado. Obra Dispersa, Murcia 2002, 2 vols. 1065 pp. Paperback. ISBN 84–95815–11–7 Emeterio Cuadrado was one of the main scholars of Iberian culture during the last 50 years. These two big volumes bring together the most important of his articles, grouped according the main subjects dealt with: Iberian sculpture, Iberian pottery, bronze and iron objects, Attic black glaze pottery, etc. Some studies are also included dealing with the sanctuary and necropolis at El Cigarralejo, excavated by him, bringing to light one of the most interesting sites of Iberian culture in southeastern Spain. Universidad Autónoma de Madrid

Adolfo J. Domínguez

BOOKS RECEIVED A.M. Arruda, Los fenicios en Portugal. Fenicios y mundo indígena en el centro y sur de Portugal (siglos VIII–VI a.C.), Cuadernos de Arqueología Mediterránea 5–6 (1999–2000), Publicaciones del Laboratorio de Arqueología de la Universitat Pompeu Fabra de Barcelona, Carrera Edició, S.L., Barcelona 2002, 281 pp., 182 figs. Paperback. ISBN 84–88236–11–5 D. Berndt, Midasstadt in Phrygien. Eine sagenumwobene Stätte im anatolischen Hochland, Zaberns Bildbände zur Archäologie, Philipp von Zabern, Mainz, IV+80 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 3–8053–2855–9 A.K. Bowman, H.M. Cotton, M. Goodman and S. Price (eds.), Representations of Empire. Rome and the Mediterranean World, Proceedings of the British Academy 114, The British Academy, Oxford University Press, Oxford 2002, XII+196 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 0–19–726276–7/ISSN 0068–1212 G. Bunnens (ed.), Essays on Syria in the Iron Age, Ancient Near Eastern Studies Supplement 7, Peeters Press, Leuven/Paris/Sterling VA 2000, IX+557 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 90–429–0878–5 H.-U. Cain and S. Rieckhoff (eds.), Fromm-Fremd-Barbarisch. Die Religion der Kelten, Katalog-Handbuch, Philipp von Zabern, XII+204 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 3–8053–2898–2/ISBN 3–8053–2899–0 A.S. Christensen, Cassiodorus, Jordanes, and Gothic History: Studies in a Migration Myth, Museum Tusculanum Press, University of Copenhagen, Copenhagen 2002, XI+391 pp. Cased. ISBN 87–7289–7104 J.J. Collins and G.E. Sterling (eds.), Hellenism in the Land of Israel, Christianity and Judaism in Antiquity Series Volume 13, University of Notre Dame Press, Notre Dame, Indiana 2001. IX+343 pp. Paperback. ISBN 0–268–03052–9 T. Fischer, Noricum: Orbis Provinciarum, Zaberns Bildbände zur Archäologie, Philipp von Zabern, Mainz 2002, IV+158 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 3–8053–2829–X J. Fornasier and B. Böttger (eds.), Das Bosporanische Reich. Der Nordosten des Schwarzen Meeres in der Antike, Zaberns Bildbände zur Archäologie, Philipp von Zabern, Mainz am Rhein 2002, 126 pp., black and white and colour illustrations. Cased. ISBN 3–8053–2895–8 P. Freeman, J. Bennett, Z.T. Fiema and B. Hoffmann (eds.), Limes XVIII—Proceedings of the XVIIIth International Congress of Roman Frontier Studies held in Amman, Jordan (September 2000). A conference held under the auspices of the Department of Antiquities of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, The Council for British Research in the Levant and the Department of Archaeology at the University of Liverpool, 2 vols., BAR International Series 1084 (I–II), Archaeopress, Oxford 2002, XXXVII+948 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 1–84171–465–8 K. Geus and K. Zimmermann (eds.), Punica-Libyca-Ptolemaica. Festschrift für Werner Huß, zum 65. Geburtstag dargebracht von Schülern, Freunden und Kollegen, Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 104, Studia Phoenicia XVI, Peeters and Departement Oosterse Studies, Leuven/Paris/Sterling VA 2001, VI+403 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 90–429–1066–6 E. Haerinck and B. Overlaet, Chamahzi Mumah. An Iron Age III Graveyard. Belgium Archaeological Mission in Iran, The Excavations in Luristan, Pusht-i Kuh (1965–1979), The Gent University and the Royal Museums of Art and History, Brussels, Joint Expedition Directed by Louis Vanden Berghe(†), Luristan Excavation Documents

218

BOOKS RECEIVED

Vol. II (Acta Iranica 33), Peeters Press, Leuven 1998, 218 pp., many illustrations (some in colour). Cased. ISBN 90–429–0027–X A. Invernizzi, Sculture di Metallo da Nisa. Cultura greca e cultura iranica in Partia, Acta Iranica 35, Peeters Press, Leuven 1999, 236 pp., many illustrations (some in colour). Cased. ISBN 90–429–0733–9 S. Knippschild, “Drum bietet zum Bunde die Hände”: Rechtssymbolische Akte in zwischenstaatlichen Beziehungen im orientalischen und griechisch-römischen Altertum, Potsdamer Altertumswissenschaftliche Beiträge 5, Franz Steiner Verlag, Stuttgart 2002, 223 pp. Illustrations. Cased. ISBN 3–515–08079–1 A. Kuhrt, ‘Greeks’ and ‘Greece’ in Mesopotamian and Persian Perspectives, The Twenty-First J.L. Myres Memorial Lecture, delivered at New College, Oxford, on 7th May, 2001, Leopard’s Head Press, Oxford 2002, 32 pp., 5 figs. Paperback. ISBN 0–904920–44–5 E. Lapinski, The Aramaeans: Their Ancient History, Culture, Religion, Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 100, Uitgeverij Peeters and Departement Oosterse Studies, Leuven/Paris/ Sterling VA 2000, 694 pp., black and white and colour illustrations. Cased. ISBN 90–429–0859–9 A.-A. Maravelia (ed.), Ancient Egypt and Antique Europe Two Parts of the Mediterranean World. Papers from a Session Held at the European Association of Archaeologists Seventh Annual Meeting in Esslingen 2001, BAR International Series 1052, Archaeopress, Oxford 2002, II+82 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 1–84171–433–X O.W. Muscarella, The Lie Became Great —The Forgery of Ancient Near Eastern Cultures, Studies in the Art and Archaeology of Antiquity, Vol. 1, STYX Publications, Groningen 2000, VIII+540 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 90–5693–041–9/ISSN 1568–4229 G. Muskett, A. Koltsida and M. Georgiadis (eds.), SOMA 2001—Symposium on Mediterranean Archaeology. Proceedings of the Fifth Annual Meeting of Postgraduate Researches, The University of Liverpool, 23–15 February 2001, BAR International Series 1040, Archaeopress, Oxford 2002, X+247 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 1–84171–418–6 B.S. Ottaway and E.C. Wager (eds.), Metals and Society, Papers from a Session Held at the European Association of Archaeologists Sixth Annual Meeting in Lisbon 2000, BAR International Series 1061, Archaeopress, Oxford 2002, IV+144 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 1–84171–441–0 R.S. Peckham, National Histories, National States. Nationalism and the Politics of Place in Greece, I.B. Tauris Publishers, London/New York 2001. XVI+224 pp., 4 maps. Cased. ISBN 1–86064–641–7 A.V. Podossinov, Vostochnaya Evropa v rimskoi kartograficheskoi traditsii. teksty, perevod, kommentarii, Drevneishie istochniki po istorii Vostochnoi Evropy, “Indrik”, Moscow 2002, 486 pp., 44 b/w figs., 16 colour plates. Cased. ISBN 5–85759–174–0 A. Rathje, M. Nielsen and B.B. Rasmussen (eds.), Pots for the Living, Pots for the Dead, Acta Hyperborea 9, Danish Studies in Classical Archaeology, Museum Tusculanum Press, University of Copenhagen, Copenhagen 2002, 295 pp., illustrations, including 23 colour plates. Paperback. ISBN 87–72–89–712–0/ISSN 0904–2067 C. Scheffer (ed.), Ceramics in Context. Proceedings of the Internordic Colloquium on Ancient Pottery held at Stockholm, 13–15 June 1997, Acta Universitatis Stockholmiensis, Stockholm Studies in Classical Archaeology 12, Stockholm 2001, 172 pp., 63 figs. Paperback. ISSN 0562–1062/ISBN 91–22–01913–8 The Phoenicians in Spain. An Archaeological Review of the Eighth-Sixth Centuries B.C.E., A Collection of Articles Translated from Spanish, Translated and Edited by M.R.

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Bierling, Associate Editor S. Gitin, Eisenbrauns, Winona Lake, Indiana 2002, XV+304 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 1–57506–056–6 M. Vegas (ed.), Cartago Fenicio-Púnica. Las excavaciones alemanas en Cartago 1975–1997, Cuadernos de Arqueología Mediterránea 4 (1998), Publicaciones del Laboratorio de Arqueología de la Universitat Pompeu Fabra de Barcelona, Carrera Edició, S.L., Barcelona 2002, 227 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 84–88236–10–7 D. Whitehouse, The Glass Vessels, The University of Ghent South-East Arabian Archaeological Project, Excavations at ed-Dur (Umm al-Qaiwain, United Arab Emirates), Vol. I, an Appendix by R.H. Brill, illustrations E. Smekens, Preface E. Haerinck (ed.), Peeters Press, Leuven 1998, X+89 pp., 12 figs., 15 pls. Paperback. ISBN 90–429–0662–6 G.J. van Wijngaarden, Use and Appreciation of Mycenaean Pottery in the Levant, Cyprus and Italy (ca. 1600–1200 BC), Amsterdam Archaeological Studies 8, Amsterdam University Press, Amsterdam 2002, VII+441 pp., illustrations. Cased. ISBN 90–5356–482–9 S. Yamada, The Construction of the Assyrian Empire. A Historical Study of the Inscriptions of Shalmaneser III (859–824 BC) Relating to His Campaigns in the West, Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 3, Brill, Leiden/Boston/Cologne 2000, XVIII+449 pp., 7 maps. Cased. ISBN 90–04–11772–5/ISSN 1566–2055 K. Aslihan Yener, The Domestication of Metals. The Rise of Complex Metal Industries in Anatolia, Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 4, Brill, Leiden/Boston/Cologne 2000, XII+210 pp., 27 figs., 10 tabls., 18 pls. Cased. ISBN 90–04–11864–0/ISSN 1566–2055 R. Zotovic, Population and Economy of the Eastern Part of the Roman Province of Dalmatia, BAR International Series 1060, Archaeopress, Oxford 2002, II+116 pp., illustrations. Paperback. ISBN 1–84171–440–2

IN THE NEXT ISSUE Articles C. Tuplin, Medes in Media, Mesopotamia, and Anatolia: Empire, Hegemony, Domination or Illusion? S.A. Kovalenko, On the Organisation of the Mint of Chersonesus Taurica in the First Half of the 4th Century BC Monica M. Jackson, Jewellery Evidence and the Lowering of South Italian Ceramic Chronology Alexander V. Podossinov, Das Schwarze meer in der geokartographischen Tradition der Antike und des frühen Mittelalters. II. Die Halbinsel Krim, das Asowsche Meer und die Straße von Kertsch A. Avram, M. Barbulescu and M. Ionescu, À propos des pontarques du Pont Gauche Notes S.L. Solovyov and M.Y. Treister, Bronze Punches from Berezan F. Marco Simón, De Gallia in Hispaniam: Notes on a Brooch with the Heads of a Lion, a Bull and a Human Found in Celtiberia Book Reviews The Mediterranean: A Corrupting Sea? A Review-Essay on Ecology and History, Anthropology and Synthesis (P. Horden and N. Purcell, The Corrupting Sea. A Study of Mediterranean History) (P.F. Bang) New Books on Ancient Anatolia and Assyria (C. Glatz and R. Matthews) Two Books on Mediterranean Urbanisation (T. Fischer-Hansen (ed.), Ancient Sicily; H.D. Anderson, H.W. Horsnaes, S. HoubyNielsen and A. Rathje (eds.), Urbanization in the Mediterranean in the 9th to 6th Centuries BC ) (A. Domínguez) New Publications on Maritime Archaeology (M. Jurisic, Ancient Shipwrecks of the Adriatic; E. Grossmann with contributors, Maritime Tel Michal and Apollonia) (A.J. Parker) C. Dougherty, The Raft of Odysseus (A. Snodgrass) B. Fischer, H. Genz, É. Jean and K. Körogÿlu (eds.), Identifying Change (C. Burney) R.L. Fowler (ed.), Early Greek Mythography Vol. 1 ( J. Boardman) N.A. Gavrilyuk, Istorya ekonomiki Stepnoi Skifii, VI–III vv. do n.e. ( J.G.F. Hind) V.I. Gulyaev and V.S. Olkhovskii (eds.), Skify i Sarmaty v VII–III vv. do n.e. ( J.G.F. Hind) E. Haerinck and B. Overlaet, Chamahzi Mumah. An Iron Age III Graveyard (A. Sagona) A. Invernizzi, Sculture di Metallo da Nisa ( J. Boardman) K. Jordanov, K. Porozhanov and V. Fol (eds.), Thracia 15. In Honour of Alexander Fol’s 70th Anniversary ( J. Boardman) A. Kuhrt, ‘Greeks’ and ‘Greece’ in Mesopotamian and Persian Perspectives (S. Dalley) A.-A. Maravelia (ed.), Ancient Egypt and Antique Europe ( J. Bouzek) G. Muskett, A. Koltsida and M. Georgiadis (eds.), SOMA 2001—Symposium on Mediterranean Archaeology ( J. Bouzek)

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IN THE NEXT ISSUE

B.S. Ottaway and E.C. Wager (eds.), Metals and Society (P. Dolukhanov) A. Rathje, M. Nielsen and B.B. Rasmussen (eds.), Pots for the Living, Pots for the Dead ( J. Boardman) C. Scheffer (ed.), Ceramics in Context ( J. Boardman) G.R. Tsetskhladze and A.M. Snodgrass (eds.), Greek Settlements in the Eastern Mediterranean and the Black Sea ( J. Bouzek) I.V. Tunkina, Russkaya nauka o klassicheskikh drevnostyakh yuga Rossii (XVIII–seredina XIX v.) (H.-C. Meyer) B. Werbart (ed.), Cultural Interactions in Europe and the Eastern Mediterranean ( J. Bouzek) D. Whitehouse, The Glass Vessels (V.A. Tatton-Brown) D. Zhuravlev (ed.), Fire, Light and Light Equipment in the Graeco-Roman World ( J. Bouzek) New Publications Books Received In the Next Issue