Archaeological Networks and Social Interaction 1138545201, 9781138545205

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Archaeological Networks and Social Interaction

Archaeological Networks and Social Interaction focuses on conceptuali­ sations of human interaction, human-​ thing entanglement, material affordances and agency. Network concepts in the archaeological discipline are ubiquitous these days. They range from loose concepts, used as metaphors to address a notion of connectivity, to highly formal and mathematically complex predictions of human behaviour. These different networked worlds sometimes clash and rarely converge. Archaeologists interested in network analysis, however, have achieved a much better understanding of the implications of adopting formal methods for studying social interaction and there have been theor­ etical advancements realising a better synergy between different theoretical perspectives. These nascent concerns are explored further in this volume with regional specialists exploring case studies from Prehistory to the Middle Ages throughout the Ancient and New Worlds, outlining how formal net­ work approaches contribute to studying social interaction archaeologically. This book will be of interest to archaeologists wishing to access the latest research on networks and interconnectivity and how these approaches have been productively modified to archaeological research. Lieve Donnellan is Assistant Professor of Classical Archaeology at Aarhus University in Denmark. She specialises in the study of networks and forms of interaction in the Ancient Mediterranean and has a keen interest in digital methodologies and archaeological theories.

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Routledge Studies in Archaeology

An Archaeology of Skill Metalworking Skill and Material Specialization in Early Bronze Age Central Europe Maikel H.G. Kuijpers Dwelling Heidegger, Archaeology, Mortality Philip Tonner New Perspectives in Cultural Resource Management Edited by Francis P. McManamon Cultural and Environmental Change on Rapa Nui Edited by Sonia Haoa Cardinali, Kathleen B. Ingersoll, Daniel W. Ingersoll Jr., Christopher M. Stevenson Making Sense of Monuments Narratives of Time, Movement, and Scale Michael J. Kolb Researching the Archaeological Past through Imagined Narratives A Necessary Fiction Edited by Daniël van Helden and Robert Witcher Cognitive Archaeology Mind, Ethnography, and the Past in South Africa and Beyond Edited by David S. Whitley, Johannes H.N. Loubser and Gavin Whitelaw Archaeological Networks and Social Interaction Edited by Lieve Donnellan For more information on this series, please visit www.routledge.com/​ Routledge-​Studies-​in-​Archaeology/​book-​series/​RSTARCH

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Archaeological Networks and Social Interaction Edited by Lieve Donnellan

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First published 2020 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2020 selection and editorial matter, Lieve Donnellan; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Lieve Donnellan to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-​in-​Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-​in-​Publication Data A catalog record has been requested for this book ISBN: 978-​1-​138-​54520-​5  (hbk) ISBN: 978-​1-​351-​00306-​3  (ebk) Typeset in Sabon by Newgen Publishing UK

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Contents

List of figures  List of tables  List of contributors  Preface  Acknowledgements  1 Archaeological networks and social interaction 

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L I E V E D O N N EL L AN

2 Relational concepts and challenges to network analysis in social archaeology 

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CA R L K N A P P E TT

3 Entangled identities: processes of status construction in late Urnfield burials 

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A L I N E J. E . D E ICKE

4 Distributed feasts: reciprocity, hospitality and banquets in Iron Age to Orientalising central and southern Italy 

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OWA I N M O R RIS

5 Marble networks: social interaction in houses at Pompeii 

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S I M O N J.   B A R KE R, SIMO N A P E RN A A N D CO URT NEY A. WAR D

6 Objects that bind, objects that separate 

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L I E V E D O N N EL L AN

7 A complex beadwork: bead trade and trade beads in Scandinavia ca. 800–​1000 AD revisited  S Ø R E N M .   S I N DB ÆK

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vi Contents

8 Social network analysis and the social interactions that define Hopewell 

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M A R K A . H IL L , KE VIN C. N O L AN A N D MA R K S. SEEMAN

9 Terrestrial communication networks and political agency in Early Iron Age Central Italy (950–​500 BCE): a bottom-​up approach 

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F R A N C E S CA FUL MIN AN TE

Index 

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Figures

.1 2 2.2 2.3 2.4 2.5

Sketch of a face-​to-​face pig exchange Diagram showing how terms are connected Diagram showing how an appearance objectifies a relation Diagram showing hierarchical nesting of relations Diagram indicating how a piglet is the objectification of the boar-​sow relation 2.6 Diagram in which piglet now objectifies exchange of domestic services between man and wife 2.7 Diagram showing further objectification of pig in mediated exchange relation. Previous relations are eclipsed 2.8 Replication of mediated exchange relations 2.9 Graph showing the nesting of eclipsed exchange relations 2.10 A network model – from phenomenon, to abstraction, to representation 3.1 Elite graves analyzed in the case study 3.2 Metal finds from grave C of Künzing, Lkr. Deggendorf, Lower Bavaria 3.3 Simplified example of intersecting identities comprising the elite status of an individual 3.4 Strathernogram of a burial 3.5 Distribution of iron spearheads of the Urnfield and early Hallstatt period 3.6 Sword from grave F of Künzing, Lkr. Deggendorf, Lower Bavaria 3.7 Extended Strathernogram of the inclusion of the iron spearhead of grave C into the burial 3.8 Simplified example of a two-​mode network of graves and object types 3.9 One-​mode projections of two two-​mode networks, focusing on the mode of cultural regions 3.10 Three-​mode network of graves, object types, and the first layer of typological information corresponding to the objects connecting the first two modes

22 24 24 25 26 26 27 28 28 28 39 41 43 45 47 48 49 52 54 57

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viii  Lists of figures .1 4 4.2 4.3 4.4 4.5 4.6 4.7 4.8

A visualisation of Strathern’s partible person Types of feasts and the reasons for holding them Feasting Strathernogram 1 Feasting Strathernogram 2 Feasting Strathernogram 3 Feasting Strathernogram 4 Feasting Strathernogram 5 Network graph showing the network ties held between the princely tombs in Lazio and Campania 5.1 Pompeii and surrounding sites 5.2 Distribution and list of houses used in the dataset 5.3 Types of pavement from Pompeii used in the dataset 5.4 Layout of the network for all houses with hierarchical clusters 5.5 Hierarchically clustered network for all houses with attribute mappings to visual variables 5.6 Hierarchically clustered network for all houses with attribute mappings to visual variables 5.7 The network for all houses with attribute mappings to visual variables 5.8 Nodes arranged according to their geographic position 5.9 Network layout by Stress Minimization on Brainerd-​Robinson distance 5.10 Network layout by Stress Minimization on Brainerd-​Robinson distance separated by period 5.11 Atrium impluvium at I.09.01, House of the Beautiful Impluvium, Pompeii 5.12 Layout of atrium impluvia network with hierarchical clusters 5.13 Hierarchically clustered network for atrium impluvia with attribute mappings to visual variables 5.14 Atrium impluvia network with nodes arranged according to their geographic position 5.15 Network for all houses with attribute mappings to visual variables 5.16 Network layout by Stress Minimization on Brainerd-​Robinson distance for all houses 6.1 Map with sites mentioned in the text 6.2 Make-​up of the necropolis showing the development of the necropolis through time (left) and the spatial demarcation of family plots (right) 6.3 Selected drinking cups from Pithekoussai 6.4 Two-mode network representing the consumption of drinking vessels 6.5 Selected oinochoai from Pithekoussai 6.6 Two-mode network representing the consumption of oinochoai 6.7 Selected oil containers from Pithekoussai

68 71 76 76 77 77 79 81 90 93 94 96 97 98 98 100 101 102 102 103 104 105 106 107 119 122 125 126 129 130 133

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Lists of figures ix 6.8 Two-mode network representing the consumption of oil containers 6.9 The Nestor cup from Pithekoussai 7.1 Examples of Viking Age beads classified according to Callmer’s principles 7.2 Basic division of Viking Age glass and stone beads according to Callmer’s classification 7.3 Callmer’s (1977) graph analysis of beads associated in Scandinavian Viking Age burials 7.4 The distribution of the main types of beads according to the nine ‘Bead Periods’ 7.5 The geographical distribution of 302 archaeological contexts with >10 Viking Age glass beads 7.6 The association of bead types and contexts in Callmer (1977) visualized as a two-​mode network 7.7 The association of 382 bead types in Callmer (1977) visualized as a one-​mode network 7.8 Associations between classes of beads in Callmer’s 54 bead groups with 18 groups defined by VOS clustering 7.9 (a-​d) The same network as in Figure 7.7 reduced (‘shrunk’) to Callmer’s 54 bead groups 7.10 The association of 296 bead assemblages in Callmer (1977) visualized as a one-​mode network 7.11 The association of 296 bead assemblages in Callmer (1977) visualized as in Figure 7.7, but with clusters defined by the VOS algorithm with two different settings 7.12 Comparison between Bead Periods in Callmer (1977) and clusters defined by the VOS algorithm in Figure 7.11b 8.1 Simplified models of the relationships between residential sites (small squares) and major earthworks (circle with square) for Scioto Valley Hopewell 8.2 Scales of analysis, showing the relationship between the Middle Distance (regional) Scale and the Distant Exotics (continental) Scale 8.3 All Lithics network 8.4 Standardized Eigenvector Centrality values by site type 8.5 Middle Distance Scale network, nodes sized by Eigenvector Centrality 8.6 Standardized Eigenvector Centrality by site type, Middle Scale network 8.7 Standardized Eigenvector Centrality by subgroup 8.8 Middle Scale network with a BR>100 filter applied 8.9 Distant Scale network, node size by Eigenvector Centrality 8.10 Distribution of standardized degree centrality values, Distant Exotics Scale

135 138 150 151 152 153 156 157 159 162 163 166 167 168 175 178 179 181 182 183 185 185 186 188

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x  Lists of figures 8.11 Distribution of standardized Eigenvector Centrality values, Distant Exotics Scale 8.12 Eigenvector Centrality by site type, Distant Exotics Scale 9.1 a) Relationship between human/​agents (grouped into polities) and routes/​paths mediated by their creation/​ maintenance which influences/​is influenced by inter-​polity interactions; b) Interrelationship of infrastructure and interaction 9.2 Early Iron Age Central Italy 9.3 Reconstruction of terrestrial routes in Latium Vetus during the Archaic Period 9.4 Comparison between the results of the calculation of characterizing measures on the different network models and the empirical one in Southern Etruria 9.5 Comparison between the results of calculation of characterizing measures on the different network models and the empirical one in Latium Vetus 9.6 Latium Vetus: empirical network compared with the networks produced by the models

188 189

198 199 202 205 206 207

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Tables

4.1 Feasting evidence from the princely tombs in Lazio and Campania 6.1 Overview of the correlation between stratigraphic levels and generational phases included in the analysis 8.1 Sites represented in the analysis 8.2 Scales of analysis 8.3 Centrality values and standardized centrality values for the All Lithics Network 8.4 Centrality values, Middle Scale network 8.5 Centrality and standardized centrality values, Distant Exotics Scale 9.1 Socio-​political developments in Eturia and Latium Vetus

82 124 177 178 180 184 187 201

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Contributors

Simon J.  Barker is post-​ doctoral fellow in classical archaeology at the Norwegian Institute in Rome, University of Oslo. He is also the holder of an Alexander von Humboldt Research Fellowship at Universität Heidelberg and Ludwig-​Maximilians-​Universität München. His research interests include the art, architecture and archaeology of the Roman imperial and late antique periods, as well as the use of marble during the Roman period. Publications include chapters on the lithic decoration of Villa A, Oplontis (in Villa A (‘of Poppaea’) at Torre Annunziata, Italy (50 BC–​AD 79). Volume 2:  The Decorations:  Painting, Stucco, Pavements, Sculptures, ed. John R. Clarke and Nayla K. Muntasser, The Humanities E-​Book Series of the American Council of Learned Societies) and articles in numerous journals, such as the Paper of the British School and Rivista di Studi Pompeiani, about aspects of marble trade in the ancient world. Aline J.E. Deicke is currently deputy head of the Digital Academy at the Academy of Sciences and Literature in Mainz. In her PhD project  –​ expected to be published in 2020  –​she focuses on the construction of elite identities in Late Bronze Age burials. Her main research interests include digital humanities, digital archaeology and network research. Lieve Donnellan is Assistant Professor of Classical Archaeology at Aarhus University in Denmark. She specialises in the study of networks and forms of interaction in the Ancient Mediterranean and has a keen interest in digital methodologies and archaeological theories. Her work has received multiple international awards. She recently edited Contexts of Colonisation (Rome 2016)  and Contextualising Early Colonisation (Turnhout 2016) with Valentino Nizzo and Gert-​Jan Burgers. Francesca Fulminante is Senior Research Fellow, University of Bristol, UK, Temporary Lecturer (2019–​ 2020), Royal Holloway University, London, UK and Adjunct Professor (Cultore della Materia), University Roma Tre, Italy. After a PhD from Cambridge University and post-​ doctoral positions at excellent universities and institutes across Europe, Francesca Fulminante is now Senior Researcher and Lecturer both in the

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List of contributors xiii UK (University of Bristol and Royal Holloway, 2019–​2010) and Italy (University Roma Tre). Her research investigates Mediterranean urban­ isation during the first millennium BCE with a focus on central Italy. In particular, she studied transportation networks and political agency in central Italy during the first millennium BCE but also during the Roman Empire period. More recently she started exploring the relationship between urbanisation and breastfeeding/​child-​rearing practices in first millennium BCE Italy and more widely in the Mediterranean. Mark A.  Hill is an Associate Professor of Anthropology at Ball State University. His research focuses on precontact social interactions and exchange in eastern North America, primarily including copper and lithic artifacts, and employs archaeological chemistry and network analysis to examine the movement of copper and lithics from geological sources through social networks and ultimately to deposition in the archaeo­ logical record. Carl Knappett is the Walter Graham/​Homer Thompson Chair of Aegean Prehistory in the Department of Art History at the University of Toronto. His network publications include the 2013 edited volume ‘Network Analysis in Archaeology’, the 2018 volume co-​ edited with Justin Leidwanger on ‘Maritime Networks in the Ancient Mediterranean World’, and articles in Antiquity in 2008 and 2011 on Aegean networks with Ray Rivers and Tim Evans. He conducts fieldwork in Greece, where he directs a project at the Minoan site of Palaikastro in east Crete. Owain Morris is currently completing his doctorate at Birkbeck (University of London) and has worked at the British Museum and taught archaeology courses at Birkbeck. His research interests are focused on interactions between Greeks and others in the Mediterranean from the Iron Age to Hellenistic period. Kevin C. Nolan is the Director of the Applied Anthropology Laboratories (AAL) at Ball State University (BSU). He is actively engaged in multiple research projects from battlefields from the Revolutionary War (Pekuwe, Ohio) and the Northwest Indian War (St Clair’s Defeat, Fort Recovery, Ohio), to documenting tens of thousands of pre-​ contact diagnostic artifacts in central Ohio (COADS) and the inventory projects in Indiana State Parks. These AAL projects provide thousands of hours of experien­ tial learning for BSU students annually. Simona Perna completed her PhD in Roman Archaeology at Royal Holloway University of London. Currently, she is a Research Associate at the Institut Català d’Arqueologia Clàssica (ICAC) in Tarragona (Spain). Her research interests include the chaine opératoire and consumption of material culture, particularly of stone artefacts, in Antiquity as well as the materiality, semantics and agency of lithic materials in Roman society.

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xiv  List of contributors She is currently working on publications on technological innovation and knowledge transfer in the Classical period, and a monograph on the manufacture and socio-​cultural significance of cinerary urns in coloured stone in Roman funerary contexts for publication with Archaeopress (Oxford). Mark S. Seeman is Professor Emeritus in Anthropology at Kent State University. His active research projects include examining variability in hunter-​gatherer mobility from the Paleo-​Indian through the Early and Middle Archaic periods, and untangling the complicated relationships and meanings that comprise Ohio Hopewell. His research brings a unique combination of immersion in the material details of the subject with an elegant yet nuanced engagement with various theoretical tools to reach deeper insights into past lives. Søren M. Sindbæk is Professor with Special Responsibilities in Medieval Archaeology at Aarhus University. His recent books include ‘Urban Network Evolutions’ (co-​edited with Rubina Raja, 2018) and ‘Crafts and Social Networks in Viking Towns’ (co-​edited with Steve Ashby 2019). Courtney A. Ward is a Guest Researcher in Classical Archaeology at the Norwegian Institute in Rome. Her research interests include Roman adornment and identity, decorative stones and their use in the Bay of Naples, and the economics of funerary commemoration. She is particu­ larly interested in the ways in which individuals in the Roman period interacted with the materials of their everyday world. Her publications include ‘Luxury, Adornment, and Identity:  The Skeletons and Jewelry from Oplontis B’ in Elaine K. Gazda and John R. Clarke (eds), Leisure and Luxury in the Age of Nero:  The Villas of Oplontis near Pompeii. Exhibition Catalogue; and ‘The Gendered Use of Precious Metal Jewellery in Excavations’ at 147–​151 High Street, Colchester, Colchester Archaeological Report 13.

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Preface

The present volume is the outcome of a series of encounters, physical and intellectual, aimed at (re)thinking the social dimension of network ana­ lysis in archaeology. The initial input was given by a paper written by Carl Knappett on the occasion of a session entitled ‘Archaeological networks and social interaction. Towards an application of network analysis and net­ work concepts in social archaeology’ at the annual meeting of the European Association of Archaeologists, held between 30 August and 3 September 2017 in Maastricht, the Netherlands. The session had the format of a dis­ cussion session and was thus aimed specifically at discussing concepts, the­ ories and methodologies practised in archaeological applications of formal network analysis. The impetus for the session was given by the observation that most current archaeological network analysis is either spatial in nature, or has a major spatial component in its analysis. Scholars have come to see sites and settlements as natural nodes within networks that span physical space, along which interaction is often reduced to a mechanical flow in the back­ ground. Whereas physical space constitutes a valid and important object of enquiry for archaeologists, it was felt that the study of interaction in archae­ ology and the application of network theory and formal network methods could profit from a better understanding of the nature of interaction on the one hand and ways to approach it on the other. Participants were asked to discuss what social questions they were trying to address, what datasets they were using, how they conceived of their inter­ action in formal network terms, and what conclusions they could draw from the analysis of the network. In addition, they were invited to muse upon a series of reflections, formulated for the occasion by Carl Knappett. As he discusses at more length in this volume, Carl was especially concerned with the complexities of interaction at the micro scale and the ways these could possibly (or not) be captured in formal network models. The session resulted in a highly stimulating discussion among presenters and other conference participants. Ontologies and epistemologies were genu­ inely questioned, which led to a general reconsideration of the case studies that were presented at the conference. The results of these contemplations

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xvi Preface have made their way into this volume. The aim of the chapters is to fill a void in current network analysis, in which the micro scale and the material world are often left unexplored. It is hoped that readers will find useful the­ oretical considerations and methodological approaches to study the role of material culture in mediating human interaction in the past. A note on spelling: out of respect of the origin or cultural affiliation of the respective authors, the authors’ use of American English or British English was maintained throughout the volume.

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newgenprepdf

Acknowledgements

The volume could only be realised through the sustained effort of various people and institutions who supported the initial conference participa­ tion and subsequent publication activities. The conference session was co-​ organised with Owain Morris from Birckbeck University. Financial assistance for the organisation of the meeting was made available through a Marie Sklodowaska Curie grant of the Horizon2020 funding framework (IF grant nr 702511 between 2016–​2018). A special thanks goes to the VU University in Amsterdam for hosting the Marie Curie-​funded URBANet project, which aimed at studying networks in urbanising societies in Southern Italy. A very special thanks goes to Gert-​Jan Burgers, for his invaluable support for the project as well as for the EAA session. Without the intellectual enthusiasm of Carl Knappett on the one hand and the session participants on the other, this volume would never have come into being. It was a genuine pleasure to discuss, reflect and collaborate with everyone. Finally, this volume could only have been realised through the continued efforts of the editorial team at Routledge:  Matthew Gibbons and Kangan Gupta.

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1  Archaeological networks and social interaction Lieve Donnellan

Networks in archaeology Network concepts in the archaeological discipline are ubiquitous these days. They range from loose concepts, used as metaphors to address a notion of land-​ based or marine connectivity (e.g. Horden and Purcell 2000; Broodbank 2013; Malkin 2003, 2011; Vlassopoulos 2003, etc.) to highly formal, mathematically complex predictions of human behaviour (e.g. Verhagen et al. 2013; Rivers et al. 2013; Brughmans et al. 2015, etc.). In addition, the network concept has started to figure in a parallel world, completely alien to the formal network approaches and contradictory to some of its basic principles, as contrivance to describe the entanglement between humans and the material world (e.g. Knappett 2005; Ingold 2010a, 2010b; Hodder 2012; Gosden 2012; Malafouris 2013, etc.). These different networked worlds sometimes clash (e.g. Van Oyen 2016, 2017) and rarely converge (Knappett 2011; Hodder and Mol 2016). One of the main divisive factors between these different approaches is a profound disagreement on the location and nature of social interaction and agency. The idea of material agency in archaeology has spiked since the landmark publication of Hodder (1982) that announced the postprocessual paradigm and the concept of human agency in archaeology came at the centre of theoretical debates since the systematic treatment in an edited volume by Dobres and Rob (2000b). Archaeologists have come to recognise the centrality of the material world in the (re)production of social life (e.g. Ingold 1996, 2010a, 2010b, 2018; Dobres and Robb 2000a; Preucel and Meskell 2004a; Knappett 2005, 2011; Hodder 2012; Malafouris 2013). But somehow, these theoretical advances were not picked up by the emerging subfield of archaeological network analysis. Formal network applications in archaeology are often seen as completely neglecting human agency let alone material agency (e.g. Knappett 2011; Van Oyen 2016, 2017). However, even some materiality theories have come under scrutiny for neglecting the fluidity in the process of production of reality (Ingold 2011). Purposely ignoring agency or not, there is almost a consensus today that network ana­ lysis in archaeology affects the spatial world and nothing else. For example,

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2  Lieve Donnellan Barthelemey (2014, 10) states that ‘It is important to realize here that when dealing with social networks, we are in fact usually working on a particular type of spatial network’. Along similar lines, Prignano, Morer and Diaz-​ Guolhera (2017), in their discussion of the material similarities that act as proxy for social interaction in the past, propose ‘We can thus state that ASN (Archaeological Social Networks) are spatial networks derived as the onemode version (projection) of weighted bipartite networks’. In an influ­ ential paper, Collar et  al. (2015, 12–​13) point out that ‘A very common approach … is to use sites as nodes. Sites form natural nodes because of their relative boundedness, discreteness, and stability and persistence over archaeologically observable timescales …’. The ‘social’ in archaeological applications of social network analysis seems virtually absent. As Carl Knappett (2014, 179)  notes in his com­ mentary on a new volume on Social Network Perspectives in Archaeology (Evans and Felder 2014), ‘the irony of this volume being named ‘social net­ work perspectives in archaeology’ is that archaeologists very rarely get to see social networks’. Indeed, also elsewhere, archaeologists confess to struggle with adding a social dimension to the application of network analysis. For example Justin Leidwanger and colleagues (Leidwanger et al. 2014, 2) state ‘Even if we all recognise that our ultimate goal is the explanation of social phenomena in a broad sense, this objective can nonetheless become difficult to attain if always negotiated and visualised purely via spatial distributions’. The inability of archaeological network analysis to address social inter­ action and social change at a level below the regional scale or site, or at least discuss how scalar interdependence evokes change, probably explains why the authoritative volume on social archaeology by Preucel and Meskell (2004b) does not even refer to network analysis as a method or concept to study social interaction archaeologically. The last couple of years, however, archaeologists interested in network analysis have achieved a much better understanding of the implications of adopting formal methods and there have been theoretical advancements as to realise a better synergy between different theoretical concerns. A step for­ ward has been the artificial albeit analytically useful distinction between scales which helps to locate patterns in the archaeological record and juxta­ pose them with other heuristic devices to address agency. These nascent concerns, explored further in this volume, focus on conceptualisations of human interaction, human-​ thing entanglement and material affordances and agency. In order to guide the reader through the specific theoretical and methodo­ logical difficulties that the contributions in this volume seek to address, the remainder of this chapter explores the challenges posed by the heuristic tool of the scalar mode of enquiry of interaction. The challenges of a scalar mode of interaction are discussed in archaeological network analysis (Knappett 2011; Leidwanger et  al. 2014; Donnellan 2016) as much as in studies of human (Dobbres and Robb 2000a) and material agency (Hodder 1982). The

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Archaeological networks and interaction 3 next section of this chapter outlines the origin of the spatial interest of the vast majority of archaeological network analysis today. The network concept is deeply rooted in spatial metaphors and the earliest archaeologists using network analysis drew on this long tradition rather than emerging socio­ logical ones. Subsequently, the often-​mistaken notion that formal social net­ work analysis is necessarily structural in nature is scrutinised. It outlines how in the early days of sociological network analysis, practice and agency were at the heart of the enquiry, rather than the formal structural and mathem­ atical approaches with which we associate social network analysis today. In the third section, the particular aims and achievements of the contributions in this volume are discussed. Acknowledging challenges and issues related to the fluidity of the production of social reality, scalar interdependence and the role of physical space and the material world, the contributors discuss the use of certain visual representations and formal methods to describe the role of the material world in negotiating social interactions.

The spatial focus An important reason for the primordial role allocated to space in archaeo­ logical research is no doubt the nature of archaeological data. Even when we are not sure how to date an object or building, we usually know where it was found –​at least if we are not dealing with looted material. Conolly and Lake (2006, 234) in their handbook on Geographical Information Systems in Archaeology, point out that ‘the bulk of archaeological data is ultimately point based’. The very practice of excavating or collecting material from the surface results in ‘physical spatial location’ being a primary quality allocated to our finds, at least since nineteenth-​century archaeologists started paying attention to the location of their finds. With the rise of positivism and proces­ sual approaches in the archaeological discipline in the 1960s and 1970s, the interest in space all but intensified and it was not until much more recently that social interaction and the active manipulation of culture came to be scrutinised (Hodder 1982, 2004; Jones 1997; Preucel and Meskell 2004b; Knappett 2005, 2011, 2013). Building on a long tradition that stretches back to Heidegger (1927) and the school of phenomenological philosophy, space is now considered to be a social construct that shapes and is reshaped by social interaction (Lefebre 1991; Soja 1989, 1996; Ingold 1993; Tilley 1994; Blake 2004; Preucel and Meskell 2004a). From the very beginning, the use of the word ‘networks’ was tightly intertwined with spatial metaphors. The very origins of the word have been traced both in French and English to the description of tightly-​knit fabrics before the twelfth century (Addison 1721, 390; Parrochia 1993, 5, 2005). It is thought that the ancient Greeks did not have a concept of ‘network’ or ‘connectivity’ as spatial metaphor, but the use of ἐκ τῶν ἐπηλλαγμένων, derived from ‘something intertwined or closely connected’ to describe an intertwined series of tracks in Xenophon’s essay On hunting (6.14) seems

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4  Lieve Donnellan to point to the contrary. The Roman reticulum (net) or opus reticulatum (a building style involving regularly placed bricks as to shape a regular pattern of intersections between the bricks) indicate that the metaphor existed cer­ tainly in the Roman world. In early modern times, the concept of réseau or net-​work gradually came to be seen as a suitable metaphor for describing various new ideas of complex intertwined entities, going from transpor­ tation systems such as rivers, roads and railroads to natural phenomena such as crystals and blood vessels (Parrocchia 2005). As such, the close connection between spatial proximity, or at least a physical link between entities became intrinsically linked with the idea of ‘networks’. Similarly, the mathematical description of networks was born from a spatial conceptualisation. In the earlier part of the eighteenth century, one of the most important mathematicians of the time, Swiss-​born Leonard Euler, tackled a trivial pursuit of the bourgeoisie in a small Prussian town, Köningsberg, now Kaliningrad in Russia (Newman et al. 2006, 1–​2). The Köningsbergians would attempt to make their walks through town, crossing all of the seven bridges that the town counted, only once. Euler constructed a visual representation of the question and proved that such was not pos­ sible. With his game, he laid the basis of what we now recognise as the visual representation of networks or, scientifically speaking, graph theory (Biggs et al. 1979). The invention of the sociogram, the characteristic way to depict a specif­ ically social network as dots connected by lines, was, however, not spatial in nature at all. In fact, there seems to have been no connection between the mathematical developments and the invention of graphs to depict social networks. Its invention is usually attributed to the American psycholo­ gist Jacopo Moreno in a work from 1934 (Moreno 1934). Moreno him­ self, however, describes the development of the sociogram as a process that started as early as 1923, when he developed a method to chart spontan­ eous interaction, ‘Stegreifnoten’ or ‘spontaneous interaction diagrams’ (Moreno 1923, 1953, 140). Throughout the years, he developed his charts further to encompass more forms of human interaction (Moreno 1953, 140). Moreno eventually applied the methods to study how mass hysterics spread in a reform school in New York –​the work that is now, incorrectly, considered the start of the visual representation of networks (Freeman 2004). An important theoretical foundation of networks as a unit of ana­ lysis is clearly formulated in Moreno’s work. Rather than seeing individuals independently from each other, he focused on the dynamics as a group and the specific place of individuals within this group. This idea was close to the foundations of the important twentieth-​century sociologist Simmel’s theory, which is considered another important theoretical foundation of social net­ work theory (Freeman 2004; Marin and Wellmann 2011). Moreno, in line with contemporary sociologists, claimed that individuals’ behaviour could be explained by the place the subject occupies within his/​her social net­ work and society as a whole. Important to observe, however, is that spatial

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Archaeological networks and interaction 5 proximity was for Moreno and his associates still the first step in drawing a subject’s social circle (Moreno 1953, 98). Despite the common attribution of Moreno as inventor of the sociogram, he was not the first to develop a graphic application in order to study human relations. The visual representation of ‘networks’ was used in late nineteenth-​century Russia already, where the secret police (the Ochrana) would use visual representations to document groups of anarchists and other adepts of philosophies considered a danger to the establishment  –​ very much like terrorist cells or other groups are mapped today (Laporte 1935, 39–​40; Ruud and Stepanov 1999, 69–​70). Suspects would be depicted in circles and the lines between them represented their connections. The larger the circle and the lines, the more frequent the interaction and the more important the node to the network. In a way, even medieval depictions of family trees can be seen as a precursor, as well as early anthropologists’ studies on kinship ties (Freeman 2004). These depictions and studies are not formally recognised as formative in network theory, but they indicate that visualisations of networks were more commonly known than is usually recognised. Another interesting element is that among these early popular networks, space was not considered to be an important factor. More than one archaeologist has expressed astonishment about the fact that archaeologists did not really pick up on the concept of social networks or the possibility to visualise interactions between entities (Knappett 2011, 2013; Brughmans 2013). Previous research has pointed out that the network pioneers were processual archaeologists who turned to the fields of geog­ raphy and formal methods to study physical space (Knappett 2011, 2013, Brughmans 2013). A paper by the historical geographer, Forrest Pitts (1965) is usually cited as the initial impetus for graph theoretical approaches in archaeology. Pitts studied the Russian river system to trace the centrality of Moscow and explain the city’s rise within the fluvial system. Pitts’ approach was adopted, with mixed success, to study questions such as the road system in Roman Britain and the Roman road and city network in Pannonia (Dicks 1972; Hutchinson 1972, Burghardt 1979). Other archaeologists started using graph theory to develop an early form of space syntax, des­ pite the anthropologist Edmund Leach (1978) questioning space syntax as a heuristic tool, thus anticipating the still ongoing archaeological debate. Another geographical application explored by archaeologists interested in networks was proximal point analysis (PPA). John Terell (1977) adopted this particular perspective to reconstruct hypothetical journeys that would be able to explain biological and cultural similarities on an archipelago in Oceania. PPA is still used in archaeological applications of network ana­ lysis today and is recognised as an example of macro-​level network analysis (Knappett 2011). Tom Brughmans has identified a study by Cynthia Irwin-​Williams (1977) as one of the earliest non-​strictly geographical archaeological applications of network analysis (Brughmans 2013). Irwin-​Williams used network analysis

6

6  Lieve Donnellan to analyse prehistoric trade, but just like her more geographically-​minded colleagues, she took sites as unit of analysis. Her innovative example focusing on exchange rather than distance, however, did not incite others to adopt similar approaches. Brughmans seeks an explanation for this in the absence of readily available computer power (Brughmans 2013, 634). Carl Knappett explains the lack of interest in social networks by archaeologists in terms of the location of interaction at the level of sites and regions, and thus ‘zones of interaction’ rather than links at the level of agents (Knappett 2011, 18). Another scholar who picked up network concepts in the early days was Colin Renfrew. In his landmark study on the emergence of the prehistoric Cyclades (1972), he developed a concept of an ‘interaction model’, not entirely unlike our multiscalar concept today. He used visualisations involving dots and lines to represent settlement hierarchies which were then linked to the interaction model. In later work, Renfrew and Cooke (1979) unsuccessfully tried to model interaction mathematically. Others also explored the concept of interaction matrix in more depth (Alden 1979). Alden studies political units in the Valley of Mexico in the Toltec period. He starts with a rather sophisticated concept of interaction with several hypothetical levels, from face-​to-​face to institutional, drawing on Renfrew’s initial interaction model (Renfrew 1972). However, for the mathematical definition of the model, Alden draws on a geographically defined gravity model, in which size is considered to be equiva­ lent to complexity. Despite thinking about institutions and decision-​making processes, interactions are unequivocally placed at the level of sites. How scales of interaction were integrated or affected each other is given little con­ sideration. The interaction thus is situated exclusively on a geographical scale. Some years later, Renfrew started to use graphs to represent interacting polities (1986). By now, Renfrew has come to place much more emphasis on the nature of the interactions being studied. It is less the exchange of com­ modities that interests Renfrew, as it is the flow of information (Renfrew 1986, 8). Renfrew (1986, 18)  refers explicitly to recent developments in social network analysis, specifically the early work of Boissevan and Mitchell (1973), discussed further below, but he does not proceed with chal­ lenging the profoundly geographical basis of network analysis in archae­ ology. Indeed, he points out how others (in the same volume) rather prefer to locate social networks in a defined geographical space. Social interaction became more of an interest to archaeologists in the later twentieth century, but when visualising interaction with graphs, it proved hard to escape the spatial constraints of archaeological datasets. Todd Whitelaw and Catherine Morgan used graphs to represent interaction in the Iron Age Peloponnese, as attested through formal similarities in painted pottery (Morgan and Whitelaw 1991). They developed statistics to assess the degree of similarity in pottery assemblages and plotted the results as a graph projected on a map. The larger nodes and ties represent closer simi­ larity and, thus, interaction. Morgan and Whitelaw cite a number of books on mathematical approaches in archaeology as their source of inspiration

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Archaeological networks and interaction 7 (Morgan and Whitelaw 1991, 96)  but, interestingly, they do not refer to Renfrew or network analysis explicitly, despite their use of graphs. However, their approach announces the contemporary similarity matrices and com­ munities of interaction approach. The ‘new wave’ of network analysis in archaeology thus draws on a long geographical tradition of studying physical space (Knappett 2011, 2013; Brughmans 2013; Mills 2017), despite several attempts to break away from the spatial constraints. The spatial determination of archaeological net­ work analysis therefore seems inevitable; but it would be wrong to bla­ tantly equate all current approaches of network analysis with static spatial analysis. In fact, there is a plethora of network approaches in archaeology, and the way in which space figures in the analysis ranges from absolute to a factor considered when other types of interaction and exchange are discussed. The idea that network analysis is necessarily spatial and ignoring agency or the social construction of reality is, thus, wrong. Søren Sinbæk (2007a, 2007b) explores in a series of groundbreaking papers how Viking Age Scandinavia was a highly connected region in which connectivity gave rise to the formation of towns. Anna Collar (2013) studies the role of networks for the transmission of religious ideas in the Roman Empire and Emma Blake focuses on the rise of regional identities in societies, based on the circulation of a selected amount of elite consumption goods (Blake 2013, 2014). Based on similarities of selected attributes between sites that were at a maximum distance of 50km of one another, she reconstructs changing net­ work dynamics in Late Bronze Age Italy. Barbara Mills and collaborators compiled a massive pottery database from the prehispanic Southwest of the United States, which they query for similarities to detect patterns of interaction and migration (Mills et  al. 2013, 2015). Other archaeological applications of network analysis are indeed more explicitly spatial and sev­ eral recent contributions have set out to systematise current archaeological network studies –​mostly within this spatial framework (Brughmans 2010, 2013; Knappett 2013; Östborn and Gerding 2014; Leidwanger et al. 2014; Collar et al. 2015; Mills 2017).

Networks of interaction The last couple of years, archaeologists interested in network analysis but with a concern for critical culture theories, have tried to formulate a number of possible alternative ways in which one could model interaction. Attempts have been made to scale down the phenomena being studied, both in time and space, as to be more specific regarding the kind of interactions that are being addressed. Thus, social interaction is no longer seen as an inev­ itable given, played out against a background of a determinant physical space alone, but tangible behaviour that is considered to have resulted in the material pattern being observed. Scholars stress that material culture is actively manipulated and objects structured this interaction. To mediate

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8  Lieve Donnellan between patterns that are difficult to pin down in spacetime and ontological understandings of an agent’s interaction with its physical and social envir­ onment, resort is found in the creation of an artificial conceptual space of a ‘micro and meso scale’. Archaeologists were rather slow to pick up Fernand Braudel’s (1949) new approach to history writing and his articulation of change in past societies at a level of events, mentalities and geography. Many decades after historians had embraced his innovations, the ideas were discussed in two volumes that appeared shortly one after the other in the early 1990s (Bintliff 1991, 2004; Knapp 1992). Concepts of ‘longue durée’ and micro/​macro scale entered the scene. But we had to wait for the groundbreaking work of Horden and Purcell (2000) and next Broodbank (2013) before scholars started thinking about scales more explicitly (e.g. Leidwanger et  al. 2014; Tartaron 2013, 2018; Malkin 2011; Knappett 2011; Molloy 2016a, 2016b). However, in reality, the notion of scales and modes of interaction circulated much earlier in the discipline. Concepts related to scale existed in the proces­ sual idea of systems and subsystems and in the interaction model proposed by Renfrew (1972; Renfrew and Cooke 1979; also Alden 1979), referred to earlier. In 1977 Lewis Binford introduced the concept of ‘middle range theory’ (MRT). MRT aimed explicitly, as Christopher Pierce (1989, 1) phrases it ‘at translating the static archaeological record into behaviourally dynamic terms by documenting causal linkages between relevant behaviours and their static material by-​products’. These static views on the nature and use of culture were challenged initially by Ian Hodder (1982) who sought to explain cultural variability in a given society as the result of identity formation processes. The interest in agency in archaeology developed gradually, and was partially aided by the Braudelian heuristic concept of scale (Dobres and Robb 2000a, 6–​7, 2000b). Dobres and Robb (2000a, 11) ask explicitly which aspects of agency could have shaped long-term cultural change. They ask acute questions such as whether long-​term, group-level agency is simply individual agency at a larger scale, or whether the game changes at different phenomenological scales? Would, as they wonder, a different balance between structure and agency, operate over different tem­ poral and spatial scales (Dobres and Robb 2000a, 11)? Importantly, regarding the role of material culture in interaction, they observe that ‘individual-​and group-​oriented approaches to agency have barely scratched the surface in understanding the ways in which material culture reproduces, promotes and thwarts agency’ (Dobres and Robb 2000a, 12). The argument of scales and the role of agency is picked up further by Ian Hodder (2000). He blames the nature of our archaeological data for our focus on the macro scale. He finds a solution in a ‘shift from agency and the construction of social beings, to individual narratives of lived lives and events’ (Hodder 2000, 22). What we need to do is ‘to build up [these] fragments into the fullest possible accounts of individual lived lives, by grouping together events and sequences of events wherever possible’

 9

Archaeological networks and interaction 9 (Hodder 2000, 26). Hodder adds, however, that the relations between scales is complex, a concern which is shared by Lock and Molineaux (2006a, 2006b). They state that ‘scale is a slippery concept, one that is sometimes easy to define but often difficult to grasp’ (2006a, 4). They add that ‘the real challenge is trying to expose the connections between the relational scales inherent in past behaviour and the relational scales structured into the ana­ lytical and interpretative procedures that attempt to understand that behav­ iour’ (Lock and Molyneaux 2006a, 5). The challenge of reaching the level of the distinct event has led archaeologists to come up with creative solutions to move away from the limits of a macro-​scale analysis. Östborn and Gerding (2014) propose to seek a solution in the use of time slices to overcome the simplifications that come along with a macro-​scale analysis. Another attempt is the creation of an intermediate space, not in absolute terms, but in analytical and con­ ceptual terms. The notion of ‘communities of practice’ has been explored very recently by archaeologists interested in network analysis as well as in theoretical concerns regarding agency and structure. Already in 2011, Carl Knappett signaled the potential of Etienne Wenger’s approach to situated learning (Wenger 1998; Wenger et al. 2002). More recently, ‘communities of practice’ has found productive applications especially in New World archaeology (Roddick and Stahl 2016; Mills 2016; Peeples 2018). For Mills, the notion of communi­ ties of consumption practices allows on the one hand to study choices people made in daily life, and on the other hand, to discuss the broad material cultural patterns on a large scale that ultimately underlie the archaeological record (Mills 2016). Peeples (2018) studies how networks of shared use of material culture (pottery, domestic and public architec­ ture) gave rise to shared identity in the Cibola world. In Mediterranean archaeology, the concept of communities of practice has been used to frame the analysis of burial evidence from an Italian Iron Age community (Donnellan 2019). The methodological foundation for the archaeological analysis of com­ munities of practice is the so-​called bimodal or affiliation network (Borgatti et  al., 2013). The concept of affiliation was initially developed by Allison Davis and his research team to study race relations in the Deep South of the United States (Davis et al. 1941). Davis and his team are mostly remembered for their use of a matrix to record the attendance of high-​society events by a group of women. Using this matrix, they identified cliques made up by women who frequented most events together. In reality, however, the entire Davis study is a discussion of how individuals appropriate practices and material culture to negotiate their position in daily life and the study demonstrates how the early network research was much more practice oriented than later sociological studies. Given this historical interest in practice and a precursor of the notion of ‘communities of practice’ as expressed in the work of Davis, it is not entirely

10

10  Lieve Donnellan clear how sociologists came to adopt a highly structuralist angle to social networks with which we commonly identify it today. As was outlined earlier, other early theoretical influences on the development of social networks were traced to Simmel and Moreno, who engaged explicitly in the problems surrounding individual behaviour and group outcome. More strikingly is that, in reality, network analysis in sociology was formulated as reac­ tion against the structural-​functionalist framework (Boissevan 1979, 392; Mitchell and Boissevan 1973). Jeremy Boissevan explains how the emer­ gent concept of networks ‘opened a door to permit the entry of interacting people engaged in actions that could alter and manipulate the institutions in which they participated’, and states that ‘network analysis provides an analytical framework for data at a lower level of abstraction than the insti­ tutional complex’ (Boissevan 1979, 392). He expresses a particular con­ sciousness that the abstractions made about the macro scale are metaphors, not simply ‘networks of networks’ (Boissevan 1979, 392). Examples of tem­ porary alliances Boissevan thinks one could analyse with network analysis are patron-​client chains, leader-​follower coalitions, cliques, factions, cartels (Boissevan 1979, 393). Moreover, he issues an explicit warning that network analysis cannot deal with the social forces underlying long-​term processes (Boissevan 1979, 393).

Framing the micro scale From the previous sections, it should have become clear that, throughout its development, social network analysis has had a profound interest in agency. It was more the nature of the data than a lack of awareness that caused archaeologists not to pick up on the social dimension of networks. The major challenge has always been the availability of a proper heuristic tool. The Braudelian innovation of ‘scales’ clearly is one way forward, but comes with its own set of problems. Most crucially, if we accept the existence of a macro and meso scale, it is unclear what the micro scale should exactly be. The existence of three scales of interaction is not even commonly acknowledged. Dobres and Robb (2000a) distinguish between a macro and micro scale, yet they are unsure as to where we should locate agency exactly. They question whether we should equate the micro scale necessarily with individuals, as some could imagine also groups exercising agency (Dobres and Robb 2000, 11). Knappett (2011, 95) identifies the micro scale as ‘the everyday, a world of face-​to-​face interactions, of repeated movements in cer­ tain spaces in the company of a familiar set of objects’. To him, the meso scale then ‘requires a shift away from proximate interactions’ (Knappett 2011, 100). The meso scale addresses interaction between households within a community and between communities within a region (Knappett 2011, 98). Lock and Molineaux start their scalar construction with a single artefact (2006a) and scholars interested in materiality would no doubt start with the raw material, before the artefact would even be made (e.g. contributions

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Archaeological networks and interaction 11 in Hicks and Beaudry 2010; Ingold 2011; Olsen et al. 2012; Hodder 2012; Van Oyen 2018). Also other issues remain: if we operate with spatio-​temporal scales, how do we deal with the notion that objects are able to shrink time and space, as contemporary globalisation theory suggests (contributions in Hodos 2016, Nederveen Pieterse 2016)? Objects, or in a broader sense, technology, allows people to transcend the limits that the immediate environment poses on them. Through communication technology, constraints of space and time shrink (Van Dijck 1991, Appadurai 1996, Castells 1996, Barabàsi 2002). How exactly objects and technologies can assume this kind of power has not been sufficiently addressed in archaeological network analysis. More generally speaking, archaeological network analysis has largely overlooked the theoretical advances made in critical cultural theory and materiality (Knappett 2011; Van Oyen 2016, 2017; Hodder 2012; Mills 2017), and the way scales interact has not been addressed sufficiently. However, the challenge is not just one of pairing different bodies of theory –​i.e. network analysis and materiality and other critical culture the­ ories –​although this is urgently needed (cf. Mills 2017, 390). The problem resides at a much deeper, ontological level. As Carl Knappett explains in the second chapter, following recent contributions in material culture theory, objects relate to other objects and people in very different ways. Objects can be exchanged, get entangled with human bodies or link with other objects and materials. Current archaeological network analysis is simply unable to capture the social dimension of interaction and the complexity of objects em-​ bodying interaction. Whether an archaeologist seeks to address what would be conceived as a micro scale of local space and communities or a macro scale of a site or region, there has to be a valid link between the transformation or manipulation of the physical world and the fluidity of inter-​acting actors. That such is not entirely impossible is argued by the various chapters in this volume. Departing from the knowledge that network analysis in archaeology should encompass the social dimension of interaction and the way it transforms the physical world at large, the authors explore concepts, methods and challenges on the use of network analysis for studying social interaction archaeologically. Both Aline Deicke and Owain Morris elaborate on ‘Strathernograms’ –​a concept stemming from an attempt by Alfred Gell (1999) to visualise the exchange of pigs in Melanesia, originally described by Marilyn Strathern (1988). In reality, Strathern herself had attempted to visualise the exchange and attachments it created but she never proceeded with publishing them. Even though different from the toolbox of formal net­ work analysis, Aline Deicke argues that there are possibilities for including Strathernian-​type of ties in several ways. She explores these possibilities in Hallstatt burial rites, a context in which complex links between objects and meanings are formed. Formal graph representations, informed by Strathern’s understanding of exchange and the construction of meaning, can help to dissect the construction of notions of funerary identity.

12

12  Lieve Donnellan The challenges posed by a Strathernian reading of exchange are also picked up by Owain Morris. Strathern’s work is part of a long tradition, as Morris outlines, of studies on exchange in Melanesia. These studies stand at the basis of our economic anthropological theories on gift-​giving. Morris argues that using Strathern’s concepts and Strathernograms allows us to construct a more complex picture of feasting practices in Iron Age Italy. Morris sees how within the network the organiser of a feast distributes his personhood, thus increasing status and power. Even though Morris acknowledges that there are limits to the analysis due to the nature of the archaeological record, he is able to trace effectively how the links forged through material encompass actors in a continuous transformation. The visibility of handling and manipulating material culture has been instrumental in enforcing elite status and power. Simon Barker, Simona Perna and Courtney Ward analyse the use of imported marble in domestic contexts in Pompeii. A  formal network analysis allows them to study the spreading of the phenomenon in a selected group of case studies. Based on the patterns the analysis reveals, they propose that the appearance of the phenomenon can be linked to high-​profile houses with high visibility. Space and the material world were thus instrumental in mediating social interaction. The complex interaction between space, the material world and human agents cannot be fully framed with graphs, but as Barker, Perna and Ward argue, the formal analysis and graph visualisation are highly useful analytical instruments. In her chapter, Lieve Donnellan points out that formal network analysis is helpful in studying social interaction and the mediating role objects play in it. Value, she argues, is precisely embedded in the relational nature of objects and interaction. By looking at these relations, we can start analyzing pos­ sible meanings. Paired with object ontologies, her analysis of consumption patterns traces practices and attitudes that might have surrounded specific objects. Rather than classifying objects as passive, it is concluded that the analysed ceramic material (drinking cups, oinochoai and oil containers) was attributed very different values and must have structured interactions very differently. The idea that archaeological networks must necessarily involve spatial analysis or even include nodes representing human actors is overturned by Søren Sinbæk. In his chapter he turns to the wealth of information gathered in a collection of material. Beads, found in large quantities in the Viking world, testify through their appearance and raw material to interactions. But rather than mapping find locations, Sindbæk traces the material characteristics of the beads. The analysis testifies to links the objects mediate; they incorporate, at the same time, long-​distance trade or influence, local values and the interaction between them. Thus, the objects themselves link scales and become entangled with human actors and places in very complex ways.

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Archaeological networks and interaction 13 The malleability and complexity of physical space is also explored in the contribution by Mark Hill, Kevin Nolan and Mark Seemann. Certain cultural phenomena in the past are attested on a regional scale. What arch­ aeological network analysts have found challenging was identifying an appropriate tool to analyse the actual social interaction underlying the phenomenon, rather than just trace the exact spatial distribution. Hill, Noland and Seemann underline that one needs to look at the household level to explain mound-​building phenomena. As in Sindbæks’ chapter, they add that certain materials, here obsidian and flint, operate at a different scale and seem to be able to transcend space-​time patterns of day-to-day interactions. Another transformative regional phenomenon is studied in the chapter by Francesca Fulminante. She studies the appearance of dense, urbanised settlements in Central Italy. Formative in their transformation has been the consolidation of transportation –​bringing us right back to the advent of network concepts in archaeology. Fulminante stresses, however, that it is not just merely the tracing of spatial links that constitute the analysis, but looking at how they were maintained from a material perspective and what effect they had on society. Roads were expensive to build and had to be maintained. They created all kinds of side-​effects that came with inter-​ city connectivity. Again it is the complex interlinking between materials-​ manipulation-​interaction in a virtually perpetual loop that creates units such as cities. Throughout these highly diverse cultural and chronological environments, there are conclusions to draw regarding archaeological networks and social interaction. The first one is that through their contributions, the authors have clearly demonstrated the power of formal network analysis as a heur­ istic tool. Moreover, whereas some current materiality approaches tend to focus on materiality only and are highly a-​social, the relational method­ ology has proven to be invaluable to detect the complexity of objects’ lives. Materiality alone is not able to take into account the multiple meanings and uses of objects that could be attributed to it in social interaction. The power of objects, but especially raw materials, to transcend scales has figured in several of the contributions. Future research should pay more attention to the specific power of different materials in scalar terms. Why do some materials transcend scales and others not? On the other hand, scales are generally acknowledged as a useful ana­ lytical tool, but they also constitute a self-​imposed boundary. Like physical space, scale should not be treated as an absolute value in analysis but as a malleable one that is transformed through interaction. Generally, the idea of malleability is important. By acknowledging malleability, the relationality of objects in social interaction can be understood. This is what we should eventually aim to record. Diagrams, Strathernograms, sociograms are all attempts to capture the fluidity of interaction and the malleability of objects. When taken as absolute value, all will inevitably fail.

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14  Lieve Donnellan

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Archaeological networks and interaction 15 models for visibility networks’, Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 22(1), 58–​143. https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​s10816-​014-​9231-​x Burghardt, A.F. (1979). ‘The origins of the Roman road and city network of Pannonia’, Journal of Historical Geography 5(1), 1–​20. https://​doi.org/​10.1016/​ 0305-​7488(79)90034-​3 Castells, M. (1996). The Rise of the Network Society. The Information Age. Oxford: Blackwell. Collar, A. (2013). Religious Networks in the Roman Empire:  The Spread of New Ideas. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Collar, A., Brughmans, T., and Coward, F. (2015). ‘Networks in archaeology: Phenomena, abstraction, representation’, Journal of Archaeological Methods and Theories 22(1), 1–​32. https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​s10816-​014-​9235-​6 Conolly, J. and Lake, M. (2006). Geographical Information Systems in Archaeology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Davis, A., Gardner, B. and Gardner, M. (1941). Deep South. A Social Anthropological Study of Caste and Class. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Dicks, T. R. B. (1972). Network analysis and historical geography, Area 4(1), 4–​9. Dobres, M.A. and Robb, J. (2000a). ‘Agency in archaeology. Paradigm or platitude?’, in Dobres, M.A. and Robb, J. (eds.) Agency in Archaeology. London: Routledge, pp.  3–​17. Dobres, M.A. and Robb, J. (eds.) (2000b). Agency in Archaeology. London: Routledge. Donnellan, L. (2016). ‘ “Greek colonization” and Mediterranean networks: Patterns of mobility and interaction at Pithekoussai’, Journal of Greek archaeology 1, 109–​148. Donnellan, L. (2019). ‘Modeling the rise of the city:  Early urban networks in Southern Italy’, Frontiers in Digital Humanities 6(15), 1–​ 19. https://​doi.org/​ 10.3389/​fdigh.2019.00015 Evans, S. and Felder, K. (eds.) (2014). ‘Social network perspectives in archaeology’, Archaeological Review from Cambridge 29(1), 1–​184. Freeman, M. (2004). The Development of Social Network Analysis: A Study in the Sociology of Science. Vancouver: 𝛴𝛱 Empirical Press. Gell, A. (1999). ‘Strathernograms, or, the semiotics of mixed metaphors’, in The Art of Anthropology. Essays and Diagrams. London: The Athlone Press, pp. 29–​75. Gosden, C. (2012). ‘Extended and condensed relations: Bringing together landscapes and artefact’, in Jones, A., Pollard, J., Allen, M.J., and Gardiner, J. (eds.) Image, Memory and Monumentality:  Archaeological Engagements with the Material World:  A Celebration of the Academic Achievements of Professor Richard Bradley. Oxford: Owbow, pp. 127–​135. Heidegger, M. (1927). ‘Sein und Zeit’, Jahrbuch für Philosophie und phänomenologische Forschung 8, 1–​438. Hicks, D. and Beaudry, M.C. (2010). The Oxford Handbook of Material Culture Studies. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hodder, I. (1982) Symbols in Action. Ethnoarchaeological Studies of Material Culture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hodder, I. (2000). ‘Agency and individuals in long-​term processes’, in Dobres, M.A. and Robb, J. (eds.) Agency in Archaeology. London: Routledge, pp. 21–​33. Hodder, I. (2004). ‘The “social” in archaeological theory:  An historical and con­ temporary perspective’, in Preucel, R.W. and Meskell, L. (eds.) A Companion to Social Archaeology. Oxford: Blackwell, pp. 23–​42.

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16  Lieve Donnellan Hodder, I. (2012). Entangled. An Archaeology of the Relationships between Humans and Things. Oxford: Wiley. Hodder, I. and Mol, A. (2016). ‘Network analysis and entanglement’, Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 23(4), 1066–​1094. https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​ s10816-​015-​9259-​6 Hodos, T. (ed.) (2017). The Routledge Handbook of Globalization and Archaeology. Oxford: Routledge. Horden, P. and Purcell, N. (2000). The Corrupting Sea. A Study of Mediterranean History. Oxford: Wiley-​Blackwell. Hutchinson, P. (1972). Networks and Roman roads:  A further Roman network, Area 4(4), 279–​280. Ingold, T. (1993). ‘The temporality of landscape’, World Archaeology 25, 152–​174. https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​00438243.1993.9980235 Ingold, T. (1996). ‘Situating action’, Ecological Psychology 8(2), 183–​187. https://​ doi.org/​10.1207/​S15326969ECO0802_​6 Ingold, T. (2010a). ‘Bringing things to life:  Creative entanglements in a world of materials’, Realities: Working Papers Manchester 15, 1–​14. Ingold, T. (2010b). ‘The textility of making’, Cambridge Journal of Economics 34(1), 91–​102. https://​doi.org/​10.1093/​cje/​bep042 Ingold, T. (2011). ‘When ANT meets SPIDER. Social theory for arthropods’, in Ingold, T., Being Alive. Essays on Movement, Knowledge and Description. London: Routledge, pp. 89–​94. Ingold, T. (2018). ‘Back to the future with the theory of affordances’, Hau: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 8(1/​2), 39–​44. https://​doi.org/​10.1086/​698358 Irwin-​ Williams, C.(1977). ‘A network model for the analysis of Prehistoric trade’, in Earle, T.K. and Ericson, J.E. (eds.) Exchange Systems in Prehistory. New York: Academic Press, pp. 141–​151. Jones, S. (1997). The Archaeology of Ethnicity. Constructing Identities in the Past and Present. London: Routledge. Knapp, B. (ed.) (1992). Archaeology,Annales and Ethnohistory. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Knappett, C. (2005). Thinking through Material Culture. An Interdisciplinary Approach. Philadelphia, PA: Penn Press. Knappett, C. (2011). An Archaeology of Interaction. Network Perspectives on Material Culture and Society. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Knappett, C. (2013). ‘Introduction:  Why networks?’, in Knappett, C. (ed.) Network Analysis in Archaeology. New Approaches to Regional Interaction. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 3–​15. Knappett, C. (2014). ‘Commentary: What are social network perspectives in archae­ ology?’, The Archaeological Review from Cambridge 29(1), 179–​184. Laporte, M. (1935). Histoire de l’Okhrana, la police secrète des Tsars 1880-​1917. Paris: Payot. Leach, E. (1978). ‘Does space syntax really constitute the social?’, in Green, D., Hazelgrove, C. and Spriggs, M. (eds.) Social Organisation and Settlement. Oxford: Archaeopress. Lefebre, H. (1991) The Production of Space. Oxford: Blackwell. Leidwanger, J. et  al. (2014). ‘A manifesto for the study of ancient Mediterranean maritime networks’, Antiquity Project Gallery, pp. 1–​9.

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Archaeological networks and interaction 17 Lock, G. and Molineaux, B.L. (eds.) (2006a). ‘Introduction: Confronting scale’, in Lock, G. and Molineaux, B.L. (eds.) Confronting Scale in Archaeology. Issues of Theory and Practice. New York: Springer, pp. 4–​14. Lock, G. and Molineaux, B.L. (eds.) (2006b). Confronting Scale in Archaeology. Issues of Theory and Practice. New York: Springer. Malafouris, L. (2013). How Things Shape the Mind:  A Theory of Material Engagement. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Malkin, I. (2003). ‘Networks and the emergence of Greek identity’, Mediterranean Historical Review 18(2), 56–​74. https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​0951896032000230480 Malkin, I. (2011). A Small Greek world: Networks in the Ancient Mediterranean. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Marin, A. and Wellman, B. (2011). ‘Social network analysis:  An introduction, in Scott, J. and Carrington, P.J. (eds.) The SAGE Handbook of Social Network Analysis. London: SAGE, pp. 1–​8. Mills, B.J. (2016). ‘Communities of consumption. Cuisines as constellated networks of situated practice’, in Roddick, A. P., and Stahl, A. B. (eds.) Knowledge in Motion: Constellations of Learning across Time and Place. Tucson, AZ: University of Arizona Press, pp. 247–​270. Mills, B.J. (2017). ‘Social network analysis in archaeology’, Annual Review of Anthropology 46(1), 379–​ 397. https://​doi.org/​10.1146/​annurev-​anthro-​ 102116-​041423 Mills, B.J., Peeples, M., Haas, R. Jr. et al. (2015). ‘Multiscalar perspectives on social networks in the Late Hispanic Southwest’, American Antiquity 80(1), 3–​ 24. https://​doi.org/​10.7183/​0002-​7316.79.4.3 Mills, B.J., Roberts, J.M., Clark, J.J. et al. (2013). ‘The dynamics of social networks in the Late Prehispanic US Southwest’, in Knappett, C. (ed.) Network Analysis in Archaeology. New Approaches to Regional Interaction. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 181–​202. Molloy, B. (2016a). ‘Introduction:  Thinking of scales and modes of interaction in prehistory’, in Molloy, B. (ed.) Of Odysseus and Oddities. Scales and Modes of Interaction between Prehistoric Aegean Societies and their Neighbours. Oxford: Oxbow Books, pp. 9–​28. Molloy, B. (ed.) (2016b). Of Odysseus and Oddities. Scales and Modes of Interaction between Prehistoric Aegean Societies and their Neighbours. Oxford: Oxbow Books. Moreno, J. (1923). Das Steckreiftheater. Berlin: Gustav Kiepenheuer. Moreno, J. (1934). Who Shall Survive? A New Approach to the Problem of Human Interrelations. Washington DC: Nervous and Mental Disease Publishing Company. Moreno, J. (1953). Who Shall Survive? Foundations of Sociometry, Group Psychotherapy and Sociodrama. Oxford: Beacon House. Morgan, C. and Whitelaw, T. (1991). ‘Pots & polities: Ceramic evidence for the rise of the Argive state’, American Journal of Archaeology 95, 79–​108. https://​doi.org/​ 10.2307/​505158 Nederveen Pieterse, J. (2017). ‘Long histories of globalization’, in Hodos, T. (ed.) The Routledge Handbook of Globalization and Archaeology. Oxford: Routledge. Newman, M., Barabási, A.L., and Watts, D. (2006). The Structure and Dynamics of Networks. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Olsen, B., Shanks, M., Webmoor, T., and Witmore, C. (2012). Archaeology. The Discipline of Things. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

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18  Lieve Donnellan Östborn, P. and Herding, H. (2014). ‘Network analysis of archaeological data: A sys­ tematic approach’, Journal of Archaeological Science 46, 75–​88. https://​doi.org/​ 10.1016/​j.jas.2014.03.015 Parrocchia, D. (1993). Philosophies des réseaux. Paris:  Presses Universitaires de France. Parrocchia, D. (2005). Quelques aspects historiques de la notion du reseau, Flux 4(62),  10–​20. Peeples, M. (2018). Connected Communities. Networks, Identity and Social Change in the Ancient Cibola World. Tuscon, AZ: University of Arizona Press. Pierce, C. (1989). ‘A critique of Middle Range Theory in archaeology’ (unpublished paper). Identifier: ark:/​13960/​t59c80849. Available online at:  www.researchgate. net/​publication/​257066746_​A_​CRITIQUE_​OF_​MIDDLE-​RANGE_​THEORY_​ IN_​ARCHAEOLOGY/​link/​00b4952445a4555946000000/​download Pitts, F.R. (1965). A graph theoretical approach to historical geography, The Professional Geographer 17(5), 15–​20. Preucel, R.W. and Meskell, L. (2004a). ‘Knowledges’, in Preucel, R.W. and Meskell, L. (eds.) A Companion to Social Archaeology. Oxford: Blackwell, pp. 3–​22. Preucel, R.W. and Meskell, L. (eds.) (2004b). A Companion to Social Archaeology. Oxford: Blackwell. Prignano, L., Morer, I. and Diaz-​Guilhera, A. (2017). ‘Wiring the past: A network science perspective on the challenge of archeological similarity networks’, Frontiers in Digital Humanities 4, 1–​13. https://​doi.org/​10.3389/​fdigh.2017.00013 Renfrew, C. (1972). The Emergence of Civilisation. London: Methuen. Renfrew, C. (1986). ‘Introduction. Peer polity interaction and socio-​political change’, in Renfrew, C. And Cherry, J. (eds.), Peer Polity Interaction and Socio-​political Change. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 1–​18. Renfrew, C. and Cooke, K.L. (1979). ‘An experiment on the simulation of cultural changes’, in Renfrew, C. And Cooke, K.L. (eds.) Transformations. Mathematical Approaches to Cultural Change. New York: Academic Press, pp. 327–​348. Rivers, R., Knappett, C. and Evans, T. (2013). ‘Network models and archaeo­ logical spaces’, in Bevan, A. and Lake, M. (eds.) Computational Approaches to Archaeological Spaces. Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press, pp. 99–​126. Roddick, A. P. and Stahl, A. B. (eds.) (2016). Knowledge in Motion: Constellations of Learning across Time and Place. Tucson, AZ: University of Arizona Press. Ruud, C.A. and Stepanov, S.A. (1999) Fontanka 16:  The Tsars’ Secret Police. Montreal and Kingston: McGill-​Queens University Press. Sinbæk, S. (2007a). ‘Networks and nodal points: The emergence of towns in Early Viking Age Scandinavia’, Antiquity 81, 119–​ 132. https://​doi.org/​10.1017/​ S0003598X00094886 Sinbæk, S. (2007b). ‘The small world of the Vikings:  Networks in early medieval communication and exchange’, Norwegian Archaeological Review 40, 59–​74. Soja, E.W. (1989). Postmodern Geographies:  The Reassertion of Space in Critical Social Theory. London: Verso. Soja, E.W. (1996). Thirdspace: Journeys to Los Angeles and Other Real-​and-​imagined Places. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Strathern, M. (1988). The Gender of the Gift: Problems with Women and Problems with Society in Melanesia. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Tartaron, T.F. (2013). Maritime Networks in the Mycenaean World. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Archaeological networks and interaction 19 Tartaron, T.F. (2018). ‘Geography matters:  Defining maritime small worlds of the Aegean Bronze Age’, in Leigwanger, J. and Knappett, C. (eds.) Maritime Networks in the Ancient Mediterranean World. Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, pp.  61–​91. Terell, J. (1977). ‘Island biogeography and man in Melanesia’, Archaeology and Physical Anthropology in Oceania, 11(1), 1–​17. Tilley, C. (1994). A Phenomenology of Landscape: Places, Paths and Monuments. Oxford and Providence, RI: Berg. Van Dijk, J.A.G. (1991). De netwerkmaatschappij:  sociale aspecten van nieuwe media. Houten: Bohn Stafleu van Loghum. Van Oyen, A. (2016). ‘Networks or work-​nets? Actor-​Network Theory and mul­ tiple social topologies in the production of Roman terra sigillata’, in Collar, A., Brughmans, T. and Coward, F. (eds.) The Connected Past: Challenges to Network Studies in Archaeology and History. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 35–​56. Van Oyen, A. (2017). ‘Agents and commodities:  A response to Brughmans and Poblome (2016) on modelling the Roman economy’, Antiquity 91(359), 356–​ 363. https://​doi.org/​10.15184/​aqy.2017.138 Van Oyen, A. (2018). ‘Material agency’, in López Varela, S.L. (ed.) The Encyclopedia of Archaeological Sciences. Oxford:  Wiley-​Blackwell. https://​doi.org/​10.1002/​ 9781119188230.saseas0363 Verhagen, P., Brughmans, T., Nuninger, L. and Bertoncello, F. (2013). ‘The long and winding road: Combining least cost paths and network analysis techniques for settlement location analysis and predictive modelling’, in Proceedings of Computer Applications and Quantitative Techniques in Archaeology conference 2012, Southampton. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, pp. 357–​366. Vlassopoulos, K. (2003). ‘Beyond and below the polis. Networks, associations, and the writing of Greek history’, Mediterranean Historical Review 22(1), 11–​22. https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​09518960701538507 Wenger, E. (1998). Communities of Practice:  Learning, Meaning and Identity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wenger, E., McDermott, R. and Snyder, W.M. (2002). Cultivating Communities of Practice. Cambridge, MA: Harvard Business School Press.

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2  Relational concepts and challenges to network analysis in social archaeology Carl Knappett

Introduction Relational perspectives in archaeology have drawn on a range of disciplines, from social anthropology to network science. It is perhaps understandable, then, that substantial differences exist in the mode of enquiry, from human­ istic to scientific (Knappett 2016), and in the scale of social unit under investigation, from the micro-​scale of everyday practice to wider regional networks. Nevertheless, archaeologists have recognized these tensions and have made efforts to both accommodate various modes of enquiry and articulate distinct scales of analysis (e.g. Mills 2016, 2017; Hodder and Mol 2016). But are there more profound divisions that prevent fuller dialogue between the various versions of relational thinking now current? Is an idea like that of ‘meshwork’ put forward by Ingold, for example, really incom­ patible with ‘network’ (Ingold 2017)? Are theories of ‘entanglement’ (e.g. Hodder 2012; Der and Fernandini 2016) and ‘assemblage’ (DeLanda 2006; Hamilakis and Jones 2017) based on totally different assumptions from those found in network theory? Are these various models of social inter­ action incompatible with one another? Despite the efforts within archaeological network analysis to argue for its multi-​scalar credentials (Knappett 2011; Mills 2016), and indeed some recent studies that go some way to realizing its potential (e.g. Pailes 2014; Peeples 2018), the motivation for this chapter is an ongoing uncertainty over the capacity for network analysis to effectively deal with the micro-​ scale of social interaction. On the one hand, we might make the argument that even face-​to-​face interactions (cf. Finley 1973) are amenable to network thinking, and that it is just a matter of overcoming various obstacles we might encounter in archaeology, not least the difficulty of obtaining data on such scales of interaction. Even if we include artefacts as a complicating factor –​ in that they mediate these face-​to-​face interactions –​network methods are sufficiently flexible to accommodate various parameters. Working with both people and things, for example, as distinct kinds of entity, one might use bipartite networks to model their interactions. On the other hand, we could also wonder if there is some quality of such interactions that simply denies

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Relational concepts and network analysis 21 the very separability of entities that can be interconnected in the way typ­ ically required in network analysis. What if social relations at this scale, at least in some societies, are enmeshed, entangled or assembled in ways that entirely resist any of our efforts to ‘network’ them (e.g. Ingold 2017)? This question broaches the problem of how fully we understand the models we employ. If we use models somewhat implicitly and imperfectly, the problem is perhaps mitigated, so long as some useful outputs emerge. But might we not benefit from making models more explicit –​particularly if we want to assess the amenability of past social interactions to more or less formal modes of enquiry? One way to begin thinking about this question is through a distinction between ‘data’ and ‘theory’ models (Rivers 2016). When it comes to networks in archaeology, a data model uses arch­ aeological data as a basis for drawing connections between entities (usu­ ally sites). So, for example, if a particular kind of object, or set of objects, has been found across a number of sites, then this might be used as a basis for linking these sites together in a network (what Mills 2017 has called a ‘material’ network). In a theory model, however, it is not data that are used to posit connections, but rather a series of theoretical expectations about how we imagine entities (i.e. sites) were connected. For example, we might theorize that sites will connect to one another if it is beneficial for them in terms of accessing resources; but that such benefits will be offset by the costs of establishing such links, especially over increasing distance. This is a theoretical expectation, which might in actuality be either supported or confounded by data. Östborn and Gerding (2014) suggest a distinction between network analysis and network modelling, which roughly maps onto this distinction between data and theory models respectively; though only the latter are viewed as models per se in their scheme. However, the relationship between the two has not received much attention  –​ archaeologists have tended to use one or the other approach. If, however, we try to establish a methodology whereby we pursue both approaches, toggling between the two, then we may put ourselves in a stronger position in terms of understanding the generative processes behind network forma­ tion (Knappett 2018). It can help move us forward by making us question what we are assuming in network analysis and creating an epistemology for what we are up to. I would argue, however, that this data/​theory model distinction has been identified for models operating largely at broader scales; on the whole, we assume it is acceptable to treat sites as separate entities. Do we have such a theory/​data model structure for enquiring about lower-​level social interactions though? Arguably no. And I  will not be able to build such a structure in this chapter. What I  would like to attempt is a brief explor­ ation of some of the assumptions we may confront when addressing the micro-​scale, in the hope that we might then begin to establish some possi­ bilities for modeling micro-​scale interactions. The way I want to do this is somewhat experimental, and deliberately involves examples that challenge

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22  Carl Knappett straightforward ideas of how entities at the micro-​scale might ‘interact’. I  wish to invoke three different ‘ontologies’  –​Melanesian, ancient Greek and Gothic –​to form a broad base for my enquiry.

A Melanesian ontology of face-​to-​face networks We start with Melanesian ethnography, and particularly the work of Marilyn Strathern on the notion of the ‘dividual’ (Strathern 1988). A dividual is made from the various relations in which he or she participates –​this ‘relational’ definition of personhood is typically set against the supposedly Western notion of the individual. The matter of creating face-​to-​face networks at the micro-​scale is less fraught if one can connect separable ‘individuals’ –​ whereas dividuals present a bigger problem. How can one justifiably isolate a dividual as a node in a network? Some of the issues faced when one tries to do this have actually been addressed in a fascinating paper by Alfred Gell (Gell 1999) on Marilyn Strathern’s writings, and specifically The Gender of the Gift (Strathern 1988). Not only is personhood distributed among relations, but this distribution typically occurs during exchange relations in which goods are exchanged. The particular expression of this is pig exchange: when one person gives a pig to another, they are not simply exchanging an alienable product, but are giving away part of themselves too. This kind of micro-​scale, face-​to-​face social interaction mediated by things is captured in the sketch in Figure 2.1, from Gell’s 1999 paper (Gell 1999, 39):

Figure 2.1 Sketch of a face-​to-​face pig exchange. After Gell 1999, 39.

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Relational concepts and network analysis 23 But matters quickly become more complicated because typically there is not just a single exchange of this kind. The donor may ‘give’ part of himself when exchanging the pig. That same pig may then be further exchanged, however; and when this happens, prior exchange relationships are implicated. The web that may quickly form is not shown diagrammatic­ ally by Strathern. Yet, Gell insists that Strathern herself told him she used a ‘series of diagrams as schemata in the process of writing’ (Gell 1999, 31). So what he does in his paper is ‘supply the missing graphic channel of expres­ sion to the argument of GG’ (GG  =  The Gender of the Gift; Gell 1999, 31). And the way Gell does this is fascinating because he uses graphs, or networks, essentially. This is why he calls his paper ‘Strathernograms’, to reveal some of this diagrammatic thinking, and to attempt a more formal network depiction of this Melanesian conception of the person, whereby a series of relations are somehow encapsulated in object and person. What he does is really quite similar to how we are advised in network analysis to abstract nodes and links from observable phenomena (see Brandes et al. 2013). We might choose, for example, to think of both people and pigs as nodes, connected in bipartite networks such that people only connect to one another via pigs. But doesn’t this rely on an ontology that sees people and pigs as alienable, quite separate, connected by relations of exteriority? What if, in a Melanesian ontology, with its relations of interiority, one cannot really separate pigs and persons, because persons are in pigs, and pigs are brought into being by inter-​personal relations? Is it possible to make a net­ work abstraction that is consistent with this ontology  –​an ontology of ‘intra-​action’ rather than inter-​action? This is the problem, in essence, that Gell finds himself grappling with in diagramming Strathernograms. Gell starts by laying out Strathern’s theoretical stance as idealist  –​i.e. describing a world in which the real is a system of ideas, rather than a collection of objects. For Strathern, Gell says, idealism is an interpretative heuristic. She conceives of a system of ideas made up of terms and their reifi­ cation in matter, which she calls appearances. In her scheme, the ultimate constituents of the world are relations (not things or persons). She never specifies what a relation actually is, but Gell interprets it as a connection between two terms. For example, in the formulation 5>4, the > is the rela­ tion. 5 and 4 are terms, not things; and they are not self-​sufficient (there is no 4 without 5, etc). Similarly, the term ‘mother’ makes little sense without the term ‘child’. The idea we have to grasp is that relationships in the social world are not between visible entities, such as mothers and children, but between terms within the code. (Gell 1999, 35) The idea is very general thus far. Strathern adds two constraints:  1) all relations between terms are exchange relations, and 2) all are gendered.

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24  Carl Knappett To capture the character of terms, relations, and appearance in Strathern’s system, Gell devises the following graphic scheme:

• Terms are in rectangular boxes. • Relations in circles/​ovals. • But these are ideal types, and only palpable through APPEARANCES… for which he uses a lozenge.

One of the most basic diagrams he employs is that shown in Figure  2.2, which simply shows how terms are connected (Gell 1999, 36). Then, from this most basic formulation, Gell adds appearances into the mix (Gell 1999, 38), which he shows as objectifying a relation (see Figure 2.3). The next step is to apply these graphic conventions to Melanesian eth­ nography –​i.e. the ceremonial exchange of pigs between exchange partners (the kind of phenomenon sketched in Figure 2.1). Gell gives an account of why this sketch is insufficient –​because the donor gives part of himself, and no sketch captures this. So, an abstract representation is the only way to capture the relations involved. Let’s now use this system. If we start with the pig, it objectifies more than one relationship. How does Strathern deal with this? Gell says: the principle adopted is that a unique objectification (a particular pig) objectifies a cluster of relationships, which are themselves related. (Gell 1999, 40)

Figure 2.2 Diagram showing how terms are connected. After Gell 1999, 36.

Figure 2.3 Diagram showing how an appearance objectifies a relation. After Gell 1999, 36.

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Relational concepts and network analysis 25

Figure 2.4 Diagram showing hierarchical nesting of relations. After Gell 1999, 41.

So, if pig X objectifies two separate sets of relations, those relations will themselves be related. But, as Gell understands it, Strathern reacts to this by nesting relations of a more subordinate order within relations of a more encompassing order (i.e. the principle governing the relations between relations is one of hierarchy). Gell says Strathern is not altogether clear on this, but he sees the only way to conceive of such relations is as we see depicted in Figure 2.4 –​such that the C-​D relationship is embedded within A (Gell 1999, 41, fig. 1.8). An important consequence of this decision to nest relations is that the subordinate relation C-​D is only accessible through A-​B (or only through A?) –​and that in consequence C-​D is occluded or, to use Strathern’s term, eclipsed by A-​B. This idea of eclipsing is very close to Roy Wagner’s obviation, though the latter is stronger (Wagner 1978). The former implies relations are still implicit, if latent. To flesh out the argument, consider how the pig is produced by an exchange of reproductive capacities between boar and sow. Thus, the pig(let) is objectifying this relationship (Gell 1999, 42) –​as diagrammed in Figure 2.5. However, a pig used in ceremonial exchange is seen as a human rather than a porcine product. It is fed and nurtured in a domestic setting. Therefore, the pig comes to objectify the exchange of domestic services between man and wife (see Figure 2.6). As Gell says: Thus the biological reproduction of pigs is symbolically eclipsed by the pig-​nurture provided by their human producers. (Gell 1999, 44; original italics) These cross-​sex unmediated exchanges produce objects (pigs) that are then the exchange mediators in single-​sex exchanges (male donor giving a pig to a male recipient) (Figure 2.7), and this mediated exchange produces relations. Gell states that:

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26  Carl Knappett

Figure 2.5 Diagram indicating how a piglet is the objectification of the boar-​sow relation. After Gell 1999, 42.

Figure 2.6 Diagram in which piglet now objectifies exchange of domestic services between man and wife. After Gell 1999, 46.

the relationship-​producing exchange has to be logically distinguished from the object-​producing exchange… (Gell 1999, 47) Strathern describes the relations brought into being through single-​sex mediated exchange as replicated (rather than substituted). And there is no

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Relational concepts and network analysis 27

Cross-sex, unmediated

Pig

Donor Recipient Boar

Sow

Husband

Wife

Single-sex, mediated

Figure 2.7 Diagram showing further objectification of pig in mediated exchange relation. Previous relations are eclipsed. After Gell 1999, 47.

limit to this replication. The same pig can go on being exchanged, as in the graph here in Figure 2.8 (Gell 1999, 48): Except, Gell says, all relations objectified by a single pig should them­ selves be related  –​so there should somehow be a link between the A-​B relation and the B-​C relation. So Gell produces another graph (Gell 1999, 49) which he thinks better expresses these relations –​especially the eclipsing of prior relations in each subsequent exchange (Figure 2.9). D, the donor, in his person, encompasses all the prior donor-​recipient relations which the pig has objectified. It is these he hands over when he gives the pig to E (thereby replicating the existing relations). D in this figure displays a fractal structure (because of the rule of eclipsing which decrees hierarchical relations). An intriguing set of ideas are in play here. And we can look at them through the model seen in Brandes et al. 2013 (see also Collar et al. 2015) –​such that every network perspective tackles a phenomenon under study first through a process of abstraction, and then a process of representation (Figure 2.10). We can see here that Strathern (as interpreted by Gell) introduces a few key abstractions: 1 Terms and appearances 2 Hierarchy 3 Eclipsing

28

Figure 2.8 Replication of mediated exchange relations. After Gell 1999, 48.

Figure 2.9 Graph showing the nesting of eclipsed exchange relations. After Gell 1999, 49.

Figure 2.10 A network model –​from phenomenon, to abstraction, to representation. After Brandes et al. 2013.

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Relational concepts and network analysis 29 Strathern may not go on to make network representations, but Gell takes this step for her. However, he has his own idiosyncratic diagrams, which resemble networks, but differ in some respects. Perhaps the most awkward in terms of ‘translating’ into network analysis is his use of a node to represent a link –​so rather than just draw a link between two terms, he has two links connecting to an intervening node (see previous graphs). Another difference lies in how the various nodes are related. In network analysis one might typically use two-​mode (bipartite) networks when seeking to link up two different kinds of entities such as, in this case, people and pigs. In a bipartite network, then, people would only link to one another via pigs. But in Gell’s scheme, persons link to one another, and pigs link to ‘relations’ (which are nodes). I have not tried to unpick these complexities to depict what Gell shows in more classic network terms –​though in this volume the chapter by Aline Deicke shows how one might go about translating some aspects of these relations into net­ work terms. Deicke suggests that attributing features to either nodes or their links could help, though the decision as to which attribute or value to assign would largely depend on the research question (and perhaps we would need to be clearer in this case quite what questions we might have about the relations manifested in pig exchange). Nevertheless, the point I wish to make is this: while the Strathern/​Gell scheme could benefit from the tools of SNA, is it not also the case that this ethnographic ‘model’ refracts network issues back onto SNA, obliging those using network models to think twice about the abstractions used? Is the Melanesian ontology presented here compat­ ible with a network ontology?

A Classical ontology? Pig exchange is a face-​to-​face transaction mediated by an object. In the Melanesian case it is not entirely straightforward separating those involved into networkable entities. If we turn from ethnography to archaeology, it can be much more difficult reckoning with the ontologies associated with such social interactions. Nevertheless, ideas of the dividual or partible person have been taken from ethnography and applied to past societies, not least by those studying European prehistory (e.g. Brück 2001; Fowler 2004). Faced with evidence indicating that models of modern Western ‘individual’ personhood may not be a good fit, the search for other models from anthro­ pology is understandable –​even if the identification of past ontologies may severely stretch the limits of prehistoric evidence. However, there do exist past societies for which we have an abundance of both textual and artefac­ tual evidence, and which therefore might allow for a readier identification of ontologies. Those of Greece in the first millennium BC come to mind though, as James Whitley has pointed out (Whitley 2013), such societies have rarely been included in discussions of dividual personhood, perhaps because they are typically seen as ancestral to Western society (and by default, the ‘indi­ vidual’). Whitley goes on to argue that there is, in fact, plenty of evidence to

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30  Carl Knappett suggest, not least in Homer, that distributed personhood may actually have been a significant component of ancient Greek ontologies. We can use an example provided by Whitley to show how Homeric transactions may also have involved a strong degree of inalienability. He cites the Iliad and its description of the boar’s tusk helmet that ‘was given to Odysseus by Meriones, who was given it by Molos, who was given it by Amphidamas, who in turn was given it by Autolykos, who took it from Amyntor’ (Whitley 2013, 400). Although we do not have much detail here on the nature of the gift transactions themselves –​and whether we might compare them to the face-​to-​face transactions of Melanesian pig exchange –​ it does appear that some previous memory of prior exchanges would surely have been encapsulated in any further exchange. In other words, the giving of the helmet to Odysseus by Meriones could hardly have ignored the iden­ tity of its previous owners. Hence object biography becomes an intrinsic part of personhood, given that in wearing this helmet Odysseus, for example, would have been participating in the success of its prior ‘occupants’. Thus, when the donor gives part of himself in a transaction, and that part is encapsulated in the given object, much as has been suggested for Melanesian pig exchange too, then it renders attempts to separate people and things, as for the purposes of network analysis, quite problematic. Whitley develops his model of an entangled ontology for the Iron Age, i.e. the age of Homer. He cites Brook Holmes (2010) to suggest that ‘clas­ sical conceptions of the body (consistent with a notion of the individual closer to our own) emerge only after 500 BC’ (Whitley 2013, 410). But can we really say that conceptions of the person switch from dividual to individual from the start of the fifth century BC? Recent work on the objects involved in face-​ to-​ face social interactions during this century suggests otherwise. Milette Gaifman (2018) shows how the phiale, a kind of handleless bowl with an ‘omphalos’ (an indentation on the underside into which one could insert one’s thumb, much like the voleur on a wine bottle), was quite closely connected to the body. Its lack of handles made it difficult to transfer from one person to another, and its size and design meant that it could be held snugly in the hand, much like a glove. So closely tied to an individual body, almost like a prosthesis, the giving of a phiale was a significant act. These objects were the libation vessels par excellence, used in ceremonial offerings from mortal to deity. They may also have been used in a face-​to-​face interaction between two worshippers jointly making an offering to a god, as shown on a fifth-​century red figure amphora (Gaifman 2018, pl. 9). Phialai were often given as dedications in sanctuaries (Gaifman 2018, 454), which is perhaps an ideal example of a donor giving part of him-​or herself. One difference between this example and those provided earlier is that the phiale was presumably not then fur­ ther entangled by being offered on further occasions as a gift (i.e. it did not acquire a biography). One must imagine that the same was true of those phialai offered as gifts to the dead.

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Relational concepts and network analysis 31 The particular closeness of the physical connection between phiale and dedicator, and the ways in which its affordances limit the way it can be handled, are seen by Gaifman as quite relevant to the phiale’s status as a gift to the gods (Gaifman 2018, 456). The lack of any kind of appendage that helps mediate between the object and the world is quite striking, and Gaifman contrasts the phiale with the kylix which, with its two prom­ inent handles, positively invites not only handling but also transfer. These features were significant in the setting of the symposium, where it helped to channel other kinds of face-​to-​face interaction. With its handles promising transfer, the kylix was a different kind of artefact, much less personal than the phiale. From a broader, philosophical perspective, it appears that embodiment and experience may have been much more integral to material aesthetics in ancient Greece than has commonly been recognized (Porter 2010; Gaifman and Platt 2018). Although the separation of matter and form in Platonic dualism has come to dominate our modern approaches to Classical art, Porter argues that if we examine pre-​Socratic thinking more closely we can reveal an ontology that placed embodiment at the heart of aesthetic experi­ ence. Thus, the kind of embodied understanding of the phiale that Gaifman lays out would in all likelihood be entirely relevant to a whole series of social interactions with artefacts (and the aesthetic experience thereof) at their centre. With a wider ontology or aesthetic, one would expect individual objects to participate in a constellation of meaning (see Mills 2016). Aesthetically, an individual phiale, for example, would have found iconographic connection with a number of other artefacts. Gaifman and Platt show us a female figure that is part of the handle of a mid-​fifth century bronze water-​jar (2018, pl. 1). While initially their aim is to demonstrate why one should consider this figure ‘in action’, as the water-​jar (hydria) was in use, they then go on to consider some of her iconographic connections: her dis­ tinctive peplos garment finds close comparison with the peploi worn by two females figures on the east pediment on the Temple of Zeus at Olympia (Gaifman and Platt 2018, pl. 6). The scale of these figures is very different, as is their material (bronze vs marble), and yet they can be connected. They can be further linked to the wider phenomenon of depictions of young maidens, or korai, that were often both performers of dedications as well as dedicatory markers themselves (Gaifman and Platt 2018, 412). Such icono­ graphic entanglements can propagate almost endlessly, especially when ancient artists ‘employ iconographic schemata across media and contexts’ (Gaifman and Platt 2018, 413). But how are we to view such entanglements, in the light of our earlier discussion concerning the inalienability of the gift, and the notion that the donor transfers a part of him or herself in gift-​giving? Does an object also ‘give’ a part of itself in these inter-​artefact connections? Can we really see these as interactions, or do artefacts also ‘intra-​act’?

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32  Carl Knappett

Gothic ontology and sympathy among things To address this question, we might usefully shift our perspective again to a third ‘ontology’  –​the ‘Gothic’ ontology described by architect Lars Spuybroek who, in his fascinating book The Sympathy of Things, argues that things reach out to each other (Spuybroek 2016). They feel for one another. For example, a table invites the placing of a glass. It reaches out and invites the glass to be placed. Similarly, the glass in turn reaches out to a human hand and invites grasping. Spuybroek is quite concerned with the process of design and argues that design should embody sensitivity to this capacity for things to be in sympathy. Spuybroek suggests that Gothic architecture in particular possessed various principles that allowed this sym­ pathy to emerge. However, he does not intend to limit such a sensibility to a particular moment in history; his argument is that a ‘Gothic ontology’ can be amodern, and he wishes particularly for digital design to be freed of its modernist tendencies and its Gothic wildness to be liberated. Spuybroek’s treatment of the Gothic has many facets to which I  cannot possibly do justice here. One aspect I would like to pick out, however, is his use of the term ‘entanglement theory’ to convey some sense of the way in which things come to be bound together. He is quick to stress that his view of entangle­ ment is quite different from that of others who have tried to characterize the aggregation of things. For example, he critiques Manuel DeLanda’s assemblage theory for its basis in Deleuze’s notion of ‘relations of exter­ iority’  –​to take the example of the glass and the table above, the glass and the table are exterior to one another because the table could hold any­ thing and the glass could be placed anywhere (Spuybroek 2016, 211). He is also critical of Latour’s use of entanglement thinking as he feels that actor-​ networks are similarly based on relations of exteriority (Spuybroek 2016, 244–​255). Spuybroek’s criticism of Latour is similar to the critique levelled by Ingold (2008); and we might note that Spuybroek is explicit in his appre­ ciation of Ingold, especially his book ‘Lines’ (Spuybroek 2016, p.  215, fn 19; Ingold 2007). However, this characterization of Latour is not quite the whole picture; it has been argued that Latour’s philosophy has two sides to it: as much as Ingold (and Spuybroek) may criticize it for being too realist (i.e. pre-​defining objects, which then enter into relations), others, such as Harman (see Latour et  al. 2011), have argued that Latour is excessively relational in his philosophy (Fowler and Harris 2015, 129). Finally, a third version of entanglement thinking, though it is not cited by Spuybroek, is the entanglement theory of Ian Hodder (Hodder 2012; Hodder and Mol 2016). Nonetheless, with its apparent exteriorisation of terms, it seems likely that Spuybroek would level the same criticisms here too. Spuybroek challenges this notion of exteriority by maintaining that the glass and the table share flatness: the glass has internalized the table, so to speak, and the table the glass. They are already in relation before the glass is put on the table. But the table does not reach out only to the glass. It has

 33

Relational concepts and network analysis 33 what Spuybroek calls a kind of generosity –​indeed, any object ‘spills out many invisible abstractions that can only be met by the feelings of others’ (Spuybroek 2016, 244). Another example he gives is that of a high bridge and the initially unexpected activity of bungee jumping that it offers. It has this ‘gift’, but it has to be recognized as such. As Spuybroek bases some of his thinking here on Mauss’s idea of prestation, one might well think back to our earlier discussion of Strathern’s The Gender of the Gift. At the very least, it would appear that Spuybroek’s Gothic ontology and notion of entanglement has something in common with Strathern’s depiction of a Melanesian dividual ontology. How then to diagram such relations? If one believes that objects are not already in relationship before they interact, then one can maintain the prin­ ciple of their exteriority. This being so, one might then go ahead and connect them up as in a network. This is what one might do, also, returning to the pig exchange, believing that the pig in the exchange transaction was alien­ able. If, however, one argues that the donor gives a part of himself in giving, or indeed that the glass and the table are already internalizing one another before contact, then how is one to separate them as distinct nodes connected by a link? Just as Gell struggled with diagramming the Strathernian pig exchange, so Spuybroek struggles with the diagramming of relations of interiority. He first recognizes that if we are to diagram an ‘interior scene’ of felt relations, then we cannot specify nodes. Rather than represent the glass and the table as nodes, he talks of each having a ‘zone’. The zone of the glass might already incorporate the table. Nonetheless, to depict the entangle­ ment, he suggests: we can draw a line from the glass zone  –​a zone that would have to be drawn as dashed, since we are leaving out the representation of objects –​into the table zone, loop it back and let the line tie into the glass zone again, entwining with other lines, and then project out and loop back again. (Spuybroek 2016, 246) It does seem that in Spuybroek’s eyes his Gothic ontology is simply not amenable to depiction in network terms. Evidently, creating a systematic visualization of how he conceives of the sympathy of things is not of prime concern in his project –​it is rather a topic he muses on in passing. But it is clear that his conception of entanglement does not allow for a clear sep­ aration of things as nodes connected by relations of exteriority; in this his vision seems very similar to Strathern’s. How, though, does Spuybroek’s conception of entanglement relate to that employed by Gaifman and Platt? He seems to be concerned with the intra-​ actions between things that may come into functional association in some way, such as glasses and tables. What of iconographic associations though, as those detailed by Gaifman and Platt? Do the peploi of the marble statues and the

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34  Carl Knappett hydria interact or intra-​act? Are they one and the same? Or is it the bronze vessel and the statues that are already in sympathy and ‘intra-​acting’? A fur­ ther aspect of Spuybroek’s vision that may not be immediately compatible with the other approaches we have touched on here is that his intra-​actions seem to be rather asocial –​the glass may reach out to the human hand, as may the phiale (though the kylix reaches out more), but it is as if there is just one person involved. Where is the social interaction within which artefacts often operate, the exchanges, the transactions? The same may be said for his ‘intra-​action’ between table and glass –​is the sympathy they have for each other independent of the human relations that may be implicated in the conjoined, social pla­ cing of glasses on tables (in a symposium, let’s say)? In highlighting the sym­ pathy among things, we ought not to lose sight of the human transactions that accompany them. Nevertheless, we can maintain that with a whole series of ‘interior’ relations among humans and things, the difficulty of networking such connections is still entirely salient.

Conclusions My argument in this chapter is that network analysis does not have an adequate set of models for addressing the micro-​ scale of face-​ to-​ face interactions. This limitation is in part because of a lack of consideration of the active role of artefacts in mediating such interactions. But an even more serious problem is the failure to take seriously the notion of ‘intra-​action’, which is to say that in certain ontologies, such as those outlined here (and which may in fact be quite widespread), person and thing blur to the extent that one cannot easily distinguish the two as separate ‘interacting’ entities. We have seen in the above that an emphasis on the embodied experience of a particular artefact can take us a long way towards understanding this ‘intra-​action’; as can an explicit focus on transactional practices, such as pig exchange. When the social practices within which intra-​actions take place are put aside, as seems to be the case in Spuybroek’s theory, we risk overlooking the importance of social transaction to object intra-​action (hence the ongoing significance of practice-​based approaches –​see van Oyen 2016; Mills 2017). The embodiments and transactions of the micro-​scale do provide some stimulating challenges to our efforts at developing a multi-​scalar network methodology (see Knappett 2011; Mills et  al. 2015). Indeed, we might want to consider how the wider entanglements that we have mentioned above start to have ramifications for networks beyond the micro-​scale. If the iconographic connections (see also Stewart 2007) that can serve to link different scales are themselves better characterized in some cases as ‘intra-​ actions’ rather than interactions, what does this then mean for our network analyses at regional and inter-​regional levels? Or is it principally local-​level phenomena that have the character of ‘intra-​actions’, while connections at a broader scale are interactions? Can we conceive of the micro-​scale as having a kind of contingency with these intra-​actions; but the macro-​scale as taking

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Relational concepts and network analysis 35 on a different character in terms of its relations? If we see ‘infrastructure’ (see Larkin 2013) as that which is created in the establishment of broader scale patterns, then surely this implies a kind of networking among entities that is regularized to some degree and which differs from the contingent intra-​actions of the micro-​scale (Knappett 2020)? How people and things relationally make one another has become an area of prime interest in the humanities. And if we look at some occurrences of quasi-​network abstractions in these domains –​such as ‘Strathernograms’, or Spuybroek’s zones of sympathy  –​we might regret that SNA concepts and methods are not more widely known. Yet, we might also reflect on how thinkers unfamiliar with SNA might nonetheless generate insights on the nature of human-​thing relations from which SNA might itself benefit. Indeed, more formal abstractions concerning the nature of human-​thing entanglements have seen much less progress than one would have thought. Therefore, these kinds of dialogues –​perhaps quite challenging and difficult –​can help us out of an impasse. Perhaps we can use cases such as the Strathernogram –​with its ideas of terms and appearances, hierarchy and nesting, and eclipsing –​to think more carefully about the abstractions we create prior to our representations in network data –​especially when it comes to trying to grasp the enmeshed, entangled, or assembled collectives of people and things.

Acknowledgments I would like to thank Lieve Donnellan for the invitation to take part in the session she organized on networks at the EAA meeting in Maastricht. She also kindly read a previous draft of this chapter and offered comments. Isabella Vesely redrew the figures from Gell’s paper. My sincere thanks also go to Aline Deicke for reading a draft and for engaging with the ideas offered here. Any errors or misunderstandings that remain are my own.

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36  Carl Knappett Fowler, C. (2004). The Archaeology of Personhood: An Anthropological Approach. London: Routledge. Fowler, C. and Harris, O.J.T. (2015). ‘Enduring relations:  Exploring a paradox of new materialism’, Journal of Material Culture 20(2), 127–​148. https://​doi.org/​ 10.1177/​1359183515577176 Gaifman, M. (2018). ‘The Greek libation bowl as embodied object’, Art History 41(3), 444–​465. https://​doi.org/​10.1111/​1467–​8365.12383 Gaifman, M. and Platt, V. (2018). ‘From Grecian urn to embodied object’, Art History 41(3), 402–​419. https://​doi.org/​10.1111/​1467–​8365.12381 Gell, A. (1999). ‘Strathernograms, or, the semiotics of mixed metaphors’, in The Art of Anthropology. Essays and Diagrams. London: The Athlone Press, pp. 29–​75. Hamilakis, Y. and Jones, A.M. (2017). ‘Archaeology and assemblage’, Cambridge Archaeological Journal 27(1), 77–​ 84. https://​doi.org/​10.1017/​S095977431 6000688 Hodder, I. (2012). Entangled: An Archaeology of the Relationships between Humans and Things. Malden, MA: Wiley-​Blackwell. Hodder, I. and Mol, A. (2016). ‘Network analysis and entanglement’, Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 23(4), 1066–​1094. https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​ s10816-​015-​9259-​6 Holmes, B. (2010). The Symptom and the Subject: The Emergence of the Physical Body in Ancient Greece. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Ingold, T. (2007). Lines: A Brief History. London: Routledge. Ingold, T. (2008). ‘When ANT meets SPIDER:  social theory for arthropods’, in Knappett, C. and Malafouris, L. (eds.), Material Agency:  Towards a Non-​ Anthropocentric Approach. New York: Springer, 209–​215. Ingold, T. (2017). ‘On human correspondence’, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute (N.S.) 23, 9–​27. Knappett, C. (2011). An Archaeology of Interaction:  Network Perspectives on Material Culture and Society. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Knappett, C. (2016). ‘Networks in archaeology:  Between scientific method and humanistic metaphor’, in Brughmans, T., Collar, A. and Coward, F. (eds.), The Connected Past: People, Networks and Complexity in Archaeology and History. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 21–​33. Knappett, C. (2018). ‘From network connectivity to human mobility:  models for Minoanization’, Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 25, 974–​995, https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​s10816-​018-​9396-​9 Knappett, C. (2020). Aegean Bronze Age Art: Meaning in the Making. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Larkin, B. (2013). ‘The politics and poetics of infrastructure’, Annual Review of Anthropology 42, 327–​ 343. https://​doi.org/​10.1146/​annurev-​anthro-092412-​​ 155522 Latour, B., Harman G. and Erdélyi, P. (2011). The Prince and the Wolf: Latour and Harman at the LSE. Winchester: Zero Books. Mills, B.J. (2016). ‘Communities of consumption:  Cuisines as networks of situated practice’, in A.P. Roddick and A.B. Stahl (eds.), Knowledge in Motion, Constellations of Learning Across Time and Place. Amerind Studies in Anthropology (SAA-​Amerind Series). Tucson, AZ:  University of Arizona Press, pp.248–​70.

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Relational concepts and network analysis 37 Mills, B.J. (2017). ‘Social network analysis in archaeology’, Annual Review of Anthropology 46, 379–​ 397. https://​doi.org/​10.1146/​annurev-​anthro-​102116041423 Mills, B.J., Peeples, M.A., Haas, W.R. Jr., Borck, L., Clark, J.J. and Roberts, J.M. Jr. (2015). ‘Multiscalar perspectives on social networks in the Prehispanic Southwest’, American Antiquity 80(1), 3–​24. https://​doi.org/​10.7183/​0002-​7316.79.4.3 Östborn, P. and Gerding, H. (2014). ‘Network analysis of archaeological data:  A systemic approach’, Journal of Archaeological Science, 46, 75–​88. https://​doi.org/​ 10.1016/​j.jas.2014.03.015 Pailes, M. (2014). ‘Social network analysis of Early Classic Hohokam corporate group inequality’, American Antiquity, 79(3), 465–​486. https://​doi.org/​10.7183/​ 0002-​7316.79.3.465 Peeples, M. (2018). Connected Communities: Social Networks, Identity, and Social Change in the Ancient Cibola World. Tucson, AZ: University of Arizona Press. Porter, J. (2010). The Origins of Aesthetics Thought in Ancient Greece:  Matter, Sensation, and Experience. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rivers, R. (2016). ‘Can archaeological models always fulfill our prejudices?’, in Brughmans, T., Collar, A. and Coward, F. (eds.), The Connected Past: Challenges to Network Studies in Archaeology and History. Oxford:  Oxford University Press, pp. 123–​147. Spuybroek, L. (2016). The Sympathy of Things: Ruskin and the Ecology of Design. 2nd edition. London: Bloomsbury. Stewart, P. (2007). ‘Gell’s idols and Roman cult’, in Osborne, R. and Tanner, J. (eds.), Art’s Agency and Art History. Oxford: Blackwell, pp. 158–​178. Strathern, M. (1988). The Gender of the Gift: Problems with Women and Problems with Society in Melanesia. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Van Oyen, A. (2016). ‘Historicising material agency:  From relations to relational constellations’, Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 23, 354–​ 378. https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​s10816-​015-​9244-​0 Wagner, R. (1978). Lethal Speech:  Daribi Myth as Symbolic Obviation. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Whitley, J. (2013). ‘Homer’s entangled objects:  Narrative, agency and personhood in and out of Iron Age texts’, Cambridge Archaeological Journal 23(3), 395–​416. https://​doi.org/​10.1017/​S095977431300053X

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3  Entangled identities Processes of status construction in late Urnfield burials Aline J.E. Deicke

Introduction Over the last decade, the use of network analysis in the context of arch­ aeological studies has become increasingly widespread. Undoubtedly, the method offers fascinating views of the archaeological record from a distinctively relational perspective, allowing the conceptualization and study of social interactions that underlie the material record as it remains today. Yet, fundamental challenges remain:  in the absence of a written record, the complexity of past social praxis is not easily grasped, much less translated into the abstracted models network analysis requires (Brandes et al. 2013, 3–​6), and oftentimes, this process is accompanied by a loss of secondary and tertiary information contained in the studied objects. This chapter discusses how models such as the Melanesian ontology developed by Marylin Strathern (1988) and the Strathernograms developed by Alfred Gell (1999) can help to conceptualize one example of such entangled relations, namely the processes of elite identity construction and negotiation during the last period of the Middle European Bronze Age. Subsequently, it offers three suggestions as to how to incorporate these additional layers of information into network abstractions, and details their advantages and shortcomings. First, however, a short overview of the case study is given, which deals with elite burials of the late Urnfield Period.1

Bronze Age elites at the dawn of the Iron Age The late Urnfield culture (Ha B3) The late Urnfield culture or Ha2 B3 describes an aggregation of regional groups that share certain traits of material culture and customs, i.e. cre­ mation burial in urns, and are often defined by a unique range of local pottery. While subject to variation depending on the research perspective,

 39

Entangled identities 39

Figure 3.1 Elite graves analyzed in the case study. Their distribution maps out the approximate area of the Urnfield Culture in the phase Ha B3.

the term usually is used to include the Rhenish-​Swiss group (RSFO.  –​ Mordant 2013, 574 fig.  32.1C; 575; Sperber 1987, 23–​160; Sperber 2017, 122–​125) including the regions of Eastern France –​especially the Rhône valley  –​, southern West Germany and Switzerland; in the South of today’s Germany the Lower-​Main-​Swabian group, the South-​Bavarian and the Franconian-​Palatine groups (Jockenhövel 2013, 731);3 and fur­ ther the Upper-​and Middle-​Danube Urnfield groups, which constitute the Eastern extent of the Urnfield Culture (Jiráň et al. 2013, 790; Sperber 2017, 131). To the North, it comes up to the area of the Knovíze group and parts of the Lusatian culture, after which the influence of the Nordic Circle begins to grow stronger (Jiráň et al. 2013, 790; Jockenhövel 2013, 731). In short, the Urnfield culture can be found in a region ranging from Eastern France to the entrance of the Carpathian Basin and from the Alps to the South of Central Germany (Figure 3.1). This location in the heart of the European continent manifests itself in an active exchange with its neighbouring cultures as well as the adoption of influences from further away due to several trade routes, mainly the Danube, crossing this territory. In absolute dates, Ha B3 is commonly attributed to the ninth century BCE. Its end is marked by the wagon grave of Wehringen, which already belongs to the very earliest horizon of the subsequent Hallstatt period, and which is dated between 789 and 769 BCE by its wooden components (Hennig 1995, 141–​143), as well as by a climatic decline which took place around 800 BCE

40

40  Aline J.E. Deicke and which led –​among others –​to the abandonment of the Alpine lakeside dwellings in Switzerland and Southern Germany.4 As the last period of the Middle European Bronze Age, the late Urnfield period was a time of conflict and developing change, as can be seen by the appearance of fortified hill-​top settlements (Abels 2002; Diemer 1995; Ostermeier 2012; Putz 2002), the influx of foreign influences, chief among them the so-​called ‘thraco-​cimmerian’ complex from the East (Metzner-​ Nebelsick 2002), and the increased occurrence of iron objects (Pleiner 2000, 25; Sperber 1999, 51; Wells 1983, 148). In the funeral culture, a switch in deposition practices takes place: instead of hoards and single finds –​espe­ cially from rivers and lakes  –​as usual in the middle Urnfield period, the custom of adding grave goods to funerals increases again. Especially elite burials containing bronze vessels, weapons, and –​reaching back to customs of the beginning of the Urnfield period –​wagon parts, appear now substan­ tially richer than in the previous phases (Clausing 2005, 107–​108; Kytlicová 1991, 85). Several authors have connected these phenomena with significant changes in social structure and praxis which presumably took place during this period and marked the beginning of a transition process that eventu­ ally led to the Iron Age (Clausing 2005, 3; Jockenhövel 1974, 47; Kytlicová 1991, 85). Especially the renewed interest in graves has been interpreted as a change from group-​oriented to individualized deposition practices as put forth by Colin Renfrew (1974), or from a corporate to a network strategy according to dual-​processual theory as developed by Richard Blanton et al. (1996; Clausing 1999, 394, 396, 410). Regardless of its reasons, this change allowed for increased possibilities of status representation:  the resulting rich inventories present a materialization of the identities leading figures constructed for themselves in these turbulent times. Even if, as intentional depositions, burials are naturally subjective and biased sources of informa­ tion (Härke 1994), they allow a glance at the reactions of the elite to these changes and the way they employed old traditions and new innovations to re-​negotiate and consolidate their positions of power in the face of shifting circumstances. These processes become especially apparent in the highly variable nature of these graves. Contrary to the standardized assemblages of the subsequent Hallstatt period (Clausing 2005, 139–​140; Gerdsen 1986), a typical set of grave goods seems to not have existed, and especially the richest of graves –​while of course also containing many of the same types –​ stand out through their individual combinations of unusual objects. One of these burials is grave C of Künzing, Lkr. Deggendorf, in Lower Bavaria (Figure 3.2 – Deicke 2011, 71–​84, 156–​158, pl. 7–​9, A), which shall serve as an example in this article. Though not among the very top of late Urnfield funeral assemblages, the grave is characterized by a number of unusual objects that set it apart from traditional funeral assemblages. They suggest an extraordinary role of the deceased within the community of prehistoric Künzing, even in the face of at least four other exceptional

 41

Figure 3.2 Metal finds from grave C of Künzing, Lkr. Deggendorf, Lower Bavaria (Deicke 2011, pl. 7–​8). Scale 1:2.

42

42  Aline J.E. Deicke late Urnfield burials from this site, two of which contain parts of cere­ monial wagons (Deicke 2011). Next to some smaller finds which shall not be discussed in this context, the grave produced a bronze vessel (Figure 3.2, 3.9), most probably intended to ladle drink from a bigger container, a small part of a sword blade (Figure 3.2, 11), and a large iron spearhead decorated with bronze inlays (Figure 3. 2, 10). The presence of these items in the grave imply far-​reaching contacts as well as technological advancements of the Künzing community, yet first the term ‘elite identity’ and its articulation in funerary rites as understood in this study shall be examined further. Elite identity in Late Urnfield graves Many authors have written about identity in archaeology. Already at the beginning of the 1970s, Arthur A.  Saxe (1970, 5–​7) proposed that ‘every individual possesses a number of social identities’ and that ‘any occasion demands selection of several compatible social identities’. Death, in his opinion, stands as the ultimate occasion that calls for an especially com­ prehensive and thorough selection of these identities, as burial rites embody an interaction with the social group of the deceased as a whole, and there­ fore an interaction between many different subsets of these identities (Saxe 1970, 6). In a similar vein but more recently, Margarita Diáz-​Andreu and Sam Lucy have seen identities as ‘hybrid or multiple’ and the intersection between different identities as one of the most interesting aspects of this field of study (Diáz-​Andreu et al. 2005, 2). When applying these ideas to studies of prehistoric elites, a look at the progress made by sociologists in the field of elite theory proves useful.5 Despite the focus on modern, capitalistic societies, several authors follow similar lines of thoughts as marked out by Saxe and Diáz-​Andreu et  al., such as Suzanne Keller, who herself connects her strategic elites to ‘the first organized human societies, all of which had their leading minorities of priests, elders, warrior kings, or legendary sages and heroes’. Her concept emphasizes the different roles members of the elite can play in the different arenas of a society; importance in one social circle does not necessarily imply importance in others. In her theory, elites are mainly defined by the influence they have on society due to their specific role in one of its subsystems (Keller 1991, esp. 30, 32–​33). Transferring these ideas onto the Bronze Age, elite identity does not stand as a monolithic concept, but as one of many intersecting identities making up a person. These identities are thought to be multi-​faceted themselves, i.e. consisting of a combination of aspects such as military or judiciary power. Additionally they are based on a broad definition of ‘elite’, including all individuals that can be assumed to have increased influence on the society they’re embedded in, no matter in which role and to which degree. This allows for a concept of elites that incorporates the horizontal structuring of a community, for example by religious next to military leaders; further,

 43

Entangled identities 43

Figure 3.3 Simplified example of intersecting identities comprising the elite status of an individual.

for the inclusion of elites of a ‘second order’ or less wealthy graves, to be able to grasp regional variability, to counter problems of preservation and fragmentary tradition, and to paint a more thorough picture of elite com­ petition and interaction. In addition, widening the net of data collection by using a broader definition results in a more comprehensive dataset on which analyses can be conducted, and against which exceptional phenomena stand out more clearly. A rather simplified example to illustrate this concept of elite identities is visualized in Figure 3.3: in this example, the elite status of a person stems from the fact that they are a warrior and far-​travelled. Yet, it has to be assumed that other types of identities, for example those connected to familiar relations or affiliations (Härke 1994, 37; Hofmann 2013, 278–​279) as presented here, or to gender (Diáz-​Andreu et al. 2005, 37–​41), age (Diáz-​ Andreu et al. 2005, 63–​65) or their position in the religious or spiritual life of the community,6 also played an important role, not only in life but also in the presentation of those identities in burial. As such they might superim­ pose or obscure those aspects of the funeral expression associated with elite status to the eyes of today’s archaeologists. In these contexts, the assignation of meaning to objects –​namely the definition of objects as status markers  –​has to be seen as a relational process between different actors. The processes of creation, negotiation and consolidation of the collective identity or identities of late Urnfield elites are understood to be realized, on the one hand, in the complex interplay between members of this group as well as between them and the members of the communities they lived in; and on the other hand, in

44

44  Aline J.E. Deicke the interplay between the different collective and personal identities of singular actors. These entanglements are reflected in the grave goods and features of elite burials, which are understood as the materialization of these relations. To translate these entanglements into a network model, the obvious solution seems to be a two-​mode network consisting of graves on the one hand, and object types that occur in these graves as well as features of the burial, such as tumuli or ditches, on the other hand. The bimodal graph structure enables the simultaneous study of graves and object types as well as their interconnection, but it also allows for a focus on one mode in particular (Breiger 1974), while it prevents the loss of information that reducing one of the modes to edges brings. In this context, it is important to note that in order to be able to create a network between geographically and culturally diverse grave assemblages, the second mode of nodes does not represent specific objects or their exact archaeological classification, but their general type, e.g. ‘sword’ or ‘bit’. Obviously, these processes of categorization imply some issues, e.g. the need to group each object into a single class, even those with multiple, unknown or uncertain assignations7 as exemplified by the fragments of unknown designation from grave C of Künzing (Figure 3.2, 2–​4), or the challenge of an appropriate level of granularity, especially in the case of composite objects like wagons or horse harnesses. While this network abstraction serves well to express the idea of objects as physical representations of aspects of elite identity in graves and the way they tie together, there are several points it cannot address. This becomes espe­ cially evident when contrasting the network model with a Strathernogram as proposed by Gell (1999, 36–​37). Strathernograms and funeral identity construction As Carl Knappett identifies (see Chapter  2 in this volume), the Strathernograms correspond to a graph-​like structure yet have very different heuristic potential. Despite the ethnographical use-​case for which the model was developed by Strathern (1988, see esp. 43–​49), and the very personal, observed exchange relations it aims to illustrate, it can also be adapted to portray interactions of a more symbolic nature such as the ones surrounding the preparation and execution of burials, especially with regard to processes of identity construction and negotiation. Some aspects, such as gendered relationships, might not apply to every subject studied, and indeed do not pertain to the case presented here; yet other concepts, as shown below, can add interesting perspectives and offer new insights into the themes under examination. Figure  3.4 shows one possible implementation of a Strathernogram applied to the case of elite burial and construction of funeral identities. In this instance, the two partners of the exchange are not ‘real’ separate

 45

Entangled identities 45

Figure 3.4 Strathernogram of a burial.

persons, but different facets of one individual, namely the social persona8 of the person while still inhabiting the realm of the living, which is transformed by the rites of burial into the selection of identity aspects that are chosen to make up the social persona of the deceased, i.e. the person in the realm of the dead. The agents actually performing the exchange in this case are much more obscured as in the model shown by Strathern and Gell, as it is entirely unknown who exactly and to what degree was responsible for burial preparations and actions in late Urnfield society. Common theories suggest that not the deceased themselves, but their descendants organized the burial; for one, certainly out of practical concerns, but also in order to consolidate their own status (Härke 1994, 32; Mordvintseva 2013, 258–​259). In add­ ition, despite the aforementioned tendencies towards experimentation and non-​standardized grave inventories, a very significant degree of communal practices and traditions that had to be adhered to have to be presumed, as is shown by –​among others –​the prevalence of weapon burials among the dataset.9 Following the model as embodied in the Strathernogram, this selection materializes in the realm of appearances in the form of specific objects, which –​on the level of terms –​encode the different aspects of the deceased’s identities chosen for their representation in death. Conceptualizing the processes of burial in this way also ties into the wider themes of interiority raised by Knappett and Spuybroek (see Chapter 2 in this volume) as well as the concept of partible persons put forth by Strathern (1988, 192–​207): as donor and recipient represent facets of the same individual, their relation contains not only a material object, but also parts of the person themselves that are ‘given’ to create their funeral identity. This basic transformative relation is also represented in the network model as described above. But as remarked by Knappett (see Chapter 2 in this volume), Strathern (1988, 155–​157) and Gell (1999, 40–​50) include add­ itional layers of complexity in their model by way of what they call nested or eclipsed relationships. In their example, the act of raising, or ‘producing’

46

46  Aline J.E. Deicke the pig that is being exchanged in the realm of appearances, is contained in, or eclipsed by the exchange relation with which the pig is gifted to its new owner. Much in the same vein, the act of ‘producing’ the connection of identity aspects with actual physical objects  –​imbuing them with specific meaning or meanings –​is eclipsed by the process of selecting those objects to comprise the social persona of the deceased. As objects derive their meaning from a multitude of interactions  –​some of which might have played out during the lifetime of the deceased, some might have taken place exclusively in the context of burial rites –​that accumulated in different aspects of their material form, grasping these interdependent relationships and their inter­ section of course precludes a deeper understanding of the processes hidden behind late Urnfield elite burials. To clarify, a couple of examples for such relationships shall be described below. A type of interaction that is of particular importance for the late Urnfield culture are cultural influences that can be gleaned from certain material characteristics of objects. As mentioned before, strong connections of exchange to other regions played a major part in the development and the articulation of elite identities during Ha B3. For example, new types of horse gear were influenced or came from the Carpathian Basin and even further, the north Pontic steppes and Ciscaucasia, contrasted by others that had a clear tradition in the area itself (Metzner-​Nebelsick 2002, 495–​ 496)10; in the same vein, bronze vessels exhibit multiple influences from Eastern France to the Nordic Circle to Italy or –​again –​the Carpathian Basin.11 In grave C of Künzing, the effect and combination of these processes is embodied in the ornamented iron spearhead (Figures 3.2 and 3.10). The round inlays at the base of the blade and its unusual size tie the weapon to a group of objects distributed over a wide region from the Caucasus to the Carpathian Basin and even Italy and Greece (Figure 3.5 –​Deicke 2011, 71–​ 75; Metzner-​Nebelsick 2002, 387; Stegmann-​Rajtár 1986, 214–​215; 218 note 39; pl. 5). Though not themselves elements of the Pontic-​Caucasian complex, in many finds, they are grouped with objects associated with such forms, which might hint at a distinctively Eastern origin. On the other hand, the appearance of the characteristic motif at the base of the blade as inlays and not as perforations suggest that the spearhead was locally produced and not imported. Additionally, the object carries a motif of triangles that also appears on a sword from another contemporaneous rich grave of the ceme­ tery and can presumably be seen as a local ornament (Figure 3.6 –​ Deicke 2011, 98–​99). As such, the spearhead embodies processes of exchange with foreign groups, but also their adaptation to regional customs as well as an articulation of affiliation to the local community. Other interactions are implied in the material of the spearhead. The reasons for the imminent transition from bronze to iron production, which would be take place through the beginning of the eight century BCE, are still under discussion and cannot be simply traced back to economical, logistical

 47

Entangled identities 47

Figure 3.5 Distribution of iron spearheads of the Urnfield and early Hallstatt period with (filled symbols) and without perforations (empty symbols). Triangles –​graves, circles –​hoards, squares –​settlement or single finds (Deicke 2011, 73; 150–​151).

or other reasons.12 As such, the role of iron objects in late Urnfield status representations remains unclear as well. At first glance, a tendency to manu­ facture larger weapons such as swords or the spearhead from grave C seems detectable, and experimentations with the new material seem to take place. Certainly, the presence of the iron spearhead in grave C seems to imply a certain tendency towards technological progressiveness, that in combination with its origin might hint at technological influences from the East; on the level of social interactions, maybe a greater degree of connection to iron-​ mining or iron-​processing groups or persons on the side of the deceased can be inferred. The inclusion of these facets of iron consumption into the net­ work could likely offer valuable insights. In Figure 3.7, simplified representations of these relations are added to the basic Strathernogram together with a military role embodied by the spearhead that the deceased presumably inhabited in their community. Now, the diagram specifically details the relations eclipsed by one facet of the donor-​recipient-​exchange as described, in this case the addition of the iron spearhead to the burial and therefore to the burial persona. On the one hand, this hierarchy stems from the fact that contemporary analysis can access these relations only through their representation in the grave. On the

48

Figure 3.6 Sword from grave F of Künzing, Lkr. Deggendorf, Lower Bavaria (Deicke 2011, pl. 14, 1). Scale 1:2.

 49

Entangled identities 49

Figure 3.7 Extended Strathernogram of the inclusion of the iron spearhead of grave C into the burial.

other hand, it also comes to pass because the intentional selection of grave goods can be assumed to have had the purpose of presenting the deceased in a certain light, and to create and reinforce an image that was most favorable to them as well as to their successors; as such the construction of identity as presented in death eclipses the presumably messier realities of the buried individual’s life that originally imbued the items with meaning. Concerning the hierarchical structure of the eclipsed relations among each other, it does not seem appropriate to nest them as displayed in Gell’s diagrams (1999, 49 fig. 1.16). As they concern different areas of the deceased’s living reality, assigning greater importance to one of them would have no basis in the archaeological record and impede an objective analysis of their entanglement. Still, some examples for late Urnfield equivalents of nested relations signi­ fying replication as proposed by Strathern (1988, 181–​182; 191–​224) could be envisioned and displayed as such in the diagram: one might be the praxis of gift-​giving as described by Homer (Iliad XXIII, 740–​750), where a krater is exchanged between members of the elite as a present, before Achilles offers it as a prize in the festivities around Patroklos’ burial,13 and derives increased meaning through these changes of possession. Among the burials of Ha B3, this practice might manifest in a vessel from the grave of Saint-​Romain-​de-​ Jalionas, Dép. Isère, Rhône-​Alpes, a situla of type Hajdúböszörmény, which usually dates to the preceding phase of Ha B1. In addition, the properties

50

50  Aline J.E. Deicke of the situla imply that it was a genuine import from the eastern part of the Carpathian Basin, where the origin of the form and the eponymous hoard are located (Gimbutas 1965, 152–​153). While the vessel could also have found its way to Eastern France by way of one or several trade exchanges, given its size and rich décor, there is also the possibility it could have been moving along a series of elite gift exchanges; either way it would most likely be fitting to model its path in a Strathernogram as nested relationships. Still, the true nature, number, and partners of the presumed exchange processes remains elusive. Also, the circumstances and characteristics of the vessel from Saint-​Romain-​de-​Jalionas are certainly unusually suited for such an analysis in comparison to other finds, and in most other cases this exercise would be highly speculative. Perhaps a more promising approach concerns replication not of one of the eclipsed relations but the primary act of exchange between the living and dead persona. Though at first glance, the chain of interactions seems to stop with the death of the participant(s) and the removal of the grave goods from the accessible communal realm, this relation can be seen as but one in a series of exchanges that make up the burial customs of community. In this sense, these relations are not related or replicated through the actual same object, but through the idea of the meaning of specific objects –​through the realm of terms, so to speak –​and through a replication of at least parts of the exchange process itself, whereas each interaction carries the ones before within. This replication of course applies not only to the immediate burial community of the deceased, but to all other groups they were a member of, in this case particularly the group of late Urnfield elites, and as such ties back into the processes of identity construction and consolidation analyzed in the case study. In conclusion, channelling the processes of abstraction and modelling described above through the paths laid out by Strathern and Gell uncovers a wealth of relations that can be conceptualized around the occasion of death, from the ‘main event’ of identity selection to construct a funeral per­ sona of the deceased over relations to a community or communities during their lifetime to the role of single burials in the development and evolution of burial customs and traditions. A visualization such as the Strathernogram can help us to grasp further details of these relations, forces us to look at the social processes behind the materiality of these objects, and allows us to make more informed decisions about how to transfer this complexity into our network models.

Translating aspects of identity into network models Taking a closer look at these intersecting and overlapping relationships from the perspectives of Strathern’s ontology and Gell’s visualizations thereof, the question remains how to reintroduce and incorporate these nested relations into the network model, or  –​as Knappett (Chapter  2 in this volume)

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Entangled identities 51 questions –​if this is even possible. Beyond theoretical concerns, this poses the very concrete problem of translating these mechanisms into appropriate formal approximations in the network model. Keeping in mind the types of hidden interactions discussed in detail above –​the different materials of object and the cultural influences affecting them –​, three possible solutions and their implications shall be discussed below. Attributes on nodes or ties One possibility is the attribution of certain features to nodes or edges. This method is widely used among sociologists specialising in qualitative net­ work analysis, especially in combinations with ego-​networks (Wasserman and Faust, 42–​43).14 Node attributes can give further information on agents involved in interactions, or on an object of exchange; tie attributes could serve to add the content of the interaction –​be it an actual physical thing or sym­ bolic meaning  –​, or the first level of nested relationships as detailed in the Strathernogram to the network. Particularly the qualification of links could also open up promising modes of interpretation, for example in the framework of balance theory (Heider 1946; Cartwright and Harary 1956; Wasserman and Faust 1994, 220–​222), where edges are assigned positive and negative values which determine the balance of the structures, mainly triads, formed by those links. While it seems slightly incongruous to evaluate past interactions in such a manner, the concept of structural stress or sta­ bility caused by the entanglement of different types of interactions fits well into themes such as elite consolidation and competition as described above. The exact kind of attribute to assign of course depends on the research question analysed. In the case of Ha B3 elite graves, properties of the specific objects connecting the nodes of grave and object type suggest themselves as edge attributes, such as their typological assignation or the decorative motifs on an item. To analyse the role of iron in late Urnfield status representation, for example, the material of specific artefacts can be attributed to the tie between the grave and the object type, as seen in the simplified network in Figure 3.8.15 Depending on the number and combinations of characteristics, a careful evaluation of values is necessary, unless a certain loss of infor­ mation is accepted. In the case of the simplified model shown here, the spearhead from grave C would either transform into a tie with the attribute ‘iron’, neglecting the bronze inlays decorating the find, or as ‘iron with bronze inlays’, in which case a wider range of values such as ‘bronze with iron inlays’, or ‘half bronze, half iron’, for every combination of materials occurring in the dataset, would have to be included. To further emphasize the distribution of one specific material, in this case iron, values of the percentage of iron items among the object type and the graves could be calculated and added as node attributes. As seen in Figure  3.8, this step leads to some conceptual challenges:  as only one

52

52  Aline J.E. Deicke

Figure 3.8 Simplified example of a two-​mode network of graves (squares) and object types (circles). Edge attributes: material of object creating the link; node attributes: number of node /​percentage of iron finds in the respective grave or among the object type.

type of material can be considered without over-​complicating the visual­ ization, objects made of other materials become invisible. While this seems less problematic for commonly used materials such as bronze, the erasure of other extraordinary phenomena like the golden item forming the tie between nodes 2 and 3 might skew the interpretation of the network in a more serious manner. Of course, depending on the research question, this effect might be of less consequence, for example if the respective study focuses explicitly on the adoption of iron and dismisses all other materials. Furthermore, in larger networks not as easily grasped visually as this one, object types that are associated with few items might be overrepresented over those contained in many graves and vice versa, even if technically, more iron items are contained in the latter than the former as seen with nodes 1 and 7. This effect could be alleviated by correlating this attribute with the degree of the node, yet again the choice of method has to be led by the aim of the study: if the spread of iron-​moulding technologies stands at the centre of interest, groups of few objects made entirely of iron could carry signifi­ cant meaning and shouldn’t be easily relegated into obscurity.

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Entangled identities 53 Beyond these considerations, the attribution of node or edge attributes entails several other disadvantages. As shown, they can only hold one value at a time, which makes a sophisticated analysis difficult and interpretation contingent on careful contextualization. Also, similar to the issues of categorization mentioned above, the con­ ceptual translation of social interactions onto attributes might prove chal­ lenging, and might very often result in nominal, non-​numerical variables, making formal analysis difficult. A  decidedly qualitative approach might work best in this context. Many sociologists of course use statistical methods to measure the effect of certain variables or combinations thereof on graph attributes such as the different notions of centrality, yet these approaches are usually already focused on the explanation of network effects rather than on the basic steps of abstracting phenomena into a network model.16 This leads us to the most crucial disadvantage of this method. By storing interactions as variables, the focus on relations that makes networks so suit­ able for the study of social processes is negated for this particular relation­ ship; the resulting network model is not concentrated on the entanglement of interactions, and instead inevitably prioritizes certain aspects, namely those modelled as ties. Due to these issues, interactions such as the second type mentioned above –​the processes of cultural influence on the material culture of Urnfield graves –​can hardly be integrated into a network model purely by means of attributes. Complementary networks Instead, a more promising solution might be the creation of additional networks to explore complementary relations in greater detail. This method makes it possible to account for multi-​layered relationships between entities without putting undue emphasis on just one type of tie. Combining the ana­ lyses of several graphs during interpretation draws a more thorough picture than the first method discussed while preserving the relational aspect of the network metaphor. In the case of exchange relations, two networks of cultural influences on graves17 and cultural influences on object types can be used to complement the basic grave-​object type-​network. While on the one hand, these graphs supply additional information, they can also be compared themselves. In the case of Ha B3 graves, an analysis of two preliminary one-​mode-​projections18 focusing on regions as the dominant mode hint at cultural identity being tied to object types rather than individuals (Figure 3.9). This might suggest that exchange between peoples hinged less on the movement on people –​be it for the purpose of travel, migration, or other reasons –​but was mainly con­ tingent on trade relations between several different regions; an assumption supported by the observable correlation between rich graves and their loca­ tion near major trade routes, as is the case in Künzing as well (Deicke 2011,

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Figure 3.9 One-​mode projections of two two-​mode networks, focusing on the mode of cultural regions: network between regions and graves (left) and between regions and object types (right).

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Entangled identities 55 2). In the same vein, these perspectives might enable distinctions between burials whose inhabitants focused on trade or travel, yet this requires fur­ ther research on the basis of the complete dataset. Still, even these first tentative attempts at an analysis open up several questions that apply to many other possible models as well. If analysing different network models together, the comparability of particular nodes, modes and relations becomes even more important. Yet already in this com­ paratively simple example, careful allowances have to be made to ensure a thorough interpretation considerate of the particular specificities of graves, object types and cultural regions. While the first seems relatively straight­ forward, and issues with the second have been detailed above, the third raises again issues of categorization, mainly the deceptively simple question of how to define cultural regions in a way that ensures this very compar­ ability. As seen in the visualizations (Figure 3.8), in Ha B3 several regions with distinct material cultures can be identified, yet their association with specific finds is not always straight forward. While some properties of objects can be traced back to a single community, like the decorations of the spearhead and the sword mentioned above, others can only be linked with vast areas, like the so-​called ‘thraco-​cimmerian’ complex reaching from the north Pontic steppe belt to Ciscaucasia (Metzner-​Nebelsick 2002, 495). Yet in other cases, assignations have to remain even less concrete, such as the decorations of the spearhead, which due to the wide distribution of the object can only be identified as connected to the ‘East’. Relatedly, as Lieve Donnellan (2016a, 158) notes as well, it cannot always be determined with sufficient certainty where exactly particular types or decorations originated; also, as mentioned before, cultural influences manifest themselves in varying levels, from genuine imports to local productions loosely inspired by for­ eign traditions. To account for these factors, a combination of the first two methods could be applied, using tie attributes to express the degree of influence or the certainty of assignation on the edges of the complimentary networks. Still, many questions remain that have to be accounted for in the final interpretation of the material. In this context, there is also another kind of tie attribute not mentioned above that belongs to the basic building blocks of network analysis, yet traditionally, has been challenging to incorporate into archaeological, espe­ cially prehistoric, networks: direction. One possibility that comes to mind is to trace the direction of cultural influences in such networks as described here. Including such a directionality and thus creating a directed graph would allow for a whole new set of analytic possibilities. Yet the use case as described here might not be wholly suited to a network model including this property, as directionality is most useful when examining reciprocity, for which the database would have to be extended to include burials of the regions in question as well. Also, on a conceptual level, very often the complex workings of diffusion and trade cannot be reduced to a mere ‘dir­ ection’ of an exchange but rely on the combination of many factors and

56

56  Aline J.E. Deicke regions. Still, future studies and network abstractions could open up pre­ viously unthought ideas; where at all possible, the inclusion of direction should certainly prove rewarding. To conclude, while the method of complementary networks certainly gives more context than mere attributes and makes it possible to model multi-​layered relationships between entities, it comes with its own set of challenges; in addition, combining the results from the analysis of several disconnected graphs can prove challenging. Here arises another use for the Strathernograms, as models such as these can serve to conceptually tie those different views together. Multi-​modal networks Directly comparing several complementary two-​mode networks sharing at least one mode  –​even if in the form of projections  –​reminds of Martin G.  Everett and Stephen P.  Borgatti’s (2013) dual-​ projection approach, where they advocate for analysis using both projections to gain deeper understanding of a two-​mode network. Following this parallel reveals the next logical step in the case presented above: the combination of the three graphs –​region-​object type, region-​grave, and grave-​object type –​into one three-​mode network. The creation of such a multi-​modal network can sim­ plify the challenges of merging results, contextualisation and interpretation by providing one overarching visualization. On a general level, two alternative approaches exist in regard to the hier­ archies of the three-​mode network: the combination of three independent, equally ranked entities such as the ones outlined above; or the inclusion of additional levels of hierarchy, basically an ‘unfolding’ of a two-​mode network.19 The latter possibility could for example be used to display sev­ eral layers of nested relationships as modelled by Strathern and Gell. In a more traditionally archaeological context, it can provide a way to intro­ duce more detailed typological classifications beyond ‘object type’ into the graph, as shown in Figure 3.10 –​to not overcomplicate matters, merely for the connections between graves in regard to different types of swords and vessels instead of the all object types occurring in the dataset. While it cannot be determined with certainty, which social processes stand behind different typological expressions of object types, articulations of group identity or identities come to mind. On a level more tied to observ­ able facets of the archaeological record, they allow the study of the antipodes of identification with regional customs, or –​especially in case of Mörigen swords20 –​with Europe-​wide trends of overarching uniformity. Obviously, again there are conceptual issues regarding classification and its comparability: While swords are one type of object whose classification can be worked out in great detail, other finds offer decidedly less markers to sort out sophisticated typologies, for example axes or arrowheads. Many of the bronze vessels of Ha B3 resist an assignation to clearly delineated types

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Figure 3.10 Three-​mode network of graves (circles), object types (triangles), and the first layer of typological information corresponding to the objects connecting the first two modes (diamonds). For reasons of clarity, the object types are limited to swords and bronze vessels.

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58  Aline J.E. Deicke as well, due to their variable, oftentimes even unique nature, so that the first order displayed in the network above is of merely a functional quality. This inequality does not have to be a problem per se, as it allows for connecting different types of classification schemata, which depending on the peculi­ arities of certain object types might actually be more meaningful; yet of course, it complicates a consistent interpretation of the graphs. Again, even more detail can be brought into the visualisation with the help of attributes, for example on edges providing further typological information on subtypes and variants. More crucially, significant challenges also arise for formal analysis of multi-​modal graphs, as there are hardly any measures adapted to the case of multi-​modal networks, much less implemented in popular network analysis software.21 A  more detailed approach at network analysis would thus be rendered difficult and require substantial mathematical knowledge to adapt existing algorithms. Consequently, the method is mostly useful for a purely visual exploration of complex relationships or as contextualization of other networks.

Conclusion The analysis of social processes, especially of prehistoric ones accessible only through the remains of the archaeological record, by means of formal methods presents unique challenges to the practices of abstraction, model­ ling, and interpretation. Especially the subtleties of identity construction, negotiation and consolidation form one field of archaeological research that profits of a network-​analytical perspective, yet encompasses a com­ plexity that can be difficult to incorporate into graphs. Conceptionally, employing models such as Strathern’s and Gell’s that also focus on relations can help reflect on abstractions of this complexity, bring order to it, and come to adequate representations of these phenomena. In the specific case of intersecting aspects of identity, they tie together network representations and keep track of the overarching theme of the study. On the concrete level of formal analysis, network research offers a wide array of tools that might be beneficial, some of which have been outlined above. Of course, not all of these might be of help or should be applied in all cases, yet a certain degree of experimentation might assist in trying to grasp the complexities discussed. Still, in the face of the specific advantages and disadvantages of the solutions presented, the best approach seems to be a mixed-​method one depending on the requirements of the use-​case, as hinted at in the examples. Regardless of the exact methodology, careful and thorough contextualization and interpretation remain the basis to gaining a deeper understanding of the archaeological record from all kinds of quanti­ tative, formal analyses.

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Entangled identities 59

Notes 1 As the project itself is currently still underway, the analyses and visualizations used in this article to illustrate certain points are based on preliminary data. The complete data and final results will be published upon completion of the project. 2 The ‘Ha’ stands for ‘Hallstatt’, the eponymous find spot for the first phase of the Iron Age. This misleading nomination goes back to Paul Reinecke. When he published his seminal study of the chronology of the Bronze and Iron Age of Southern Germany, he saw Ha A and B as the first phases of the Hallstatt period –​ which now only contains Ha C and D –​because of the frequent appearances of early iron objects dated to these times (Reinecke 1911, 239–​240). 3 Alternatively, Lothar Sperber (1987, 161–​ 216; 2017, 129–​ 131) divides the material record of the region into his Upper-​Bavarian-​Salzburgian and North-​ Tyrolean groups. 4 In the interest of brevity, only a short selection of the many articles dealing with the causes and effects of climate change around this time shall be cited here, which can serve as a basis for further study: Beer and van Geel 2008; Bond et al. 2001; Gauthier and Hervé 2009; Smolla 1954. 5 Despite its first edition being written in the 1960s, Bottomore (1993) provides a good starting point into the field. For German-​speaking scholars, see Hartmann (2004). 6 For a more general overview of archaeology and religion, see Diáz-​Andreu et al. 2005, 110–​128. 7 For further thoughts on the inherently subjective nature of such classification processes, see Pollock and Bernbeck 2011. 8 To avoid confusion between separate aspects of identities and the combination of those aspects selected for the occasion of death, in this chapter, the term social persona as originally proposed by Binford (1971, 17) is used for the latter. 9 For a general overview of the numbers and the rise of weapon burials towards the end of the Urnfield period, see Clausing (2005, esp 107–​108.). 10 Examples of local types of horse gear include straight bar bits (Balkwill 1973, 427–​431; 437–​8) or bone cheek-​pieces (Hüttel 1981, 10–​13; 171–​172; pl. 47). 11 To name only one of many examples, small jugs as the one from grave C (Figure 3.2, 9) are most likely derived from vessels similar to one form Kereszteté (Patay 1990, 45; pl. 35, 67)  while in the Hallstatt period, the form becomes popular in Northern Italy, for example in grave 39 of Bologna, Benacci-​Caprara (Padovani 1970, 176 fig. 114, BCE. 39). At the same time, another small jug of the same type from grave F of Künzing shows a décor that hints at contacts to the regions of the Nordic Bronze Age (Deicke 2011, 100). 12 For example, while Sperber (1999, 48–​51) traces the increased use of iron back to problems with the supply of high-​quality copper, other authors point to the fact that the necessary technology and knowledge must have been known long before this point (Derrix 2003, 23–​25). 13 Also referenced by Renfrew and John F. Cherry in the context of their theory of peer politiy interaction (Renfrew 1986). 14 For a recent example of a qualitative study using qualified ties in ego-​networks, see Hennig and Federmann (2018). 15 All network visualizations generated with visone (http://​visone.info/​).

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60  Aline J.E. Deicke 16 For two examples, see the studies by Todd E. Malinick, David B. Tindall and Mario Diani (2013, 153–​154), where Pearson correlation coefficients are used to connect eight variables, one of them node indegree in a citation network, or Ji Ma and Simon DeDeo (2018, 297), who employ multiple regression analysis to detect the influence of nine variables on node degree. 17 Such a network model has been employed in several other studies dealing with archaeological network analysis, most notably by Lieve Donnellan (2016a, 156–​ 160; 2016b, 120–​123; 133–​148). 18 Again, it shall be stressed that the project is currently still under process and the data used to create the networks therefore preliminary and possibly incomplete. 19 These approaches correspond roughly to Thomas J.  Fararo’s and Patrick Doreian’s (1984, 171–​ 174) distinction of three-​ mode-​ networks expressing ‘action structures’ or ‘intergroup association’, although some conceptual differences remain due to the sociological nature of their study. 20 For an overview of the distribution of the different types of Mörigen swords, see Deicke 2011, 55 fig. 48. 21 Despite an early study by Fararo and Doreian (1984), three-​mode network analyses have remained few and far between (Bohman 2012, 278). For a fairly recent example, see Bohman’s (2012) analysis of a restricted three-​mode inter­ lock network based on the clustering of four-​cycles involving the three modes.

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Entangled identities 63 Putz, U. (2002). Archäologische Untersuchungen auf dem Bogenberg, Niederbayern I: Ausgrabungsschnitte und Funde. Regensburg: Universitätsverlag. Reinecke, P. (1911). ‘Gefässe der Frühhallstattzeit Süddeutschlands’, Die Alterthümer unserer heidnischen Vorzeit 5: pl. 44; 235–​247. Renfrew, C. (1974). ‘Beyond a subsistence economy: The evolution of social organ­ isation in prehistoric Europe’, in Moore, C.B. (ed.) Reconstructing Complex Societies: An Archaeological Colloquium. Baltimore, MD: Sawyer, pp. 69–​95. Renfrew, C. (1986). ‘Introduction: Peer polity interaction and socio-​political change’, in Renfrew, C. and Cherry, J.F. (eds.) Peer Polity Interaction and Socio-​Political Change. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 1–​18. Saxe, A.A. (1970). ‘Social dimensions of mortuary practices.’ PhD diss., University of Michigan. Smolla, G. (1954). ‘Der “Klimasturz” um 800 vor Chr. und seine Bedeutung für die Kulturentwicklung in Südwestdeutschland’, in Festschrift für Peter Goessler. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer Verlag, pp. 168–​186. Sperber, L. (1987). Untersuchungen zur Chronologie der Urnenfelderkultur im nördlichen Alpenvorland von der Schweiz bis Oberösterreich. Bonn: Habelt. Sperber, L. (1999). ‘Krisen der spätbronzezeitlichen Metallversorgung im westlichen Mitteleuropa: Von der Bronze zum Eisen’, in Kruse, P. (ed.) Götter und Helden der Bronzezeit: Europa im Zeitalter des Odysseus. Ostfildern: Hatje Cantz Verlag, pp.  48–​51. Sperber, L. (2017). Studien zur spätbronzezeitlichen Chronologie im westlichen Mitteleuropa und in Westeuropa. Mainz: Schnell & Steiner. Stegmann-​ Rajtár, S. (1986). ‘Neuerkenntnisse zum Grab 169 von Brno-​ Obřany (Mähren)’, in Török, L. (ed.) Hallstatt Kolloquium Veszprém 1984. Budapest: Archäologisches Institut UAW, pp. 211–​219. Strathern, M. (1988). The Gender of the Gift: Problems with Women and Problems with Society in Melanesia. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Wasserman, S. and Faust, K. (1994). Social Network Analysis:  Methods and Applications. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wells, P. S. (1983). Rural Economy in the Early Iron Age. Excavations at Hascherkeller, 1978–​1981. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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4  Distributed feasts Reciprocity, hospitality and banquets in Iron Age to Orientalising central and southern Italy Owain Morris Introduction The question of how to create an ontology that recognises the entangle­ ment of people and things, and how to visually represent the inter-​personal social interactions that produce these relations, appears particularly salient given the current state of network analysis in archaeology. What has become an extremely innovative sub-​discipline of archaeology finds itself at a crossroads in terms of how it is to develop and fully contribute to the discipline as a whole. While its strengths and weaknesses have been well-​documented (Knappett 2013, 3–​15; Collar et  al. 2015, 1–​32; Brughmans et al. 2016, 3–​19), Carl Knappett has recently highlighted the risk of network analysis merely becoming another niche area of archae­ ology (Knappett 2014, 21–​22, 30). A notable issue in many studies is an overemphasis on the spatial aspect that networks are able to represent, specifically physical or Euclidean space. The concern for physical space has a long history in archaeology and has only recently been met with a desire to investigate social space (Knappett 2014, 23–​24). Behind the new concern for social space and how space is made through social inter­ action, is arguably the wealth of studies focused on materiality, material culture, ANT and thing-​theory that have surfaced since the 1980s (Miller 2005; Latour 2005; Knappett 2011, 3–​36; Hodder 2012, 1–​39). These studies have recognised how people, things and society produce each other in line with the relational approach to personhood in Strathern’s (1988) The Gender of the Gift (GG). Gell’s (1999) admirable attempt to visualise Strathern’s description of the moka exchange in Melanesia, has obvious potential for network analysis, especially as an example of how to abstract social interaction into network graph form. This chapter aims to explore whether such a Melanesian ontology of interiority can help how we think about a particular form of inter-​personal social interaction within a specific context. With my research being focused on Campania during the Iron Age to Orientalising period, the aim is to visualise in a similar form to Gell, the notions of hospitality and reciprocity in contemporary feasting practices. Before undertaking such an exercise, an exploration of Strathern’s notion

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Distributed feasts 65 of the ‘gift’ and its roots in anthropology is first necessary to understand its applicability to other contexts.

The origins of the gift The idea of the gift is one of the most widely discussed debates in anthro­ pology and has prompted a variety of studies that examine the concept of value and especially the difference between a gift-​based and a commodity-​ based economy. Strathern’s focus on the gift can be traced, via Gregory (1982), back to Mauss and his seminal Essai sur le don published in 1925. Although Strathern highlights that in giving a gift, people acquire an iden­ tity and are themselves distributed through their relationships, it was in fact Mauss who first recognised that the giver gives away a part of themselves (Mauss [1954] 2002, 59). Mauss’ gift was partly a response to Malinowski’s study of the Kula exchange system of Papua New Guinea. Malinowski was unable to find commercial motives behind the circulation of the kula ring and thus classified these transactions as gift exchanges. Where he found these transactions he referred to them as a ‘pure gift’, such as that occurring between husband and wife (Gosden 1999, 78–​ 83). Mauss explored Melanesia and other areas and argued that there was no such thing as a free gift. Furthermore, the act of giving revolved around the idea of reciprocity because the gift itself contained the spirit or soul of the donor, and by its desire to return home, it compels the recipient to repay the gift. Central to this was his use of the Maori concept of the hau, or spirit of the gift, as described by the Maorian shaman Tamati Ranaipiri (Mauss [1954] 2002, 13–​16; Sahlins 1972, 151–​153). Similar to Strathern’s discussion where an individual pig maybe be continuously given as a gift to one person after another, the hau (or spirit) ‘follows after anyone possessing the thing’ from one recipient to another (Mauss [1954] 2002, 15). Alongside the passing on of the spirit, Mauss observed across a series of cultures how it was frequently impossible to refuse a gift, which led to a web of connections between people created through their relationships and the gifts they exchanged (Gosden 1999, 111). In Mauss’ view the spirit of the donor essentially made gifts ‘inalienable’. This term was later taken up by Weiner (1992, 44–​65) in her attempt to link the gift with heirlooms and how the most valuable of these do not circulate. It has been acknowledged that Mauss’ gift owed much to socialism as it was an attempt to understand the logic of the market and how it caused such violence to ordinary people’s sense of justice and humanity (Graeber 2001, 155–158). However, as Sahlins (1972, 170–​183) highlighted, the problem Mauss was examining has its roots in Hobbes and the social contract. Mauss envisaged three stages in the evolution of the gift economy: ‘total prestation’ where competing clans oppose each other yet exchange courtesies, military assistance and feasts amongst other things. The ‘gift economy’ is the second stage which forms much of his book, and ‘the commodity economy’ where

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66  Owain Morris money is no longer a physical object but a social relation (Mauss [1954] 2002, 6; Gregory 1982, 18). His understanding was part of his attempt to disprove the idea that Papua New Guinea constituted a ‘natural economy’ where any produce was merely for subsistence rather than trade purposes. Mauss’ work has found much praise and Sahlins (1972, 149)  referred to the gift as being its own gift to the ages, with a hau that enables it to return again and again. Yet a series of issues surround the work, which have spawned almost a century of studies attempting to apply his concept of reci­ procity to modern western and non-​western economies. Mauss’ particular choice of terminology (Potlatch, reciprocity, the gift, total prestation) have been described as blunt instruments, that while work well for making broad points, are inadequate for cross-​cultural comparison (Graeber 2001, 217). Mauss’ work is therefore hard to compare across different cultures and places, which is further seen in studies by Weiner (1988, 1992) and Godelier (1999), which Graeber (2001, 164)  describes as less effective the further away from Melanesia they go. Sahlins highlighted a key oversight by Mauss in his discussion of the hau by failing to address the need to give in the first place (Sahlins 1972, 150). Furthermore, Godelier (1999, 16) notes that there are problems with Mauss’ quotation of Ranaipiri on the hau, which he actually took out of context. These issues are part of a long reassess­ ment of Mauss in anthropology and it is worthwhile briefly discussing these works because the culmination of these studies was Strathern’s The Gender of the Gift. Lévi-​Strauss tackled the issue of the gift in his Elementary Structures of Kinship in 1949, which heralded the start of structuralism and focused on the role played by reciprocity in restrictions on marriage (or what he called simple vs complex systems of exchange) (Gosden 1999, 111–​112; Graeber 2001, 218–​219). He conceptualized marriage as a system which enabled the exchange of women, who were viewed as gifts (Gregory 1982, 21). However, Lévi-​Strauss criticised Mauss’ positivism which understood exchange as fragmented into separate acts of giving, receiving and repaying rather than as a unified principle (Sahlins 1972, 154). Graeber (2001, 217) notes that Lévi-​Strauss’ use of reciprocity was no clearer, and as the term is currently used it can mean anything. Sahlins Stone Age Economics (1972) saw the Maussian bipolar opposition between gift economy and commodity economy as unproductive and they should instead be seen as the extreme points of a continuum. What allows movement from one end to the other is the key variable he calls ‘kinship distance’:  the closer people are, the more likely their exchange is gift exchange, while commodity exchange occurs where the transactors are strangers (Sahlins 1972, 185–​ 276, esp. 196–​204). Although recognising the diverse nature of reciprocity, Sahlins (1972, 191–​196) identified three main forms:  ‘generalized’, where transactions are mainly altruistic; ‘balanced’, where exchange is direct, of equivalent value and without delay; and ‘negative reciprocity’ or an attempt to get something for nothing. In his Gifts and Commodities, Gregory (1982)

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Distributed feasts 67 highlights the Maussian distinction between gift economies and commodity economies, with the former tending towards personifying objects, while the latter objectifying people. Gifts are therefore transactions between people which create ‘qualitative’ relations, in contrast to commodity exchanges, where the equivalent value between traded objects form ‘quantitative’ relations (Gregory 1982, 100–​101). An important difference here also lies in what are class-​based or clan-​based societies. In the former, private property exists and so an individual has alienable rights over what he or she owns. A clan-​based economy has no private property and thus no alienable rights over things, meaning that people cannot be easily separated from the objects they exchange (Gregory 1982, 18).

Strathern’s The Gender of the Gift: distributed personhood, Melanesia and Strathernograms Why is this anthropological detour important to a discussion of how to understand and visually represent interpersonal social interaction in archae­ ology? After Gregory the next important study to use the idea of the gift was Strathern’s The Gender of the Gift, a book which Graeber (2001, 35) has described as neo-​Maussian due to its debt to the studies mentioned in the previous section. If we are to fully engage with Knappett’s question on how to use Gell’s Strathernograms, it is essential to understand the origins of Strathern’s approach and also Mauss’ idea of the gift. Furthermore, because both authors rely to some degree on the notion of reciprocity (which is the guiding principle for the second part of this chapter), it is worthwhile briefly exploring Strathern’s version of the gift to establish what issues may exist before applying Strathernograms to ancient feasting practices. Gregory’s expansion of Mauss’ distinction between the gift economy and commodity economy was taken up by Strathern in GG, who saw the distinc­ tion as holding a clear advantage for her research in Melanesia (Strathern 1988, 19). With the logic of the gift economy in Melanesia being very different from our own economy she wondered whether the conception of social relations and human beings might also be just as different. Her work on the Mount Hagen area of Papua New Guinea and its Melpa-​speaking peoples thus became a critique of western anthropology, which has reified both the notion of society and it being made up of individuals (Strathern 1988, 3–​11). However, as Knappett and Gell highlight, her most well-​known conclusion is the idea of the partible person, but with GG being an incred­ ibly difficult text to read (see Gell 1999, 30; Graeber 2001, 35), I will briefly summarise her discussion of pigs, people and their identities here. The exchange of pigs in the Mount Hagen area forms part of the moka ceremony, a formal occasion which was followed by feasts and where one male would give (amongst other gifts) a pig to another male and in doing so is awarded a name and therefore public prestige (Strathern 1988, 146–​147). Only men can publicly benefit from the exchange of pigs as they are both

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68  Owain Morris ‘transactors’ and ‘producers’, while women are mere ‘producers’. Behind the distinction between male and female roles is thus a recognition that both husband and wife perform defined tasks in the domestication of the pigs and their production for eventual gift exchange. Men clear and fence the land, women plant and harvest the crops. Women also then feed and tend to the pigs that men later exchange during the moka. However, the food the pigs are fed, the land that it grows on and that the pigs are raised upon, belong to the husband’s clan (on this division of labour see Strathern 1988, 148–​149). While this has been visually represented by Gell, Fowler (2004, 18 fig. 2.2) has produced an innovative study on personhood in archaeology where he also attempted to visualise this process (see Figure  4.1). As Fowler neatly summarises, in Melanesia a person is usually dividual, but is always modu­ lating and shifting identities depending on the spheres of relations through which they are moving (Fowler 2004, 19). Much of Strathern’s discussion is a critique of an earlier study by Josephides (1985), whose Marxist approach to Melanesian exchange systems, viewed men as exploiting female labour. Yet Strathern highlights Josephides’ western derived view on exchange where commodities are goods and thus products of labour, which are owned and circulated as property (Strathern 1988, 152). Such an approach does not work in Melanesia, because women’s labour is never extracted or alienated from them but remains embedded in the pigs and their role in producing the pigs is never denied by the men (Strathern 1988, 152–​155). As Graeber (2001, 37) notes Strathern’s work attempts to

Figure 4.1 A visualisation of Strathern’s partible person. After Fowler (2004), p. 18 fig. 2.2.

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Distributed feasts 69 combine feminist theory with anthropology, yet throughout GG she refutes any idea that Melanesian women are repressed. However, Strathern shows how gender is not comprised of separable entities of male and female but is the outcome of a series of relationships. Furthermore, pigs themselves are ‘multiply authored’ and as a product of all the relationships of the house­ hold ‘the pig is not reducible to the sole interest of either party’ (Strathern 1988, 159–​160: Gosden 1999, 135–​136; Graeber 2001, 38–​40). This brief summary brings us back round to Knappett’s question of whether the Melanesian ontology is compatible with a network ontology. Before tackling this question there are some issues with Strathern’s work that need further elaboration. First, Weiner (1992, 14–​15) argues that GG is tied to a Lévi-​Straussian model of reciprocal exchange where ‘objects are merely reflections of their transactors embeddedness in social relations, and the value of an object remains only a consequence of the identity of the exchanger’. Therefore, Strathern’s conceptualisation of the embeddedness of objects and people within social relations cannot explain the temporal aspects concerning the movement of people and their possessions. Moreover, Weiner argues that all social values are existential rather than intrinsic as Strathern maintains, meaning that both people and their possessions are restricted in both time and space in their ability to move, while social value requires constant creation and recreation in order to overcome loss (Weiner 1992, 15). Yet Strathern’s approach does not allow a consideration of heirlooms, which is the focus of Weiner’s own study. Graeber (2001, 42–​43) points out that while Strathern’s study works very well for Melanesia, her notion of value is Sassurean, in that it places a thing in a set of categories rather than having a sense of value based on comparison as its central element. He feels that her approach makes it difficult to apply her work outside Melanesian societies and their gift economies and it would be an ill fit for the agonistic exchange system in ancient Greece (Graeber 2001, 43 on Beidelman 1989). Using Strathern’s approach in his archaeology of personhood, Fowler (2004, 10–​11) states that the western notion of individuality should not be taken to be the sole or main feature for all cultures in the past. Yet the undoubted value of Strathern’s anthropological research and critique of the reification of the western ideals of society and individual do not mean that we should simply reify her own notion of the dividual as a widespread universal norm. These criticisms demonstrate that Strathern’s work is not without issue and caution is necessary when attempting to apply her ideas out­ side of Melanesia. The distinction between a gift economy and commodity economy for past and modern societies respectively, may well be accept­ able for some ancient contexts, but are inadequate for others. Returning to the Strathernograms at the start of this volume, Knappett observes that Strathern adds two constraints to her work, which Gell incorporates into his Strathernogram, namely that all relations between terms are exchange relations, and all are gendered. It is not clear that all relations between terms (or nodes) need to be of exchange as not all societies operated in the same way

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70  Owain Morris as Melanesia. Moreover, the problem with the second of these constraints is that in archaeological contexts we do not always have access to information on gender roles, especially with regards the division of labour in domestic contexts. To put it quite simply: we rarely know who fed the pigs! Does this mean that Gell’s Strathernograms are not amenable to the visualisation of interpersonal social interactions that are observable in archaeological data? I believe that with some adjustment these Strathernograms still have much to offer, especially with regards the principle inherent to the gift shared by both Mauss and Strathern, that in giving the giver gives away something of oneself. Before discussing these Strathernograms with regards giving away hospitality and how reciprocity is a central element, particularly in feasting contexts, a review of the current ideas on feasting is necessary.

Defining the feast A feast can be understood as a meal shared between two or more people that marks some form of special occasion, featuring some special foods or quantities of food that are not normally served during daily meals (Hayden 2014, 8–​9). Dietler (1999, 142–​144, 2001, 76–​85) proposes three types of feast:  Empowering/​Entrepreneurial; Patron-​role; and Diacritical feasts. While Empowering/​Entrepreneurial feasts could be held by various hosts to acquire prestige, a single host stages a Patron-​role feast to subvert, reinforce, assert and legitimise power hierarchies. Central to diacritical feasts is ‘com­ mensal politics’, where the introduction of differentiated cuisine acts as a diacritical symbol to distinguish between social classes. The introduction of such foods and accompanying material culture are frequently guarded by the elite due to the exclusive access to exotica they had. The privileged status these foods held made diacritical feasts the loci for the manipulation of elite power and its emulation by groups aspiring to elite status (Dietler 1999, 145, 2001, 85–​88). Acts of emulation could only be restricted by sumptuary laws on consumption or increased use of exotica by the elite (Dietler 2001, 86). While Dietler’s categories are useful, Hayden (2014, 9–​11) highlights that with many variations possible, there is no right way to classify feasts. Nevertheless, Hayden (2014, 10)  himself groups the main reasons for holding a feast into three categories based on their potential benefits: social bonding; material/​ economic; and creation of status distinctions (or dia­ critical feasts). The categories of feasts and reasons for holding them are neatly presented in Figure 4.2 [Hayden 2014, 10, fig. 1.4, 11, fig. 1.5]. There is some overlap between Hayden and Dietler’s definitions and despite an ample attestation of diverse forms of feast in both anthropological and arch­ aeological contexts, I will focus here on a generic idea of the feast. Running throughout all the different types of feasts, however, are two key elements. The first is the need for an agricultural surplus and access to special skills and resources (i.e. foods, drinks, specialist workers), while the second is the concept of reciprocity, which as we have seen was central to Mauss’

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Distributed feasts 71

Figure 4.2 Types of feasts and the reasons for holding them. After Hayden (2014) p. 10 fig. 1.4, p. 11 fig. 1.5.

gift. A  series of resources lie behind feasts and these require considerable investment of labour and time, with food and drink being the main features (Dietler 1990, 365–​370, 2001, 80–​81). Because these are perishable goods they need to be consumed soon after production, yet this does not detract from their symbolic power. While the consumption of meat is often a display of wealth and status in feasting contexts, alcohol possesses psychoactive properties which arguably imbue it with a more privileged role in rituals (Dietler 1990, 369, 1998, 303, 2001, 72–​73, 2006, 231: Steel 2004, 283). Drinking facilitates the flow of social relations, but also marks social cat­ egories, boundaries and identity at both individual and group level (Dietler

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72  Owain Morris 1990, 1998, 2006). When exotic alcoholic beverages or foreign drinking customs are introduced into a new context they can acquire symbolic power in a diacritical sense through the access to such beverages and how they are consumed being restricted or regulated (Dietler 1990, 377). Both food and drink need to be stored in specific conditions to preserve them for a future feast. As Hayden (2014, 4, 14–​21) highlights, the collection and storage of an agricultural surplus, is essential to the preparation of such ceremonies, which are also often the occasions used by the individuals that he describes as ‘aggrandizers’ to promote their own self-​interest. Feasts held by aggrandizers and other hosts work on the basis of reciprocity, whereby the provision of food and drink compels guests to return the host’s hospi­ tality at a later date and failure to do so could lead to the end of a friendship, conflict or war (Dietler 1990, 363, 2001, 74; Hayden 2014, 21, 56–​59). Whether to promote an individuals’ political goals, create network links with peers or as funerary banquets, feasts could be the occasions to integrate new foods, present gifts (which led to their own separate obligation of reci­ procity), evoke supernatural entities, highlight the virtue of ones ancestors and also the locus of dramatical performances, such as plays, story-​telling, dances and forms of competition (Dietler 2010, 189; Hayden 2014, 20, 56; Dietler and Hayden 2001, 3–​4). The importance of feasts is clear, yet evi­ dence for them is not always readily available in the archaeological record and is often implied through other forms of evidence.

Feasting and reciprocity in Homeric epic The focus of this case study is on Iron Age Campania and Lazio, which are unfortunately unknown to us in terms of their early feasting practices. While work has been undertaken on the character of the later Etruscan ban­ quet (Rathje 1990, 379–​382; Tuck 1994; Strøm 2001, 368–​371) or earlier Bronze Age feasting practices (Iaia 2013), little investigation of Early Iron Age and Orientalizing feasts in these two regions has taken place. A pos­ sible source on this period are the two extant Homeric epics, the Iliad and the Odyssey, which have a wealth of information that may offer an insight into the feasting practices in the Mediterranean and contemporary ideas on reciprocity. In Homer, feasting is second only to fighting as the most frequent activity and is closely linked to heroes and hospitality (Sherratt 2004, 301–​302). The importance of the feast is encapsulated by Odysseus who describes the ban­ quet with the bards singing, tables full of food and wine as the most beau­ tiful thing he knows (Odyssey 9.5; Rathje 1990, 282–​283). The feast was thus a locus of dramatical performances as well as commensality. Gifts were also exchanged in feasting contexts, with keimelia (or treasure), namely precious metal vessels given to guests (Sherratt 2004, 307; Donlan 1998, 664). A clear example of this is where Telemachos refuses Menelaos’ gift of horses, leading to the latter to then offer him a skilfully wrought silver bowl,

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Distributed feasts 73 with a golden rim. The bowl had been worked by Hephaistos, but given to Menelaos by Phaedimus, King of Sidon (Odyssey 4.589–​619, 15.99–​129). As Finley (1954, 130) noted, such gifts had genealogies for a reason, and ‘status was the chief determinant of values, and status was transmitted from the person to his possessions, adding still more worth to their intrinsic value as gold or silver or fine woven cloth’ (on object biographies see Gosden and Marshall 1999). Seating order in Homeric feasts saw a rank awarded to guests, who by being placed next to the host bestowed him with prestige (Rathje 1990, 283). These banquets were held with the participants seated in large halls (Megaron/​Megara), and were confined to the aristocratic warrior group (Murray 2009, 513; Raaflaub 1998, 634). The consumption of meat during feasts was a central element and the provision of meat for sacrifices, funerals and banquets was a further way to demonstrate one’s social status (Raaflaub 1998, 647; Sherratt 2004, 305). Nevertheless, receiving one’s own share of food was important, illustrated in the Homeric use of the word dais for feast, which literally means ‘share’, ‘portion’ or ‘division’ (Sherratt 2004, 309). In the Mycenaean period meat was boiled or stewed for feasts, while in the Iron Age (which Homeric cooking practices mainly reflect), it was roasted on metal spits (Sherratt 2004, 311–​314). The Homeric feast in many ways is akin to a network feast, or a way to strategically build relationships, whereby elite ideology was unified as worldview through the act of dancing, reciting epic poetry and singing of songs, philosophising, giving of gifts and discussing political alliances (Hayden 2014, 302–​304). Feasting and gift-​giving were bound up with the concept of xenia, or guest-​friendship, a social institution that comprised an affinal bond (Donlan 1982, 150). Van Wees (2002, 346–​347) highlights three forms of xenia besides the provision of shelter, food and drink: ‘initiatory gifts’, ‘favours’ and the ‘gift of hospitality’. This hospitality ‘gift’ sees a xenos (guest) ask for a gift from his host, that does not meet a particular need but ‘is a gratuitous donation, a further extension of hospitality’ (Van Wees 2002, 347). Xenia is too broad a topic to discuss here, yet it is important to note that whenever a visitor arrived at an oikos in the Homeric epics (regardless of whether it was a friend, stranger, emissary or family member) it was necessary to share a meal before asking who the guest was and what he desired; this ritual could not be refused (Finley 1954, 134–​135). It was only through mutual com­ mensality that identity could be established. Furthermore, Beidelman (1989, 231)  argues that it was through exchange that ancient Greeks drew their personhood because the two were not separable as concepts. The insepar­ ability of identity, commensality and exchange bring us back to the notion of reciprocity found in Mauss and Strathern. Indeed, the history of how reciprocity and gift-​giving in Homer have been studied show that classical scholarship owes a debt to Mauss. With regards reciprocity and gift-​giving, the classic study remains Finley’s World of Odysseus which held reciprocity as the core feature of both Homeric

74

74  Owain Morris society and economy reciprocity, with the gift as its symbol (Donlan 1998, 349). His work owes a clear debt to Malinowski and in Beidelman’s view Mauss, especially concerning the idea that giving gives away part of one­ self (Finley 1954, 62 discusses the Trobriand islands and cites Malinowski, Beidelman 1989, 227). Although Finley does not cite Mauss directly, his influence, even if indirect, is found in Finley’s discussion of gift-​exchange: The word ‘gift’ is not to be misconstrued. It maybe stated as a flat rule of both primitive and archaic society that no one ever gave anything, whether goods or services or honours, without proper recompense, real or wishful, immediate or years away to himself or his kin. The act of giving was, therefore, in an essential sense always the first half of a reciprocal action, the other half of which was the counter-​gift. (Finley 1954, 62) Finley has been criticised for the primitivism characterising his view of the ancient economy as static and slow to change, with all exchange played out at local level (Horden and Purcell 2000; Manning and Morris 2005). The debate on the ancient economy is extensive and will not be described here. Despite the criticism against it, The World of Odysseus remains the key text on reciprocity in the Homeric world. Ever since its publication, scholarship has come to understand the Homeric economy as embedded in non-​economic social relations (Donlan 1998, 649). Finley noted that the word ‘gift’ as used in Homer can be applied to all kinds of transactions, but not just anyone could exchange gifts with another, the two individuals needed to be peers (Finley 1954, 64, 102–​103; Raaflaub 1998, 637). A sense of honour is attached to gift-​giving between peers, seen in Agamemnon’s ostentatious offer to Achilles of gifts, land and marriage to his daughter in order to persuade him to fight (Iliad 9.119–​161). Accepting such gifts would have rendered Achilles subordinate to Agamemnon and were thus impos­ sible terms to concede (Beidelman 1989, 236–​238). Behind this refusal was the key principle of the gift economy whereby every act of giving incurs a debt with an obligation to repay (Donlan 1998, 349). The act of gift-​giving in Homer has little economic purpose but maximum political and social purpose (Donlan 1998, 663). Finley was not the only classical scholar to have made use of anthropo­ logical research to examine the Homeric world or ancient Greece. Both Beidelman (1989) and Donlan (1982), along with Van Wees (2002) have sought to examine the economy and society in the Homeric world and ancient Greece through anthropological comparison. While the first two used Mauss and Sahlins, Van Wees used Malinowski to explore ancient exchange. Donlan also applied Service and Fried’s theoretical models on the evolution of simple societies along a linear development from band/​ egalitarian to complex state. He concluded that Homeric society should be placed somewhere between the stages of tribe and chiefdom (Donlan 1982,

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Distributed feasts 75 138). The debate on the nature and historicity of Homeric society will not be handled here but it remains unclear that such evolutionary models can be applied to all ancient cultures. At the same time the Mediterranean cultures of eighth-​century Greece and southern Italy were probably not that different from each other, and I believe, would have fully understood the idea of the gift and its reciprocity. I will now attempt to design some Strathernograms that visually represent the ceremony of the feast and the obligation to repay embedded within it.

Visualising the feast: Strathernograms and reciprocity The discussion above shows how there are many different categories of feast and the various reasons for them being held, but the central tenet of the majority of feasting practices is the notion of reciprocity, which as the over­ view of the Homeric world indicated is closely tied to hospitality. A  host providing food, drink and shelter to a stranger, friend or family member would expect to receive the same level of hospitality from his or her guest at some future date. This sense of reciprocal hospitality needs to be considered when attempting to abstract the dynamic of the feast into a visual graph, or Strathernogram. While it would be preferable to remain as faithful to Gell’s understanding of Strathern as possible, the notion of gender and personhood being embedded in relations is not always archaeologically accessible. For example, in the case of feasts it is almost impossible to know who undertook the preparation of food and drink and its production and storage. For this attempt at a Strathernogram, I  will therefore eschew the representation of gender in feasting practices because there is insufficient evidence on how male and female roles were structured in EIA southern Italy. The representations of feasters will be kept neutral in terms of their gender, which will also allow future studies to adjust what I have attempted here. For the case study presented here I  will use the definition of a gen­ eric feast where a meal is shared between a host and one or two guests, gifts are exchanged and some kind of dramatical performance is possibly staged. A simple definition of the feast is more conducive to producing some visual representations that will enable comparison with the case study with Campania and Lazio. It is also important to explain why I have not engaged with Knappett’s discussion of Spuybroek’s Gothic ontology. Hospitality and reciprocity are abstract concepts, but Spuybroek discusses things and how they physically relate to each other in terms of their design and perceived relations of interiority. How exactly Spuybroek’s ideas can be represented in network terms thus seems worthy of a study of its own. In his representation of Strathern’s moka exchange, Gell uses different symbols to indicate different relationships, which include terms in rect­ angular boxes, relations in circles/​ovals and appearances of these relations in lozenges. I have decided to represent terms, or individuals (guest/​host) with rectangles, and relations, which include the feast and its nested concepts

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76  Owain Morris

Figure 4.3 Feasting Strathernogram 1.

Figure 4.4 Feasting Strathernogram 2.

(reciprocity/​hospitality) in ovals. Other embedded aspects of the feast will also be placed in rectangles as these are nested within the final feast in a chain of hospitality (see below). Beginning with a diagram of a simple feast we can envisage a node (or TERM) representing the host and a node (or TERM) representing the guest. Following Gell, we can also add a further node (RELATION) which represents the feast because through hospitality it ties the two individuals to each other. This dynamic is shown in Figure 4.3. While the above graph represents a simple exchange of hospitality, it does not obviously reference the embedded sense of reciprocity, which as discussed above was a core element in feasting practices. To represent the obligation to repay hospitality between individuals, a further oval is included in Figure  4.4 showing the feasts’ reciprocal nature. However, at the centre of feasting is food, drink, and gift exchange along with special dramatical performances that are frequently crucial to the ceremony, and all of these need to be acknowledged as nested in the act of hospitality. These are represented on the graph in Figure 4.5 with the feast connected to the host and guest. Taking this visualisation of the feast further, a series of labour tasks exist which are embedded in the preparation of the feast. As Hayden (2014) and Dietler (2001) have shown the work involved in producing a feast is massive, especially in terms of the provision of food and drink. Both of these perishable goods need cultivation, harvesting, production and storage, activ­ ities which are nested in the final product. Furthermore, feasts often have a ritual performance aspect, such as poetry and plays being recited, dances performed, stories being told. While these events can be spontaneous, these often require that performers practice which is also a relation of production that is embedded in the final banquet. When a host held a feast then, it was not merely a piece of himself/​herself that was given to the guest, but also

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Distributed feasts 77

Figure 4.5 Feasting Strathernogram 3.

Figure 4.6 Feasting Strathernogram 4.

the work of those people in and around the host’s household. Therefore, the feast, just like Strathern’s pigs, are ‘multiply authored’ and the feast comes to objectify the domestic services of the host’s household. The preparation behind these core feasting elements needs acknowledgment as they were essential to the successful outcome of the feast, which in turn would lead to the host’s hospitality being repaid in the future. Figure  4.6 above therefore shows the series of other labour activities embedded in the preparation of the feast, including the production and storage of food and drink and the storage of various gifts (which in a Homeric context for example are often metal vessels), while performances (i.e. dances, reciting epic poetry) needed practice before the final event. The structure of these feasting Strathernograms becomes more complex, how­ ever, when more guests are involved in the feast. I have added a further guest

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78  Owain Morris to this graph alongside the gifts they may have given to the host but also a visualisation of how the role of guest would later transform into the host, to indicate the reciprocal nature of this hospitality in feasting; this expanded Strathernogram is presented in Figure 4.7. These Strathernograms provide a useful visual representation of the hospitality and reciprocity of the feast and how the host’s personhood was distributed through these exchanges of hospitality. What remains to be seen, however, is the applicability of such an ontology to feasting practices in a particular context.

Applying Gell’s Strathernograms: feasting in Early Iron Age and Orientalising Lazio and Campania This final section aims to use the concepts behind the Strathernograms to examine feasting practices in EIA to Orientalising (ninth to seventh century BCE) Campania and Lazio. These two regions have a wealth of data for this period, yet it is, unfortunately, almost completely funerary in nature. This situation is found across much of Italy but in central and southern Italy it presents a considerable problem for identifying feasting evidence. There are exceptions to the general situation, such as the well-​known banqueting ser­ vice from Ficana (Lazio), found in a refuse pit and dating to the mid-​seventh century BCE (Rathje 1983, esp. 9–​21). However, with evidence like that from Ficana being rare, it is necessary to focus on burials and while there is ample evidence from a variety of cemeteries, I will focus on what have been termed ‘princely tombs’. I believe that these elite burials are more likely to show signs of a connection to feasting practices than other levels of society, due to them being closer to the role of the host outlined in the previous section. I will not cover the funerary feast as the funerary banquet merits a study of its own. Instead I will examine a sample of these ‘princely’ grave good assemblages for evidence of general feasting practices. While this may form a mere reflection of contemporary feasts this should still be sufficient for this case study. A net­ work of these tombs will be produced based on the connections found within their assemblages as this has not yet been undertaken for these two regions. As I  have outlined elsewhere (Morris 2016a, 139), ‘princely tomb’ refers to a series of rich elite graves (often cremations) found around the Mediterranean from the eighth to seventh centuries BCE, that are much more ostentatious than other burials in their cemeteries due to the Orientalising imports they contain. Furthermore, they show a direct link to Homeric burial practices (such as that bestowed upon Patroclus, Iliad 23.702) through their use of secondary cremation with the ashes placed in a cauldron. In Italy these tombs are found in Etruria, Lazio and Campania, where they are explained as derived from a Greek burial type imported from Euboia to the colony of Cumae on the bay of Naples (Cerchiai 1995, 90–​ 98). According to this interpretation, the prehellenic settlement at Cumae was destroyed and replaced by the colony after the Euboians moved from Pithekoussai (D’Agostino 2011, 44; Cerchiai 2005, 190). Moreover, it is

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newgenrtpdf

Figure 4.7 Feasting Strathernogram 5.

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80  Owain Morris argued that the establishment of Cumae was the catalyst behind a series of social changes, whereby the apparently primitive indigenous settlements in Campania underwent a transition from egalitarian to stratified status, or ‘the birth of the elite’ (Cerchiai 2010, 22–​28; D’Agostino 2006, 231–​232). However, such a view has been reassessed in light of recent research and new discoveries. Increasing evidence from Cumae counters the destruc­ tion hypothesis and suggests that Greeks and indigenes lived side-​ by-​ side (Greco 2010–​2011; Morris 2016b), while others question the Greek character of Pithekoussai (Donnellan 2016). The term ‘princely’ has been criticised for its basis in later Roman sources (Riva 2010, 7, 40), as has the teleological view that the Greek colonists brought a more advanced cul­ ture to the Tyrrhenian (Morris 2016a). Furthermore, the earliest of these Homeric-​inspired burials may actually have been in Italy which is what the emerging evidence from Montevetrano suggests (Cerchiai et al. 2012–​ 2013; Ianelli 2011). Despite attempts to classify these ‘princely’ tombs there is as much diffe­ rence as similarity between the grave good assemblages (Morris 2016a, 142–​ 147), but there is a link with the Greek world found in Homeric epic. Riva (2010, 47) views the acquisition of Orientalising material culture in Etruria as reflecting a common elite culture, while Hodos (2010, 82) proposes the existence of a global culture in Sicily that traversed local and national bound­ aries. It is in this context that such elite burials should be understood because they combine many objects of Orientalising, Greek and local Italic origins. To analyse these burials in network terms for feasting evidence it was necessary to select some of the objects or traits that are deemed princely in character. These rich assemblages vary across the three regions but regularly feature a combination of metal vessels (bronze cauldrons and basins, silver and gold pouring vessels, cups and bowls), iron spits and firedogs, the presence of a chariot, horse equipment, Greek pottery, precious objects in ivory, amber, faience and vitreous paste, the use of cremation in a cinerary urn. Amongst these objects, the bronze cauldrons/​basins, iron spits and firedogs, metal graters and silver and gold vessels have an affinity with Homeric funerary and feasting practices. A group of twenty elite burials (containing over 1,200 objects) from Lazio and Campania were sampled to examine feasting practices during the eighth and seventh centuries. These were chosen because they have been referred to as princely in the literature, or in the case that they remain unpublished because they include objects commonly found in other princely burials. The current level of publication has meant that not all of the objects in these tombs can be identified in terms of their provenances (especially the Barberini, Bernardini and Castellani tombs which were subjected to either looting or rudimentary excavation methods). Yet using a two-​mode affiliation network the objects in each tomb were awarded an affiliation to either an ‘indigenous’ provenance, or if the object was an import, to a particular site or region in Italy or the wider Mediterranean.

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newgenrtpdf

Figure 4.8 Network graph showing the network ties held between the princely tombs in Lazio and Campania.

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82  Owain Morris Table 4.1 Feasting evidence from the princely tombs in Lazio and Campania Tomb/​Object

Bronze Iron spits Knife/other Grater Animal cauldrons/ or firedogs fire or sacrifice bones basins instruments

750–​725 BC Montevetrano 74 Montevetrano 111 Castel di Decima 132

X X X

-​ -​ X

-​ X X

-

-

725–​700 BC Calatia 190 Calatia 194 Calatia 201 Castel di Decima 15 Cuma 1 Cuma 11 Cuma F.Artiaco 104 Pontecagnano 4461 Pontecagnano 2465 San Valentino Torio 818

X X X X X X X X -​

X X X -​ -​ X X

X X X -​ -​ X X X

-​ -​ -

X X -

700–​650 BC Tomba Bernardini Tomba Barberini Pontecagnano 926 Pontecagnano 928 Bisaccia 66 Castel di Decima 152

X X X X X X

X X X X X

X X X X -​ X

-​ X -​ X

X X -

The data was entered into UCINET, a specialist program for visualising networks, and the resulting graph can be seen in Figure  4.8, where the majority of the tombs show a tie to local production, but there are a wide variety of ties of a more long-​ distance nature. Admittedly, this graph represents a limited spatial, rather than social visualisation of these burials and temporal change is not accounted for. However, many of the tombs share a link to the Greek settlements in Campania, mainland Greece, or the eastern Mediterranean. Closer inspection will reveal feasts helped to form these connections and how this graph resembles an elite feasting network. Table 4.1 shows nineteen of these tombs contained a series of objects associated with feasting practices. Amongst these, the bronze cauldron or basin and iron spits indicate changes to local feasting practices. Riva (2010, 58) highlights that these Orientalising objects found in Italy were the same as those mentioned in Homer as used by heroes and warrior aristocracies. In Homer the cooking of meat on spits was exclusively

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Distributed feasts 83 for the elite warrior group, while meat boiled in cauldrons was for the wider community (Detienne 1989, 10–​11). Although these objects are found in tombs, they undoubtedly reflect the adoption of these Homeric-​ inspired ideas into contemporary feasting practices. Rathje (1990, 283)  observed the close similarities between banqueting practices in Homer and central Italy, but also between the princely tomb assemblages and objects mentioned in Homeric epics. Riva (2010, 147) and Nijboer (2013, 119)  argue that feasting practices along Tyrrhenian Italy were transformed during the 8th and 7th centuries BCE. Notable also is Kistler’s (2017, 197)  view that the feast was central to the spread of Orientalising material culture in EIA central Italy, and thus evidence of a hospitality network, involving various nodes of both hosts and guests from a wide range of ethnic groups. Echoes of these feasting practices including dramatical performances are found in the tombs of both elites and non-​elites along the Tyrrhenian coast. Exemplary is the well-​known ‘cup of Nestor’ from Pithekoussai tomb 168, where a Greek inscription (on a Rhodian vessel) alludes to Iliad 11.632–​7 and Odyssey 3.51–​5.53 (Ridgway 1992, 52–​56; Powell 1991, 163–​167). Malkin (1998, 158) believes that Homeric poetry was thus familiar to the community at Pithekoussai there by c.750 BCE or possibly earlier. The inscription also suggests that travelling performers, bards and interpreters also arrived at the settlement and along the Tyrrhenian. Although there is no direct evidence for this in Italy, we know from Homer that performing during feasts was an important part of commensality. In the Odyssey the two bards Phemios and Demodokos recite or sing their poems or songs in the court of Odysseus in Ithaka (1.153–​55 and 1.325–​327) and Alkinoos’ court on Phaecia (8.64) (Sherratt 2017). Bards and poets in Homer appear to be tied to specific courts which has suggested little mobility for such fig­ ures across the late Bronze to Iron Ages (Hunter and Rutherford 2009, 10). However, with performance being a key component of feasting, it is highly likely that some for of professional singer, with knowledge of Homer, was present on the Tyrrhenian coast during the eighth century BCE, not to mention performers of indigenous status who may have learned about the Homeric myths via the help of an interpreter. Gifts were exchanged within this context including the large quantities of Greek pottery found along the Tyrrhenian from 780 to 730 BCE and continuing after the foundation of Cumae (Cuozzo 2007). There is ample attestation in Homer of silver and gold kraters and drinking cups being exchanged during feasts (Sherratt 2004, 307 for examples) and similar vessels of Near Eastern production are found in princely tombs in Campania and Lazio, such as at Pontecagnano (Morris 2016a, 150–​154). The net­ work in Figure 4.8 thus presents an elite feasting network, where a series of hosts and guests, who exchanged hospitality via the reciprocal nature of feasts, enabled a series of ideas and objects to move through a dense web of

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84  Owain Morris interaction. These ideas and objects thus became what Hodos (2010) refers to as a global culture and Riva (2010) a common elite culture. In conclusion, while the Strathernograms are useful visual representations of feasting practices and the obligation to repay in general, in the context of Campania and Lazio, only limited conclusions can be drawn on their suit­ ability as a tool. The dataset is funerary in nature and therefore offers only echoes of contemporary banquets. However, the spread of imported objects amongst these princely tombs suggests that through the obligation to repay hospitality, the hosts’ personhood was distributed around the feasting net­ work, which in turn led to increased production and preparation for the next cycle of feasts. While it is difficult to recover the exact character of these interactions and map them in the same way that Strathern did for Melanesia, the SNA graph and Strathernograms presented here do allow us to trace the global culture circulating behind the feasting exchanges and deposition of grave goods. There is scope here to view not only the personhood of the hosts being distributed throughout the feasting network but also their personhood as consumers. The ultimate origins of many of the objects deposited in the princely burials lay in the eastern Mediterranean. It remains unlikely that the individuals consuming these luxury items were aware of their origins, but they will have witnessed first-​hand the relations of power and ideology bound up in the exchange and deposition of silver bowls, bronze cauldrons and other items. The network graphs presented here highlight to some degree how the personhood of these consumers came to transcend the local con­ text as they became connected to a much wider global culture. Hodder has recently highlighted how objects and humans depend on and are entangled with each other. The luxury objects that were exchanged during the EIA in southern and central Italy were acceptable gifts also because of their ‘fittingness’ to the context discussed here (Hodder 2012, 2–​3, 113–​137). By consuming these objects locally, the elites of Campania and Lazio became themselves entangled in a much wider network that comprised the Levant, Greece and the relations of power found therein. While the evidence presented here only allows a mere glimpse at contem­ porary feasts and gift-​exchanges, I believe that the combination of SNA and Strathernograms applied here may prove extremely useful tools for other contexts and future studies, especially those with a more complete dataset. Nevertheless, there is ample evidence from this case study to show how the consumption of foreign goods produced exchange networks where the feast was a focal and essential event.

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Distributed feasts 85 Brughmans, T. Collar, A. and Coward, F. (2016). (eds.). The Connected Past: Challenges to Network Studies in Archaeology and History. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cerchiai, L. (1995). I Campani. Milan: Longanesi & Co. Cerchiai, L. (2005). ‘Le regioni dell’Italia meridionale e le isole: La Campania dalle origini al III secolo a.C.’, in Pensando, F. (ed.) L’Italia Antica. Culture e forme del popolamento nel I Milennio a.C. Rome: Carocci, pp. 181–​202. Cerchiai, L. (2010). Gli Antichi popoli della Campania. Rome: Carocci. Cerchiai, L., d’Agostino, B., Pellegrino, C., Tronchetti, C., Parasole, M., Bondioli, L. et  al. (2012–​ 2013). Monte Vetrano (Salerno). Tra Oriente e Occidente. A proposito delle tombe 74 e 111. AION Nuova Serie 19–​20. Naples. Collar, A., Coward, F., Brughmans, T. and Mills, B., (2015) ‘Networks in Archaeology:  Phenomena, Abstraction, Representation’, Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 22(1), 1–​32. https://​doi.org/​DOI 10.1007/​ s10816-​014-​9235-​6 Cuozzo, M., (2007). ‘Ancient Campania. Cultural interaction, political borders and geographical boundaries’, in Bradley, G., Isayev, E. and Riva, C. (eds) Ancient Italy: Regions Without Boundaries. Exeter: Exeter University Press, pp. 224–​267. D’Agostino, B., (2006). ‘The first Greeks in Italy’, in Tsetskhladze, G., (ed.) Greek Colonisation:  An Account of Greek Colonies and Other Settlements Overseas. Vol. I. Leiden: Brill, pp. 201–​237. D’Agostino, B., (2011). ‘Pithecusae e Cuma nel quadro della Campania di età arcaica’, Römische Mitteilungen 117, 35–​53. Detienne, M. (1989). ‘Culinary practices and the spirit of sacrifice’, in Detienne, M. and Vernant, J. (eds.) The Cuisine of Sacrifice among the Greeks. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, pp. 1–​20. Dietler, M. (1990). ‘Driven by drink: The role of drinking in the political economy and the case of early Iron Age France’, Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 9, 352–​406. https://​doi.org/​10.1016/​0278-​4165(90)90011–​2 Dietler, M. (1998). ‘Consumption, agency, and cultural entanglement:  Theoretical implications of a Mediterranean colonial encounter’, in Cusick, J. (ed.) Studies in Culture Contact. Interaction, Culture Change and Archaeology. Center for Archaeological investigations. Carbondale, IL:  Southern Illinois University, pp. 288–​315 Dietler, M. (1999). ‘Consumption, cultural frontiers, and identity: Anthropological approaches to Greek colonial encounters’, in Carratelli, G. and Batts, M., (eds.) Confini e frontiera nella Grecità d’occidente. Atti del 36 Convegno di Studi sulla Magna Grecia, Napoli: ISAMG, pp. 475–​501. Dietler, M. (2001). Theorizing the feast:  Rituals of consumption, commensal pol­ itics, and power in African contexts, in Dietler, M and Hayden, B. (eds.) Feasts:  Archaeological and Ethnographic Perspectives on Food, Politics, and Power. Washington DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, pp. 65–​114. Dietler, M. (2006). ‘Alcohol:  Anthropological/​ archaeological perspectives’, Annual review of Anthropology 35, 229–​249. https://​doi.org/​10.1146/​annurev. anthro.35.081705.123120 Dietler, M. (2010). Archaeologies of Colonialism:  Consumption, Entanglement and Violence in Ancient Mediterranean France. Berkeley, CA:  University of California Press. Dietler, M. and Hayden, B. (2001). ‘Digesting the feast. Good to eat, good to drink, good to think:  an introduction’, in Dietler, M. and Hayden, B. (eds.)

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86  Owain Morris Feasts:  Archaeological and Ethnographic Perspectives on Food, Politics, and Power. Washington DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, pp. 1–​20. Donlan, W. (1982). ‘Reciprocities in Homer’, The Classical World 75(3), 137–​175. https://​doi.org/​10.2307/​4349350 Donlan, W. (1998). ‘The Homeric economy’, in Morris, I., and Powell, B. (eds.) A New Companion to Homer. Brill: Leiden, pp. 649–​667. Donnellan, L. (2016). ‘A networked view on “Euboean” colonisation’, in Donnellan, L., Nizzo, V. and Burgers, G., (eds.) Conceptualising Early Colonisation. Turnhout: Brepols, pp. 149–​166. Finley, M., (1954). The World of Odysseus. New York: Viking Press. Fowler, C. (2004). The Archaeology of Personhood. An Anthropological Approach. London: Routledge. Gell, A., (1999). ‘Strathernograms, or, the semiotics of mixed metaphors’, in Gell, A. (ed.) The Art of Anthropology. Essays and Diagrams. Oxford: Berg, pp. 29–​75. Godelier, M. (1999). The Enigma of the Gift. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago  Press. Gosden, C. (1999). Anthropology and Archaeology. A  Changing Relationship. Routledge: London. Gosden, C. and Marshall, Y. (1999). ‘The cultural biography of objects’, World Archaeology 31(2), 169–​178. https://​doi.org/​10.1080/​00438243.1999.9980439 Graeber, D. (2001). Toward an Anthropological Theory of Value. The False Coin of Our Own Dreams. New York: Palgrave. Greco, G., (2010–​ 2011). ‘New excavations’, Archaeological Reports 57 (2010–​ 2011), 109–​113. Gregory, C. (1982). Gifts and Commodities. New York: Academic Press. Hayden, B. (2014). The Power of Feasts. From Prehistory to the Present. New York: Cambridge University Press. Hodder, I. (2014). Entangled. An Archaeology of the Relationships between Humans and Things. Chichester: Wiley-​Blackwell. Hodos, T. (2010a). ‘Globalization and colonization: A view from Iron Age Sicily’, Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology 23(1), 81–​106. Horden, P. and Purcell, N. (2000). The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History. Oxford: Blackwell. Hunter, R. and Rutherford, I. (2009). Introduction, in Hunter, R. and Rutherford, I. (eds.), Wandering Poets in Ancient Greek Culture. Travel, Locality and Pan-​ Hellenism. New York: Cambridge University Press, pp. 1–​22. Iaia, C., (2013). ‘Drinking in times of crisis: Alcohol and social change in Late Bronze Age Italy’, in Bergerbrant, S., and Sabatini, S. (eds.). Counterpoint:  Essays in Archaeology and Heritage Studies in Honour of Professor Kristian Kristiansen. BAR International Series 2508. Oxford: Archaeopress, pp. 373–​382. Ianelli, M., (2011). ‘L’ultimo dono all principessa’, in Campanelli, A., (ed.) Dopo Lo Tsunami. Salerno Antica. Napoli: Artem, pp. 166–​180. Josephides, L. (1985). The Production of Inequality: Gender and Exchange among the Kewa. London: Tavistock Publications. Kistler, E. (2017). ‘Feasts, wine and society, eighth–​sixth centuries BCE’, in Naso. A. (ed.) Etruscology. Vol.1. Berlin: de Gruyter, pp. 195–​206. Knappett, C. (2011). An Archaeology of Interaction. Network Perspectives on Material Culture and Society. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Knappett, C. (2013). (ed.). Network Analysis in Archaeology. Oxford:  Oxford University Press.

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Distributed feasts 87 Knappett, C. (2014). ‘What are social network perspectives in archaeology?’, in Evans, S., and Felder, K. (eds.) Social Network Perspectives in Archaeology. Archaeological Review from Cambridge 29.1 (April 2014), pp. 179–​184. Latour, B. (2005). Reassembling the Social:  An Introduction to Actor-​ Network Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Malkin, I. (1998). The Returns of Odysseus: Colonization and Ethnicity. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Manning, J. and Morris, I. (2005). ‘Introduction’, in Manning, J. and Morris, I. (eds.) The Ancient Economy. Evidence and Models. Palo Alto, CA: Stanford University Press, pp. 1–​44. Mauss, M. (1954/​2002). The Gift. The Form and Reason for Exchange in Archaic Societies. With a foreword by Mary Douglas. London: Routledge. Miller, D., (2005). ‘Materiality:  An introduction’, in Miller, D. (ed.). Materiality. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, pp. 1–​49. Morris, O., (2016a). ‘Quid in nomine est? What’s in a name:  re-​contextualizing the princely tombs and social change in ancient Campania’, in Perego, E. and Scopacasa, R. (eds.) Burial and Social Change in First-​Millennium BC Italy: Approaching Social Agents. Gender, Personhood and Marginality. Oxford: Oxbow, pp. 139–​159. Morris, O. (2016b). ‘Indigenous networks, hierarchies of connectivity and early col­ onisation in Iron Age Campania’, in Donnellan, L., Nizzo, V. and Burgers, G. (eds.) Conceptualising Early Colonisation. Turnhout: Brepols, pp. 137–​148. Murray, O. (2009). ‘The culture of the Symposium’, in Raaflaub, K. and van Wees, H. (eds.) A Companion to Archaic Greece. Chichester: Blackwell, pp. 508–​523. Nijboer, A. (2013). ‘Banquet, Marzeah, symposion and Symposium during the Iron Age: Disparity and mimicry’, in De Angelis, F. (ed.) Regionalism and Globalism in Antiquity. Exploring Their Limits. Leuven: Peeters, pp. 95–​125. Powell, B. (1991). Homer and the Origin of the Greek Alphabet. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Raaflaub, K. (1998). ‘Homeric society’, in Morris, I. and Powell, B. (eds.). A New Companion to Homer. Leiden: Brill, pp. 624–​648. Rathje, A., (1983). ‘A Banquet service from the Latin city of Ficana’, Analecta Romana Instituti Danici XII, 7–​29. Rathje, A., (1990). ‘The adoption of the Homeric banquet in Central Italy in the Orientalizing period’, in Murray, O. (ed.) Sympotica. A  Symposium on the Symposium. Oxford: Clarendon Press, pp. 279–​288. Ridgway, D. (1992). The First Western Greeks. Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press. Riva, C. (2010). The Urbanisation of Etruria. Funerary Practices and Social Change 700–​600 BC. New York: Cambridge University Press. Sahlins, M. (1972). Stone Age Economics. Chicago, IL: Aldine. Sherratt, S. (2004). ‘Feasting in Homeric epic’, Hesperia 73(2), 301–​337. Sherratt, S. (2017). Homeric Epic and contexts of Bardic creation, in Sherratt, S. and Bennet, J. (eds.). Archaeology and Homeric Epic. Sheffield Studies in Aegean Archaeology. Oxford: Oxbow, pp. 35–​52. Steel, L. (2004). Cyprus Before History. From the Earliest Settlers to the End of the Bronze Age. London: Duckworth Publishing. Strathern, M. (1988) The Gender of the Gift: Problems with Women and Problems with Society in Melanesia. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

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88  Owain Morris Strøm, I. (2001). ‘Cypriot influences on Early Etruscan banqueting customs?’, in Bonfante, L. and Karageorghis, V. (eds.). Italy and Cyprus in Antiquity: 1500–​450 BC. Nicosia, Cyprus: The Costakis and Leto Severis foundation, pp. 361–​376. Tuck, A., (1994). ‘The Etruscan Seated Banquet:  Villanovan ritual and Etruscan iconography’, American Journal of Archaeology 98(4), 617–​628. https://​doi.org/​ 10.2307/​506549 Van Wees, H. (2002). ‘Greed, generosity and gift-​exchange in Early Greece and the Western Pacific’, in Jongman, W. and Kleijwegt, M. (eds.) After the Past. Essays in Ancient History in Honour of H.W. Pleket. Leiden: Brill, pp. 341–​378. Weiner, A. (1988). The Trobrianders of Papua New Guinea. New York: Harcourt  Brace. Weiner, A. (1992). Inalienable Possessions:  The Paradox of Keeping-​while-​Giving. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

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5  Marble networks Social interaction in houses at Pompeii Simon J. Barker, Simona Perna and Courtney A. Ward

Introduction Carl Knappett’s introductory chapter raises two fundamental questions: to what degree can inter-​personal social interactions be rendered in network terms? And, how can the entanglement of people and things be effectively abstracted and grasped through network analysis? Leading on from these two questions, this chapter asks whether social interaction enabled the spread of decoration in the Roman empire. The focus here is particularly on marble floors in Roman, more specifically Pompeian, houses. Let us imagine for the sake of our argument that the spread of marble types and tastes in Pompeii was the result of mutual awareness and/​or direct or indirect contact between people. We envisage some possible scenarios of social interaction:  within the city of Pompeii, a house owner is having marble decoration installed in various rooms. This action is not invisible, as it might be seen by neighbours and other residents of the city who pass by the house. Alternatively, the owners invite into their house their friends and clients, who see the newly fitted floors. According to these scenarios, the contact with marble might be through direct social interaction –​i.e. through the visitors’ relationship with the owner (cf. Pliny the Younger’s description of the décor at his Tuscan villa; Letters 5.6) – or indirect –​i.e. residents of the city who do not know the house owner are informed about the marble via someone who has visited the house or by the workshop responsible for the decoration. Within this kind of social interaction, we might expect a direct reaction, i.e. the obser­ vers, neighbours, friends or clients of the house owner, decide to renovate their own houses, either copying the marble types and/​or style of pavement, or innovating –​employing new or different marble varieties and/​or new art­ istic forms, such as sectilia pavimenta instead of a mosaic pavement. In this way, we imagine that marble trends were distributed around the city via a network of social interaction(s). Obviously, the complexity involved in rendering in network terms the kind of social interactions we have in mind poses a few challenges. As also Knappett reiterates, we must carefully abstract from observ­ able phenomena the data we wish to represent in a network graph. We

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Figure 5.1 Pompeii and surrounding sites.

might choose, for example, to think of both houses and people as nodes, connected in bipartite networks such that people only connect to one another via houses. In this network, marble acts as the link between houses and people, where the strength of the link is decided from a similarity measure with a high value representing a strong relationship between nodes. The purpose of this network is to examine the degree to which houses sharing the same marble varieties can be said to have a rela­ tional tie to each other. Because we assert that marble decoration acted as a visual marker during social interactions, the main goal of the chapter is to test the utility of network-​based analyses for uncovering social relations associated with Roman marble use (to this purpose, we look to Mark 2003, and his dis­ cussion of the benefits and problems with ideas of homophily and aesthetic distancing for understanding how individuals from different socio-​economic statuses reacted to the same material culture). From this perspective, Pompeii is an ideal site to attempt such an analysis due to its excellent state of pres­ ervation because of the eruption of AD 79 (Figure 5.1). The city has many well-​preserved pavements from the first century BC to the first century AD that can be dated to specific artistic periods (on pavements see the 11 volumes of Pompeii: pitture e mosaici edited by Baldassarre and Carratelli [1990–​2003]). However, one caveat must be stressed –​the current chapter is based on a very small sample of Pompeian housing (around a tenth of the

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Marble networks 91 total houses in Pompeii featuring marble decoration have been catalogued and included in this study).

The Roman house and social assumptions for the network analysis In the current study, certain assumptions have been made about the Roman house. These have been based on several studies about the social and historical use of domestic architecture and décor during the historic period under exam­ ination (Marconi, ed, 2015; see also the monographs by Anguissola [2011] and Nevett [2010] with ample bibliography). From these studies it emerges that architectural design, decoration and social systems were deeply intertwined (see, e.g., Laurence and Wallace-​Hadrill [1997] and Zanker [1998] on this). Wall paintings, sculpture and marble décor in Roman houses mirrored the social practices and financial activities that took place within domestic contexts1 (Allison 1992; Wallace-​ Hadrill 1994; see, e.g., Pader [1997] on domestic routines; see Slater [1991] on social values, forms and rituals of dining) about which textual sources also inform us2 (Vitruvius On Architecture, IV.3–​7; Ellis 1991; Marquardt and Mau 1886, 259–​263; von Premerstein 1900, 23–​55; Saller 1982, 11, 61–​62, 128–​129; see, e.g., Dunbabin [1991] on the importance of the triclinium and its emergence as a focal point in the imperial periods). Moreover, it is argued that elite houses expressed the wealth and status of their owners in both size and elaborate decoration (Taylor 2003, 214), particularly through the use of imported materials, such as marble. As Bergmann (2007, 225) put it, ‘to the Romans, the house was a powerful symbol, a sign of man’s social rank and a tool for learning. Educated Romans trained their memories by mentally constructing domestic interiors and placing cues at certain points to serve as visual triggers upon subsequent returns’ (see, e.g., Rapoport [1990] on the role of these markers as ‘cues’ to behaviour and for the relationship between behaviour and environment). Based on this, Wallace-​Hadrill (1994) argues that at Pompeii large and elaborately decorated houses belonged to wealthy individ­ uals and that there seems to have been a ‘top-down’ effect, with lower status buildings taking decorative cues from larger elite houses (Wallace-​Hadrill, 1994). While it is recognised that domestic decoration with luxury materials catered to those within the highest social hierarchy (Bergmann, 2007), elite houses, as centres of social, political and economic activities, were open and accessible to visitors from a variety of social classes (Clarke 1991, 12; see, e.g., Peachin, ed. [2011] on Roman social relations). Friends and relatives, for example, would have had greater access to rooms within the house than clients, based on social distinction or room function.3 Alongside this, it is apparent that some of the elite houses at Pompeii had tabernae (shops) facing the street that further represented active social hubs (Wallace-​Hadrill, 1994; Mouritsen 2011, 209–​210). By using a network-​ based analysis, we plan to test some of these assumptions and to generate insights on the mechanisms by which marble use and social ties were linked. While it is difficult to analyse the motivations

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92  Simon Barker, Simona Perna & Courtney Ward behind seemingly subjective choices by Roman architects and house owners, issues, such as taste, have been successfully explored through network ana­ lysis (see for example, Lizardo 2006 and Steglich et al., 2006). Moreover, this chapter takes as its methodological backdrop the idea that the house was a location for the construction of identity (Miller 2001; for a discussion of the important influences of the structuralist theories of Lévi-​Strauss (e.g. 1982; 1987) and Bourdieu (e.g. 1979 [1970]; 1990) in underpinning ideas of the house and domestic space as an embodiment of social relationships, see Vokes 2013, 526–​527. For a discussion of the problems with these the­ ories, see, for example, Carsten and Hugh-​Jones 1995, 19–​20) as was its internal décor and furnishings (for a discussion of the ethnographic litera­ ture on identity and houses, see Pink 2004). Other questions we seek to address are: did the room function influence the spread of marble? If so, which rooms?4 Did larger and richer-​in marble houses influence smaller houses? Did the latter only spread marble locally, within their own Regio or more widely across the city? Or were only the lar­ gest houses able to influence on a city-​wide scale? Was there a link between elite houses through social occasions and/​or the patron/​client relationship? Were there links between individuals and more public spaces because of com­ mercial/​business activities? Did marble fashions change over time because of social ties? Indeed, while we are aware that not all these questions can be answered by using a network-​based analysis alone, we will endeavour to see how far such an analysis can take the data currently in hand.

Network dataset For the purpose of this chapter, we selected fifteen houses with marble floor ­decoration located in selected insulae in Regiones I, V, VI, VII and IX (Figure  5.2). A  range of information about these houses was collected during the first field season of the Marble and the Vesuvian Cities Project (directed by Simon J. Barker): house size, approximate date of the marble use, total marble types per house, total pieces for each pavement, total pieces per house, total surface area of marble per house, total surface area of indi­ vidual marble types per house, distance between each house and geograph­ ical location of each house. Throughout Pompeii, marble was used for the décor of floors and walls; however, this chapter will focus on three main types of marble pavements: (1) mosaic or cement pavements decorated with inserts of irregular or geo­ metrically shaped pieces of marble; (2) emblemata of polychrome marbles positioned in the middle of pavements; and (3)  sectilia pavimenta, where pieces of marble were shaped to form a design that covered the full extent of a pavement (Figure 5.3). In total, the marbles identified from the 15 houses originated from 25 quarry locations. In each case, the marble types were assigned visually using two reference databases.5 The pavements have been dated stylistically

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Marble networks 93

Figure 5.2 Distribution and list of houses used in the dataset.

to the First, Second, Third and Fourth Styles, after the four Pompeiian wall painting styles created by the German archaeologist August Mau (Mau 1882, 1907; see, e.g., Laidlaw [1985, 1990] for the First Style (third and second centuries BC); see, e.g., Beyen [1938, 1960] Heinrich [2002], Strocka [1984] for the Second Style (100–​20 BC); see, e.g., Bastet and De Vos [1979], Clarke [1987], Pappalardo [1990] and Strocka [1987] for the Third Style (20 BC – AD 40/​50); see, e.g., Herbig [1962], Ehrhardt [1987] and Esposito [2007] for the Fourth Style (AD 40/​50  –​79/​100); see Ling [1991], Leach [2004], Strocka [2007] for a general overview; see Mogetta [2013] for problems with wall painting chronology; see Bragantini et al., ed. [1981–​1986] and Strocka, ed. [1984–​1986] on Pompeian wall paintings). All geographical parameters (longitude and latitude, area of individual houses and distance between houses) were generated using the resources of The Pompeii Bibliography and Mapping Project.6 The network analysis and visualization were done using Visone developed by the members of the Algorithmics Group of the Department of Computer and Information Science at the University of Konstanz.7 All network data was created in CSV-​based File Formats and the attribute dataset was created with the following attributes: geographical reference (longitude, latitude), house size (m2), total volume for each marble type (m3), total marble volume overall (m3), Regio location, house name, house address and date.

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Figure 5.3 Types of pavement from Pompeii used in the dataset.

As with any dataset, the data has a number of potential limitations. The pavements are stylistically dated and such dating method might not be always accurate, in that similar pavements might be late Third​or early Fourth Style. The city is still partly unexcavated and therefore Regiones II, III, and V cannot be properly assessed. However, since this chapter only deals with a small sample of the overall total, this incompleteness of the dataset should not represent a major issue at this stage. Other variables that could not be factored, for example, are moveable furniture, tapestries and fittings, such as partitions and doors that existed, but cannot be properly reconstructed due to the nature of the archaeological record. The Network Matrix is based on the Brainerd-​Robinson (BR) coeffi­ cient of similarity derived from the overall marble assemblage of each house (DeBoer et al. 1996). All calculations have been carried out using R base, R matrixStats (Bengtsson 2017; R Core Team 2016) and Statnet package for R.8 The result is an adjacency matrix where the cell value indicates the simi­ larity between the two houses in the respective row and column –​the higher the value, the more similar the two houses according to the marble varieties in their assemblages. For the similarity measure (in this case, the Brainerd-​ Robinson Similarity), a high value represents a strong relationship between nodes, a high value in a distance measure indicates that two nodes are more

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Marble networks 95 distant and thus less similar. Since many of the algorithms in Visone are based on distance, the Brainerd-​Robinson Similarity has been converted into the Brainerd-​Robinson Distance by subtracting each link weight from the Brainerd-​Robinson Similarity maximum value, which is 200 in our case. Thus, for any two nodes A  and B in our network, we will transform the Brainerd-​Robinson Similarity BRSA,B into the Brainerd-​Robinson Distance BRDA,B via the following equation: BRDA,B =200 BRSA,B The network analysis and visualization were completed according to the following parameters:  (1) non-​directed links and unspecified direction of connections to mirror the indeterminacy of the archaeological data; (2)  a centrality measure to provide a ranking of the nodes or edges;9 (3)  node betweenness centrality and closeness centrality based on br distance as link length using Visone;10 (4) Girvan-​Newman Clustering (GNC) algorithm in Visone to produce hierarchical clusters;11 (5)  Brainerd-​Robinson distance as the desired distance between nodes to determine the length of the links as the Euclidean distance between sites in the map projection;12 (6) Stress Minimization to optimize the node positions and preserve the link lengths; (7)  the width and/​or colour of edges are scaled to provide a visual guide to the strength of weighted networks (Borck et  al. 2015; Gjesfjeld 2015; Golitko and Feinman 2015); and (8) size, shape, and colour of nodes have been adjusted to reflect a variety of attributes of the nodes (e.g. region, marble type, house size, etc.) (see, e.g., Golitko and Feinman [2015] and Borck et al. [2015] for similar approaches).

Discussion of network graphs for all houses The following section presents a discussion of the network graphs created from our analysis. First, we will look at the graphs for all houses, and second, the graphic results for a single Regio (Regio I) and a specific floor type –​ that decorating atria with impluvia. The first graph (Figure 5.4) shows the network for all houses with hierarchical clusters produced by the Girvan-​ Newman clustering algorithm. As can be seen, the layout suggests that some houses cluster within their own Regiones. For example, houses I.06.01, I.08.08 and I.06.07 all cluster together. These are all located on the same street. Other houses do not cluster with their geographic neighbours, for example, I.13.09, VII.16.17 and VII.15.03. If we look at the same graph but this time with attribute mappings to visualize variables, such as house size and period (Figure 5.5), we can see that the strongest links are between houses of the same period; however, strong links also occur between certain houses from different periods as well. It is possible that these houses represent a link bridging the two periods of marble use. We also see strong links between neighbouring

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Figure 5.4 Layout of the network for all houses with hierarchical clusters (black borders highlighted in grey) produced by the Girvan-​Newman clustering algorithm.

houses, houses in the same Regio and across the city. The overall impression is that interaction occurs on both local and city-​wide scales. If we examine the graph showing the same hierarchically clustered net­ work for all houses with attribute mappings to visualise variables but separated into specific periods, further points emerge (Figure 5.6). As we can see, during the Third Style phase some neighbouring houses present strong

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Figure 5.5 The graph shows the hierarchically clustered network for all houses with attribute mappings to visual variables. Link width and colour according to Brainerd-​Robinson similairy. The darker the shade of grey and greater the width, the higher the similarity value. Links representing higher similarity are drawn on top of the links with lower similarity. Node size is scaled to house size. Node colour represents periods (light grey represents houses with Third Style pavements and dark grey represents houses with Fourth S​ tyle pavements.

links (I.08.08 /​I.09.01 and V.01.26 /​V.04.a), although there are also strong links between houses in different Regiones (V.01.26 /​VII.16.17 /​I.08.08) with large houses showing a greater number of strong links to other houses. For the Fourth ​Style phase, we see an analogous situation with strong links between some neighbouring houses (I.06.07 /​I.07.01) as well as between houses in different Regiones (VI.01.07 /​IX.03.05 /​I.08.08). As in the Third​ Style network, large houses have a greater number of strong links to other houses. Such datum might be explained if we accept that larger houses are those of the elite and therefore those with the most influence on decorative tastes and aesthetic ideals. Moreover, if we examine the network graph without hierarchical clusters (Figure  5.7), we see strong links between houses of the same period both neighbouring houses and houses across the city. Houses I.08.08 and VII.16.17 both have strong links to a house (I.07.01) from a later period.

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Figure 5.6 The graph shows the hierarchically clustered network for all houses with attribute mappings to visual variables. Link width and grey-scale according to Brainerd-​Robinson similarity. The darker the shade of grey and greater the width, the higher the similarity value. Links representing higher similarity are drawn on top of links with lower similarity. Node size is scaled to house size. Node colour represents regio location.

Figure 5.7 The graph shows the network for all houses with attribute mappings to visual variables. Link width and colour according to Brainerd-​Robinson similarity. Only the links with the highest and lowest similarity value are shown. Node size is scaled to house size. Node colour represents the period: light grey represents Third Style and dark grey represents Fourth Style.

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Marble networks 99 In the first case, the houses are neighbouring and on the same street. In the other, they are across the city from each other. The strong similarity between the assemblages in these three houses suggests that the two earlier houses were influencing the later houses both in the immediate area and across the city, although this should not be surprising as the Fourth Style did not develop in a vacuum. The lack of strong links between houses of different periods suggests that new marble trends were being adopted without mirroring earlier houses. When the network is viewed geographically on a map of Pompeii (Figure 5.8), we can see exactly how the strongly linked houses were laid out across the city. This graph shows the strongest links between houses in the same style and in the same geographic region, particularly along the Via dell’ Abbondanza. Once more, we see that houses of comparable size were most strongly linked, reconfirming the data presented in the earlier graphs. Finally, if we now examine the network layout by Stress Minimization on Brainerd-​Robinson distance, we can see that the graph shows that the strongest links are between houses of the same period (Figure 5.9); however, strong links occur between houses of different periods as well. This datum suggests that several houses from different periods were more alike and probably crucial in bridging the two periods of marble use. For example, the layout shows that houses I.08.08 and I.07.01 are significant in this respect. Strong links existed between both geographically close and distant houses, that is between neighbouring houses, houses in the same Regio and throughout the city. The overall impression is therefore that inter­ action occurred on both local and city-​wide scales. The same can be said if we look at the same network layout but shown by period (Figure 5.10), with particular reference to the collection of Third and Fourth ​Style houses discussed previously. In both periods, we find houses that lack similarity to other houses, but whether these differences are due to pavement type or house size is currently unclear. Future analyses of a larger sample may help refine these data.

Discussion of network graphs for Regio I: the case of atria with impluvia The following section focuses on the analysis of Regio I  and of a given floor type –​that decorating atria with impluvia. The atrium was the focus of the Roman house for both occupants and visitors, as well as the main reception hall (Clarke 1991, 2–​12; Ellis 2000, 33–​35). As such, it would have been visible to all guests and some passers-by and thus more likely to influence the spread of marble in Pompeii. Consequently, much emphasis was placed by the house owner/​patron/​beneficiary/​temporary renter in dec­ orating this space, thus representing a socially charged act. Ancient authors, such as Cicero (De Domo Sua), confirm that such an objective was suc­ cessfully achieved by house owners, who, from the first century BC, had

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Figure 5.8 Nodes arranged according to their geographic position. Link width and colour according to Brainerd-​Robinson similarity. Only the links with the highest and lowest similarity value are shown. Links representing higher similarity are in grey and those with lower similarity are in black. Node size is scaled to house size. Node colour represents period: light grey represents Third S​ tyle and dark grey represents Fourth S​ tyle.

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Marble networks 101

Figure 5.9 Network layout by Stress Minimization on Brainerd-​Robinson distance. The network graph shows a layout of the network where nodes are positioned such that the distance between the nodes represents the Brainerd-​Robinson distance. Link width and colour according to Brainerd-​Robinson similarity. Links representing higher similarity are drawn on top of links with lower similarity. Node size is scaled to house size. Node colour represents period: light grey represents Third Style and dark grey represents Fourth S​ tyle.

become extremely competitive. In addition, the atrium featured the impluvium, which collected rainwater,13 while playing a key part in the room’s decoration (Pesando 1997, 27–​28; see, e.g., Coarelli and Pesando [2006, 23–​25] on Pompeian houses with atria and impluvia in the insula VI.10). An example of a marble-clad impluvium can be seen in the House of the Beautiful Impluvium at I.09.01 (Figure 5.11). We conducted a network-​based analysis on five impluvia from Regio I. The layout of the hierarchical clusters suggests that the atria cluster with those from immediately neighbouring houses. This similarity might mean either that marble decoration spread from one impluvium to another or that there existed a set design of impluvia pavements. As was the case with our graphs showing the network for all houses, the layout of network with

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Figure 5.10 Network layout by Stress Minimization on Brainerd-​Robinson distance separated by period. The network graph shows a layout of the network where nodes are positioned such that the distance between the nodes represents the Brainerd-​Robinson distance. Link width and colour according to Brainerd-​Robison similarity. Links representing higher similarity are drawn on top of links with lower similarity. Node size is scaled to house size.

Figure 5.11 Atrium impluvium at I.09.01, House of the Beautiful Impluvium, Pompeii.

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Marble networks 103

Figure 5.12 Layout of atrium impluvia network with hierarchical clusters (black borders highlighted in shades of grey) produced by the Girvan-​ Newman clustering algorithm.

hierarchical clusters produced by the Girvan-​Newman clustering algorithm shows that houses cluster with immediate neighbours, for instance houses I.06.11 /​I.06.07 and I.08.08 /​I.09.01 (Figure 5.12). Moreover, if we look at these impluvia with the same hierarchical cluster layout but with the network mapped with visual variables, we can see the relation to house size and pavement style/​period more clearly (Figure 5.13). Here, we see strong links between houses of the same period (I.08.08 /​ I.09.01 and I.06.11 /​I.06.07), which might be explained by certain marble varieties being available and/​or popular at specific times. We also find strong links between houses I.06.11, I.06.07 and I.08.08, all three of which are located on the same street (Figure 5.14). This datum also shows that when considering specific pavement types, such as those found in impluvia, geog­ raphy and period are strongly linked –​a point that could be further explored with a larger dataset. Interestingly, house 1.07.03 seems to be unique in its impluvium pavement. The floor is weakly linked to the other four impluvia in this test case. Such a weakness might be because house 1.07.03 is the smallest house within the network (120 m2) and has the smallest impluvium pavement. Once more, the significance of this difference will hopefully become more apparent with an expansion of our dataset to include impluvia from similarly sized houses as well as impluvium pavements from other Regiones of Pompeii.

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104  Simon Barker, Simona Perna & Courtney Ward

Figure 5.13 The graph shows hierarchically clustered network for atrium impluvia with attribute mappings to visual variables. Link width and color according to Brainerd-​Robinson similarity. The darker the shade of grey and the greater width, the higher the similarity value. Links representing higher similarity are drawn on top of links with lower similarity. Node size is scaled to house size. Node colour represents the period: light grey represents Third ​Style and dark grey represents Fourth ​Style.

The results of the network analysis for all houses The above discussion of the network graphs suggests several possible conclusions. First, the network analysis for all houses suggests that the marble trends occurred both within specific (see Laurence 1994, 34–35, for definitions of neighbours and neighbourhoods in Roman cities, including Pompeii) and across the city. However, this datum is not entirely unex­ pected because social contact between the inhabitants of Pompeii is likely to have taken place at both local and city-​wide levels. The absence of strong links between many directly neighbouring houses shows that the distance between houses did not always affect trends in marble use. On the other hand, we do see strong links based on geography (at least within indi­ vidual Regiones). The prominent similarity between pavements within atria with impluvia shown in our network analysis of five houses from Regio I, all located along the same street, highlights the seeming import­ ance of geographical proximity in influencing the spread of marble trends. Therefore, geographical proximity may have been a key factor in the social

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Marble networks 105

Figure 5.14 The graph shows atrium impluvia network with nodes arranged according to their geographic position. Link width and colour according to Brainerd-​Robinson similarity. The darker the shade of grey and the greater width, the higher the similarity value. Links representing higher similarity are drawn on top of links with lower similarity. Node size is scaled to house size. Node colour represents the period: light grey represents Third ​Style and dark grey represents Fourth ​Style.

distribution of marble tastes. Our Regio I network also shows trends oper­ ating at specific social levels  –​the other four houses were all of similar size and their pavements had similar marble volumes as seen in the case of house at 1.07.03, which is the smallest house within the network with the smallest impluvium pavement. There also emerges a strong correspondence between house size and the types of marbles employed in pavements. For instance, houses VII.16.17 and I.07.01 are both large houses, a factor which seems to suggest, and thus confirm, a top-​down influence. At the same time, houses I.07.01 and I.09.01 are strongly linked to house I.13.09. It is possible that these links signify a local trend in Regio I with house I.13.09 drawing trends from the other two houses (Figure  5.16). The strength of the links between houses VII.16.17, I.07.01 and I.08.08 indicates that these houses were important interaction points in the transmission of marble trends within our network (Figure 5.15, Figure 5.16). The important factor for house I.08.08 seems to be the total volume of marble on display within the premises, while the overall size is perhaps the most important factor for houses VII.16.17 and I.07.01.14

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106  Simon Barker, Simona Perna & Courtney Ward

Figure 5.15 The graph shows the network for all houses with attribute mappings to visual variables. Link width and colour according to Brainerd-​ Robinson similarity. Only the links with the highest and lowest similarity value are shown. Links representing higher similarity are drawn on top of links with lower similarity. Node size is scaled to house size. Node colour represents period: light grey represents Third ​ Style and dark grey represents Fourth S​ tyle.

Therefore, if the total volume of the marble (surface area) constitutes an important factor, meaning that it would have had a higher visual impact on the viewers and visitors of the premises, this must have been significant in transmitting the marble trends. Indeed, house I.08.08 was also commercially active, with a bar counter selling drink and food, thus more accessible to the public than other houses – an aspect that makes us wonder whether it would have been crucial in aiding the spread of marble. Similarly, public rooms, like triclinia and tablina within elite houses, but also of other business premises, such as fulleries, which included marble decoration, further supports the idea of marble spreading through visibility. Lastly, several houses present strong links, however most of the Fourth ​Style houses only have weak links to those of the previous period (Figure 5.16). The lack of very strong links between houses across different periods suggests that marble trends changed significantly between periods. This datum might be due to the adoption of new marble types in the Fourth

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Marble networks 107

Figure 5.16 Network layout by Stress Minimization on Brainerd-​Robinson distance for all houses. Link width and colour according to Brainerd-​ Robinson similarity. Only the links with the highest and lowest similarity value are shown. Node size is scaled to house size. Node colour represents period: light grey represents Third ​Style and dark grey represents Fourth S​ tyle.

Style – a hypothesis that is supported by archaeological evidence from Pompeii where recent studies have shown that newly imported materials made their debut on a large scale in the Julio-​Claudian period (Fant et al. 2013; cf. Fant 2007, 340–​343). Nevertheless, the examples that do share strong links between periods suggest that houses from these two periods were influential in spreading marble trends. The impetus for these changes may well have come from Rome; however, we should not discount the idea that house owners of Pompeii having seen and interacted with earlier pavements sought to surpass existing elite levels by having a clear break with previous trends. Unfortunately, the introduction of new varieties of marbles is something for which our network analysis was unable to account. Interestingly, the network graph layout by Stress Minimization on Brainerd-​ Robinson distance points towards links between houses I.08.08, VII.16.17 and I.07.01 and suggests that these houses were important interaction points in the transmission of marble trends within our network. It is possible that these houses with late Third ​Style and early Fourth ​Style pavements record the transition of marble tastes between these periods. Perhaps, the owners were trying to keep ahead of previous elite standards – a hypothesis that we

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108  Simon Barker, Simona Perna & Courtney Ward aim to test as we continue to examine and record pavements from Pompeii and Herculaneum. Summing up, if we examine the houses that act as ‘links’, a number of factors seem to be important: (1) the total volume of marble; (2) the size of the house; (3) the location of the marble within the premises; and (4) geog­ raphy. Particularly strong links between date, size and geography were found when looking at a specific pavement type in atria with impluvia in Regio I. The examination of a single pavement type emphasises the importance of geographical influence, especially between neighbouring houses, all located on the same street. This final observation is worth exploring with a larger and more complete dataset.

Final remarks –​networks, social interaction and marble decoration at Pompeii Our examination of houses at Pompeii shows that a network-​based ana­ lysis might be a useful tool to plot marble tastes in an ancient city and thus potentially meaningful in tracking the social mechanisms behind marble use. Our brief test study identified similarities between several houses, reinfor­ cing previously held beliefs, such as the notable relationship between certain marble pavement types and wealth (viewed here in house size). The corres­ pondence between houses and pavements throughout our network points to the idea that house owners were aware of pavements and trends on both a neighbourhood and city-​wide level. Therefore, what does this mean in terms of social interaction? Going back to our initial scenarios of marble viewing modes, we understand how these become very likely in the light of some of the data that emerged from our analysis. The network has made apparent that houses of a certain size with marble decoration placed in visible ‘public’ spots might have aided the cir­ culation of decorative tastes and aesthetic ideals. Provided that these larger houses effectively represent those of the elite, we wonder how much of this connection was also a projection of the owner’s social prominence within the local community. This might have been the case with certain houses known to have belonged to the wealthy local elite, such as the houses of Caecilius Iucundus (V.1.26). Iucundus was a banker, thus an individual of a prominent social identity. His house, where marble display concentrates around the impluvium, could have quite likely been the hub of an intense social network of people, such as clients, fellow businessmen and members of the Pompeian elite. With its marble decoration placed in the most vis­ ible space of the house, Iucundus’ house might well have had a bearing on similar elite houses, such as Marcus Lucretius Fronto’s (V.4.A) in the same Regio and Stabianus’ (in Regio IX, but at about 131.5 m distance from Iucundus’). Indeed, the analysis of the similarity links based on room types has shown the importance of atria. In the historical period considered here, this area of the Roman house was still multifunctional and as Hales (2003)

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Marble networks 109 has pointed out, it was a ‘primary’ space of circulation for the household members, where much social networking whether for leisure or business purposes would have taken place. In other words, viewing marble-clad atria, tablina, peristyles (open to the public) and dining rooms (open to invited visitors only) where social interaction occurred would have had a significant impact on the spread of marble (cf. Wallace-​Hadrill 1994, 145–​183 on the spread of luxury décor in Roman houses at Pompeii and Herculaneum and emulation of elites by other members of society). These rooms, as we have seen, were loci of domestic religious and secular rituals (Clarke 1991), such as ceremonies, the visits of clients to their patrons and the entertainment of guests at dinner parties, and were thus fundamental in binding social ties. As a projection of the owner’s power and prestige, houses’ interior dec­ oration aimed at the stimulation, both optical and intellectual (Bergmann 2007), of the visitors and viewers entering the premises and moving within them. Thus, it was something that visitors certainly noticed. In Petronius’ Satyricon (28–​29) we read the detailed description of the scenes represented in the wall paintings decorating Trimalchio’s house by his dinner guest, Encolpius, upon entering the building. Along with the hilarity provoked by the nature of the painted scene, which so dramatically impresses Encolpius, we get a glimpse of the kind of visual impact that interior decoration had on visitors and the feelings it evoked. We can envisage a similar scenario for marble decoration. Ancient authors often mention marble and record that Romans were able to visually identify and recognize the different varieties (Martial, Epigrams I.88; Juvenal, Satires XIV.307; Statius, Silvae I.2.148–​ 149; Lucian, Hippias or the Bath 5 and 6; Ausonius, The Moselle, 48; Sidonius, Letters II.2.7 and Poems V.34–​39). Pliny, writing in the AD 70s, remarked that the types and appearances of marble (marmorum genera et colores) were well known by highly educated individuals (Natural History, XXXVI.55). This is further confirmed by the astonishment and admiration, though fruit of poetic license, that can be perceived in the erudite ekphrasis by Statius (Silvae I.5) of the marble interior of the ‘cunningly wrought bath’ (Holtsmark 1973, 217)  of Claudius Etruscus, son a of a powerful freedman, and its ‘dazzling material splendour’ (217). Marble emerges as an entity provided with agency capable of cueing human senses. During social occasions marble décor must have acted as a catalysing element able to attract human gaze and to release perceptions in return, to stimulate con­ versation and evoke sceneries. Marble seems to have had a dynamic role not only in shaping and reinforcing the social identity of the house owners but also, as this study has attempted to demonstrate, in reflecting the social interaction and social ties of its viewers. Based on this, we can plausibly argue that marble visibility must have played a key role in the inter-​relation of its users/viewers, thus confirming, at least in part, the importance of social networks in its spread. These material aspects of domestic décor were not separate from but rather an integral actant in shaping society and social interactions (cf. Vokes 2013).

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110  Simon Barker, Simona Perna & Courtney Ward As warned above, this is a test study and does not account for other variables which might not be amenable to a social network analysis. For example, even in the case of direct contact, interaction might not always have been equal, thus the agents of social interaction (i.e. the viewers) might not have had the same level of interaction with the ‘thing’ (i.e. the marble). Moreover, access to marble operated within a trade framework –​ the patrons or craftsmen of new pavements had to work with the marble that was available on the market at any given moment and/​or what they could afford. Therefore, a question that arises is as to how much of this was the result of trade networks or craftsmen operating within the city. Likewise, we should not discount the possibility of influence from outside Pompeii and from villas or cities further afield, such as Rome. Both archaeology and lit­ erature testify that wealthy elites based in Rome had both houses and villas in the Vesuvian area (see D’Arms 1970, esp.  116–​164, and the Appendix [Catalogues 1 and 2] for ancient references) and therefore social interaction between the two cities is highly plausible –​something that is impossible to account for within the current social network. While network-​based ana­ lyses have proved useful in identifying social trends and connections not seen in the raw data alone, we must use these results to return to the data itself. The conclusions that these analyses suggest must be used to readdress questions and hypotheses based on historical, cultural and archaeological evidence to test whether these network findings are historically accurate and/​or meaningful. Our case study has demonstrated that social network analysis is a valid heuristic tool and should be employed alongside other analytical frameworks for the investigation of social interactions in ancient cities.

Notes 1 In his discussion of Pompeian houses, Wallace-​Hadrill (1994, Chs. 2, 3) noted the variety of markers, which signalled the division of space to guests. These markers ranged from room arrangement to differences in wall and floor decoration. 2 The main social events in the elite household were the salutatio, the morning social call, and the cena, the dinner party. The salutatio took place daily and involved the influx of visitors, both clients visiting their patrons and acquaintances of similar status seeking advice or favours. The setting for the salutatio was the atrium/​tablinum. The cena took place in triclinia, and other rooms were used for the reception of important guests and for social and business affairs, as Vitruvius indicates. 3 Vitruvius (On Architecture, VI.5.1) characterises certain areas of the house, such as the atrium and peristyle as open to all, while access to other rooms, such as triclinia and cubicula, required invitation. See also Clarke 2003. The identification of these rooms (or a clear distinction between public and private spaces) in the Roman house are still fraught with problems. See for example Riggsby 1997.

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Marble networks 111 4 Roman houses had private/​ personal (propria loca patribus familiarum) and public/​common (communia cum extraneis) spaces. In this study, we consider atria, halls and peristyles as open to the public (communia) and bedrooms and dining rooms as open to invited visitors. 5 The online Corsi Collection of Decorative Stones at the Oxford University Museum of Natural History www.oum.ox.ac.uk/​corsi and the online Collezione di Marmi e Alabastri di Roma e sue adiacenze at the Museo di Storia Naturale dell’Accademia dei Fisiocratici (Siena, Italy): www.musnaf.unisi.it/​marmi.asp 6 http://​digitalhumanities.umass.edu/​pbmp/​. 7 https://​visone.info/​. 8 Statnet Software tools for the Statistical Modelling of Network Data:  http://​ statnestproject.org. 9 Node centrality is a function that assigns a value to each node so that the nodes can be ordered according to this value. 10 The betweenness of a node is defined as the number of times a node acts as a bridge on the shortest path between two other nodes. Thus, nodes with high betweenness can be regarded as important waypoints on the connections between other nodes, but also as bottlenecks in the network. The closeness of a node is defined as the inverted sum of the node’s shortest paths to all other nodes in the network. This means that nodes with a high closeness can reach all other nodes of the network in fewer steps than nodes with a low closeness. In both cases, we identified the node betweenness centrality and closeness centrality based on br distance as link length. 11 Clustering in network analysis usually means finding a grouping of nodes based on the network structure, such that there are many links within a group (high cohesion), but only few links between the groups (low coupling). 12 To determine the length of the links as the Euclidean distance between sites in the map projection we have specified the Brainerd-​Robinson distance as the desired distance between nodes and used the positioning of nodes to preserve the specified distances as much as possible. To achieve this we applied Stress Minimization, a process where the node positions are optimized towards pre­ serving the desired link lengths. 13 Such features are ubiquitous in Pompeii, and numerous examples date back to the pre-​Sullan period. 14 The house at I.08.08 (Caupona and House of Lucius Betutius (Vetutius) Placidus) has three pavements: (1) atrium impluvium, (2) garden triclinium and (3) thermpolium triclinium. Size = 305 m2. Total marble = 25,773 m2. The house at VII.16.17 (House of Maius Castricius) has three pavements: rooms 7, 8 and 25 –​ all triclinia. Size = 557 m2. Total marble = 19,201 m2. The house at I.07.01 (House of Paquius Proculus) has three pavements: (1) cubiculum, (2) oecus and (3) atrium impluvium. Size = 731 m2. Total marble = 18,167 m2.

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112  Simon Barker, Simona Perna & Courtney Ward Baldassarre, I. and Pugliese Carratelli, G. (eds.)(1990–​ 2003). Pompei, Pitture E Mosaici. 11 vols. Rome: Istituto Della Enciclopedia Italiana. Bastet, F. L. and De Vos, M. (1979). Proposta per una classificazione del terzo stile pompeiano. ‘s Gravenhage: Staatsuitgeverij. Bengtsson, H. (2017). matrixStats: Functions that Apply to Rows and Columns of Matrices (and to Vectors). R package version 0.52.1. Bergmann, B. (2007). ‘Housing and Households. The Roman World.’ In Alcock, S. and Osborne, R. (eds.) Classical Archaeology. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, pp. 228–​248. Beyen, H.G. (1938). Die pompejanische Wanddekoration vom zweiten bis zum vierten Stil. Den Haag: M. Nijhoff. Beyen, H.G. (1960). Die Pompejanische Wanddekoration Vom Zweiten Bis Zum Vierten Stil. Den Haag: M. Nijhoff. Borck, L., Mills, B.J., Peeples, M.A. and Clark., J.J. (2015). ‘Are social networks survival networks? An example from the Late Prehispanic Southwest.’ Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 22(1), 33–​ 57. https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​ s10816-​014-​9236-​5 Bourdieu, P. (1979) [1970]. The Kabyle house or the world reversed, in Bourdieu, P. (ed.), Algeria 1960, 133–​53. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bourdieu, P. (1990). The Logic of Practice. Palo Alto, CA: Stanford University Press. Bragantini, I., de Vos, M. and Parise Badoni, F. (ed.)(1981–​1986). Pitture e pavimenti di Pompei. Repertorio delle fotografie del Gabinetto Fotografico Nazionale, Rome: ICCD. Carsten, J. and Hugh-​Jones, S. (eds.) (1995). About the House:Lèvi-​Strauss and Beyond. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Clarke, J.R. (1987). ‘The Early Third Style at the Villa of Oplontis.’ Mitteilungen des deutschen archaologischen. Instituts, Romische Abteilung 94, 267–​294. Clarke, J.R. (1991). The Houses of Roman Italy, 100 B.C.–​A.D. 250: Ritual, Space, and Decoration. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Clarke, J.R. (2003). Art in the Lives of Ordinary Romans:  Visual Representation and Non-​Elite Viewers in Italy, 100 B.C.–​A.D. 315. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Coarelli, F. and Pesando, F. (eds.) (2006). Rileggere Pompei 1.  L’insula VI,10. Roma: L’Erma di Bretschnider. D’ Arms, J.H. (1970). Romans on the Bay of Naples: A Social and Cultural Study of the Villas and Their Owners from 150 B.C.  to A.D. 400. Loeb Classical Monographs. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. DeBoer, W.R., Kintigh, K.W. and Rostoker, A.G. (1996). ‘Ceramic seriation and site reoccupation in Lowland South America.’, Latin American Antiquity 7(3), 263–​278. Dunbabin, K.M.D. (1991). ‘The Triclinium and Stibadium’, in Slater, W.J. (ed.) Dining in a Classical Context. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, pp. 121–​148. Ehrhardt, W. (1987). Stilgeschichtliche Untersuchungen an römischen Wandmalereien: von d. späten Republik bis zur Zeit Neros. Mainz am Rhein: Von Zabern. Ellis, S.P. (1991). ‘Power, architecture, and décor: How the Late Roman aristocrat appeared to his guests’, in Gaza, E. (ed.) Roman Art in the Private Sphere. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, pp. 17–​134.

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Marble networks 113 Ellis, S.P. (2000). Roman Housing, London: Duckworth. Esposito, D. (2007). Le officine pittoriche di IV stile a Pompei. Dinamiche produttive ed economico-​sociali, Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Fant, J.C. (2007). ‘Marble real and painted (imitation) at Pompeii’, in Dobbins, J.J. and Foss, P. (eds.) The World of Pompeii. New York and Abingdon: Routledge, pp. 336–​346. Fant, J. C., Russell, B. and Barker, S.J. (2013). ‘Sub-​elite marble use and re-​use at Pompeii and Herculaneum:  The evidence from the bars’, Papers of the British School at Rome 81, 181–​209. DOI: 10.1017/​S0068246213000081 Gjesfjeld, E. (2015). ‘Social network analysis of archaeological data from hunter-​ gatherers:  Methodological problems and potential solutions’, Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 22(1), 182–​ 205. DOI:10.1007/​ s10816-​014-​9232-​9 Golitko, M. and Feinman, G.M. (2015) ‘Procurement and distribution of Pre-​ Hispanic Mesoamerican Obsidian 900 BC–​AD 1520: A social network analysis’, Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 22(1), 507–​523. http://​dx.doi.org/​ 10.1007/​s10816-​014-​9211-​1 Hales, S. (2003). The Roman House and Social Identity. Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press. Heinrich, E. (2002). Der zweite Stil in pompejanischen Wohnhäusern. Munich: Biering und Brinkmann. Herbig, R. (1962). Nugae Pompeianorum unbekannte Wandmalereien des dritten pompejanischen Stils. Tübingen: Ernst Wasmuth. Holtsmark, E.B. (1973) ‘The Bath of Claudius Etruscus.’, The Classical Journal 68(3), 216–​220. Laidlaw, A. (1985). The First Style in Pompeii: Painting and Architecture. Rome: G. Bretschneider. Laidlaw, A. (1990). ‘Der Erste Stil.’, Irelli, G. and Callori-​ Gehlsen, C. (eds.) Pompejanische Wandmalerei. Stuttgart: Belser, pp. 202–​212. Laneri, N. (ed.) (2007). Performing Death: Social Analysis of Funerary Traditions in the Ancient Near East and Mediterranean. Chicago, IL: The Oriental Institute. Laurence, R. (1994). Roman Pompeii: Space and Society. London: Routledge. Laurence, R. and Wallace-​ Hadrill, A. (eds.) (1997). Domestic Space in Roman World:  Pompeii and Beyond (Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplementary Series, 22). Porthsmouth, RI: Society for the promotion of Roman Studies. Leach, E.W. (2004). The Social Life of Painting in Ancient Rome and the Bay of Naples. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lévi-​Strauss, C. (1982). The Way of the Masks, trans. Sylvia Modelski. Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press. Lévi-​Strauss, C. (1987). Anthropology and Myth: Lectures 1951–​1982, trans. Roy Willis. Oxford: Blackwell. Ling, R. (1991). Roman Painting. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lizardo, O. (2006). ‘How cultural tastes shape personal networks’, American Sociological Review 71, 778–​807. https://​doi.org/​10.1177/​000312240607100504 Marconi, C. (ed.) (2015). The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman Art and Architecture. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mark, N. (2003). ‘Culture and competition: Homophily and distancing explanations for cultural niches’, American Sociological Review 68(3), 319–​345. https://​doi. org/​10.1177/​000312240607100504

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114  Simon Barker, Simona Perna & Courtney Ward Marquardt, J. and Mau, A. (1886.) Das Privatleben Der Römer. 2.  Aufl. Leipzig: Verlag Von S. Hirzel. Mau, A. (1882). Geschichte der decorativen Wandmalerei in Pompeji. Tafel. Berlin: Reimer. Mau, A. (1907). Pompeii, Its Life and Art. (Translated by Francis W. Kelsey. New ed., rev. and cor.) New York: The Macmillan Company. Mele, A. (1979). Il commmercio greco arcaico. Prexis ed emporia. Napoli: Centre Jean Bérard. Miller, D. (2001). ‘Behind closed doors’, in D. Miller (ed.) Home Possessions: Material Culture Behind Closed Doors. Oxford: Berg, pp. 1–​22. Mogetta, M. (2013). The Origins of Concrete in Rome and Pompeii. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan. Mouritsen, H. (2011). The Freedman in the Roman World. Cambridge: Cambridge Universiy Press. Nevett, L. (2010). Domestic Space in Classical Antiquity. Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press. Pader, E.-​J. (1997). ‘Domestic routine’, in Oliver, P. (ed.) Encyclopedia of Vernacular Architecture. Vol. 1. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 1–​72. Pappalardo, U. (1990). ‘Der Dritte Stil.’, in Irelli, C. G. and Callori-​Gehlsen, C. (eds.) Pompejanische Wandmalerei. Stuttgart: Belser, pp. 223–​232. Peachin, M. (ed.) (2011). The Oxford Handbook of Social Relations in the Roman World. New York: Oxford University Press. Pesando, F. (1997). Domus. Edilizia privata e società pompeiana fra III e I secolo A.C. Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Pink, S. (2004). Home truths. Gender, Domestic Objects and Everyday Life. Oxford: Berg. Premerstein, A.  von. (1900). ‘Clientes’, Paulys Realencyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft (RE) bei Wikisource (Deutschland) 4(1), 23–​55 Rapoport, A. (1990). ‘Systems of activities and systems of settings’, in Kent (ed.) Domestic Architecture and the Use of Space. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 9–​20. R Core Team (2016). R: A Language and Environment for Statistical Computing. R Foundation for Statistical Computing. Vienna, Austria [www.R-​project.org/​]. Riggsby, A.M. (1997). ‘ “Public” and “private” in Roman culture:  The use of the cubiculum’, Journal of Roman Archaeology 10, 6–​56. https://​doi.org/​10.1017/​ S1047759400014720 Saller, R. P. (1982). Personal Patronage under the Early Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Slater, W.J. (ed.) (1991). Dining in a Classical Context. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press. Steglich, C., Snijders, T. and West, P. (2006). Applying SIENA: An Illustrative Analysis of the Coevolution of Adolescents’ Friendship Networks, Taste in Music, and Alcohol Consumption. Methodology’, European Journal of Research Methods for the Behavioral and Social Sciences, 2(1), 48–​56. http://​dx.doi.org/​10.1027/​ 1614-​2241.2.1.48 Strocka, V.M. (1984). ‘Ein mißverstandener Terminus des Vierten Stils: Die Casa del Sacello Iliaco in Pompeji (I 6, 4)’, Mitteilungen des deutschen archaologischen. Instituts, Romische Abteilung 91, 125–​140.

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Marble networks 115 Strocka, V.M. (ed.) (1984–​2004). Häuser in Pompeji, vols. I-​XII (continuing series), Tübingen: E. Wasmuth and München: Hirmer Verlag. Strocka, V.M. (1987). ‘Die römische Wandmalereien von Tiberius bis Nero’, in Barbet, A. (ed.) Pictores per provincias:  actes du 3.  Colloque Internat. sur la Peinture Murale Romaine, Avenches 1986 (Cahiers d’archéologie romande, 43). Avenches: Ass. Pro Aventico, pp. 29–​43. Strocka, V.M. (2007). ‘Domestic decoration. Painting and the “Four Styles” ’, in Dobbins, J.J. and Foss, P. (eds.) The World of Pompeii. New  York and Abingdon: Routledge, pp. 302–​322. Taylor, Rabun (2003). Roman Builders. A  Study in Architectural Process. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Vokes, R. (2013). ‘The house unbuilt:  Actor-​networks, social agency and the eth­ nography of a residence in south-​western Uganda’, Social Anthropology 21(4), 523–​541. https://​doi.org/​10.1111/​1469–​8676.12047 Wallace-​Hadrill, A. (1994). Houses and Society in Pompeii and Herculaneum. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Zanker, P. (1998). Pompeii: Public and Private Life. Translated by Deborah Lucas Schneider.Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

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6  Objects that bind, objects that separate Lieve Donnellan

for it is fitting that a son should inherit his father’s friendships even as he inherits his estate (Isoc. To Demonicus, 1.2)

Introduction To the Ancients, friendships were sacred. They were important to the extent that a son could inherit his father’s friendships, just as he would inherit his material possessions. This is contrary to our modern understanding of human interaction and shows how challenging it is for us today to address social life in the past. Written sources inform us about friendships and high­ light that hospitality (xenia) was fundamental in the ancient Greek world. We can trace references on friendship from Homer, whose works are usually dated between the eighth and seventh centuries BCE (see Sheratt and Bennet 2017) to the citation above, written down by an Athenian between the later fifth and fourth centuries BCE. Homer writes in detail about the importance of friendship and describes how the gathering of friends and allies was an occasion for feasting (Rundin 1996; Sheratt 2004; Wecowski 2014, ch. 4), and how, on the occasion of a feast, costly gifts would be exchanged (Jones 1999, Bertelli 2014). Archaeologists have equated the scenes depicted in Homer with numerous archaeological discoveries made throughout the Mediterranean. Costly vessels for drinking wine and preparing meat, horses and riding equipment, rich fabrics and skilfully made items of clothing and jewellery have been found in contexts dating to the ‘heroic’ Iron Age and have been used to con­ struct an image of an international jet-​setting-​style elite, travelling around the Mediterranean to meet with peers and exchange gifts, and drink while reciting Homer, thus creating a Mediterranean-​wide set of Homeric/​heroic cultural and social values (Crielaard 2006, 2018). The Homeric style of interaction and gift exchange is even interpreted as an economic mechanism that preceded the market exchange and trade of later times (Mele 1979, Tandy 1997). It has been pointed out how in Homer’s works the costly gifts, such as armour, silver vessels and even horses

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Objects that bind, objects that separate 117 could acquire biographies (Crielaard 2003; Grethlein 2008, 47–​8): previous ownership of exceptional items was acknowledged and remembered and could add considerable value to an object. James Whitley has suggested that these objects would get entangled with their previous owners and places as to embody the networks that spanned the Mediterranean (Whitley 2013). These, and other scholars, have come to recognise that the attribution of value to objects is continuously constructed in social interaction (Gregory 1982; Strathern 1988; contributions in Apadurai 1986; Papadopoulos and Urton 2017). In fact, as early as the first half of the twentieth century (Mead 1934) and especially as a reaction on structuralism (Blumer 1969; Bourdieu 1972) sociologists started to emphasise the dynamic nature of social interaction. More recently, more emphasis is placed on the active role of the material world in human interaction and the construction of identities (e.g. Hodder 1982; Miller 1987; Preucel and Meskell 2004; Meskell 2005; Latour 2005; Knappett 2005; contributions in Hicks and Beaudry 2010; Malafouris 2013 etc.). Preucel and Meskell (2004) advocate that, in order to address social interaction, it is necessary to focus on three issues: time (which is not an objective given but socially produced); space (not abstract Euclidian space, but the space of social interaction); and material culture (which mediates interaction). These prerequisites force us to have a deep understanding of the spatial organisation of specific encounters as well as the material culture involved in the production of social reality. Some scholars have come to address this spatio-​temporal specificity as ‘emplace­ ment’ (e.g. Pink 2011). However, even with a sound theoretical framework it remains a challenge for archaeologists to address the production of social reality and allocate the use of objects within it. Most archaeological data are fragmentary and span a broad scale both in space and time. As was outlined in the first chapter, discussion of interaction almost always, out of necessity, resorts to the macro level, in which sites or settlements are used as units of ana­ lysis. It is rare, if not impossible, for archaeologists to operate at a micro level of production of social reality (see also Preucel and Meskell 2004a; Knappett 2011, ch. 4). Hardly any ancient city or settlement has been fully excavated to the extent that we can study interaction, micro-​scale networks (Knappett 2011) or webs that produce reality (Ingold 2011a, 2011b; Olsen et al. 2012; Hodder 2012; Van Oyen 2018). There are some notable exceptions such as Pompeii, Ostia or Çatal Hüyük where the sheer scale of excavation allows us to address social interaction locally (Hodder 2012; Hodder and Mol 2016). As colleagues Simon Barker, Simona Perna and Courtney Ward skilfully out­ line elsewhere in this volume, studying a society at the level of the household reveals invaluable documentation about the dynamics of social interaction within one city. However, Pompeii is an exception. Likewise, the Homeric epics with their detailed accounts of gift-​giving are an exception. Recently, scholars have started to devote more attention not just to the micro level of production of reality, but also to the meso level of daily

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118  Lieve Donnellan interaction involving people producing and using objects. Scholars have turned to households and cult practice to study communities (Yaeger and Canuto 2000). Chaîne opératoire and related concepts are being fruitfully employed to study production, circulation and consumption of objects, usually pottery (e.g. Knappett 2011; Van Oyen 2015; Donnellan 2019b). More generally, different aspects of consumption, production and circula­ tion provide an insight into the kind of social interactions that involve the use of objects (e.g. Dietler and Herbich 1998; contributions in Hicks and Beaudry 2010). This leads to a perhaps even more challenging question than studying the exchange of objects throughout the Mediterranean in terms of trade and gift-​giving:  what were interactions and exchange relations within Iron Age Mediterranean societies? The complexity of the question is such that it is rarely –​if ever –​disentangled from Homer. Homer provides us with exceptional details about interaction and exchange, about motiv­ ations and procedures –​information we could never gather from the arch­ aeological record alone. However, this has also led to the simplistic and overgeneralising view that all costly objects travelled the Mediterranean as gifts and that mundane vessels were all the object of trade. This has all to do with the fact that ever since Moses Finley’s key contributions on the ancient economy (Finley 1953) and Homeric Greece (Finley 1954), scholars have come to look on early Greek societies as ‘primitive’, as a world in which basileis were the driving social and economic force, while the rest of society were simple farmers and herdsmen (Donlan 1982, 1994; Tandy 1997; Jones 1999; Crielaard 2006; Morris 2008). Apart from static notions of ‘elites’ being questioned more recently (Ulf 2007; Kienlin 2012), critical theories on material culture also invite us to be more cautious about the social interaction in the Iron Age Mediterranean and the mediating role objects played in the construction of social reality. Whereas anthropological theory has been used to study Homeric gift-​giving, insufficient attention has been paid to the mechanisms and occasions of the local redistribution of exotic objects and primary resources –​outside of the Homeric epic setting. It has not been assessed, for example, whether more mundane objects could acquire bibliographies too. More crucially, the strict dichotomy between gift (for costly items) and trade (for mundane items) has received insufficient attention. In this chapter, I  argue that a focus on interaction at the household level, combined with an analysis of production and consumption, allows us to construct a number of hypotheses about dynamics of interaction in a Mediterranean Iron Age society, beyond the traditional narratives of basileis and Homeric gift/​trade dichotomies. Formal network analysis can be used to study consumption systematically at a meso level. Object ontologies, such as the ones outlined by Knappett elsewhere in this volume, help to situate consumption within a context of production of social reality and link meso and micro level. It is suggested that the complex interactions and the values attributed to objects can be detected and some of the interactions that

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Objects that bind, objects that separate 119 surrounded the handling of the objects can be hypothetically reconstructed. The argument is illustrated by the analysis of three object types (drinking cups, oil containers, jugs) from a group of exceptionally preserved funerary assemblages from a small island in the Mediterranean, Pithekoussai. Based on specific patterns in the archaeological record, the study outlines how certain values appear to have been attached to specific objects. This would have enabled people to create boundaries: some objects were used to sep­ arate people (or unite a very select group only), whereas others were meant to bind people. Thus, the chapter challenges the static characterisation of mundane objects in traditional scholarship. Moreover, the realisation that objects are attributed certain values has important implications from an economic perspective.

Setting the scene The small volcanic island of Pithekoussai, today Ischia, is located in the Bay of Naples (Figure 6.1), just opposite and within view of the coast. The island figures prominently in archaeological discourses on early Greek colonisa­ tion, for it was the alleged location of a group of Greeks who went on to found the very first Greek city in Italy, Cumae, possibly around the second quarter of the eighth century BCE, on the shore opposite Pithekoussai. The notion of first Greek foundation has sparked a lengthy scholarly debate,

Figure 6.1 Map with sites mentioned in the text.

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120  Lieve Donnellan especially regarding the (ethnic) identity of the Iron Age inhabitants (cf. Donnellan 2016a, 2016b, 2019a).1 The majority of the archaeological evidence on Ischia stems from a vast necropolis, of which an estimated 10 per cent has been excavated and (par­ tially) published (Buchner and Ridgway 1993; Nizzo 2007). Most of the tombs contained a variety of objects, particularly ceramic vessels and metal dress items and jewellery. The funerary assemblages were not rich in terms of precious metals or other items commonly connected to wealth, but never­ theless they testified to the existence of long-​distance exchange networks along which mainly pottery, but also some seals, scarabs and statuettes were imported from the Levant, Cyprus, Aegean, Central Mediterranean as well as from different indigenous communities on the Italian peninsula. Smaller excavations were also conducted at a metal workshop (Klein 1972); an unstratified dump of pottery on the acropolis (Di Sandro 1986; Coldstream 1995); a votive pit (Buchner and d’Agostino 1995); and a farmstead (Gialanella 1994; De Caro and Gialanella 1998). In addition to the archaeological research, a local priest and achaeology passionate set out to dig up the floor of his church when the pavement was being renovated in 1950. Even though the excavation was not conducted in a scientific way, painstaking work has been undertaken to solve the puzzle of his discov­ eries and –​combined with archaeometric analysis of the pottery finds –​it has been possible to locate a pottery workshop under the church (Olcese 2017). This pottery production place provides an invaluable insight into the organisation of the local ceramic production. The earliest oven could be dated to the later eighth century BCE. According to the finds, the area was used for the production of a variety of fine wares: drinking cups (skyphoi, kotylai), jugs (oinochoai), plates and bowls in Greek style, but also less refined ollae, used for the preparation and storage of food, and bowls and basins. All of these pottery classes were found in the necropolis and it is assumed that the workshop catered for the same groups that were buried in the necropolis. Past research has not considered social interaction and the mediating role of objects at Pithekoussai from a critical theoretical perspective. Objects in the tombs are considered as passive markers of identity (ethnic, gender, sym­ posiast see Wecowski 2014; Cerchiai and Cuozzo 2016), as gifts (in the case of more costly or exotic objects) or as trade items (especially amphorae or foreign pottery). The ways in which objects might have mediated interaction is not discussed beyond Homeric-​style interaction between basileis. Some attention has been paid recently to modes of circulation of objects within Italian Iron Age societies (Iaia 2016) and the existence of dividual iden­ tities –​mediated through funerary urns –​has been proposed for Tarquinia (Shipley 2016), but these studies have not been systematic, nor have they led to a re-​evaluation of social interaction or the mediating role of objects at other sites, for example Pithekoussai. If not for elite gift-​giving, the rest of the population is considered to have been rather poor. The absence of

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Objects that bind, objects that separate 121 precious metal or weapons  –​found in other contemporary burials in the Mediterranean –​has led scholars to question the presence of expressions of high status and wealth (e.g. Buchner and Ridgway 1993; Neeft 1994; Nizzo 2007, 2016).

Framing interaction Critical theory suggests that social reality is continuously (re)produced. Only recently, archaeologists have started to address this from a specifically archaeological perspective (e.g. Preucel and Meskell 2004; Ingold 2011b; Knappett 2005, 2011; Olsen et  al. 2012; Malafouris 2013 etc.). As was outlined in the first chapter to this volume as well as in Carl Knappett’s chapter, it is challenging to incorporate the full spectrum of sensorial experiences and the giving of meaning to objects and people in archaeo­ logical studies. Scholars now resort to scales to analyse different modes of interaction. The macro scale of regional interaction has long been favoured by archaeologists. Recently, the micro and meso scales have started to catch up in terms of scholarly attention devoted to them. However, what is still left largely unexplored is the intersection of scales, specifically the micro level of social reality and the meso level of interaction of multiple agents (human and material) (Knappett 2011, 122). The methodology adopted in this chapter combines the study of produc­ tion with consumption, as is commonly done within a chaîne opératoire per­ spective, with a detailed analysis of consumption in terms of ‘communities of interaction’. Both methods operate differently, yet focus on social inter­ action and the way objects mediate them. To add an additional perspective to the analysis, the study draws on object ontologies (cf. Knappett in this volume) to hypothesise how values might have been attributed to objects and what specific interactions could have been conducted with the objects. It is accepted throughout the study that even though the distinction between levels is artificial, it provides a useful analytical space in which it is possible to disentangle objects from contexts of production, circulation from consump­ tion which eventually leads to reassembling the social again (Latour 2005). The idea to apply formal network analysis to study interaction comes from early to mid twentieth-​century sociology, in which an emphasis was placed on the role of human interaction in the creation of sets of values shared by groups. The sociologist Allison Davis and his team studied race relations in the 1930s in the Deep South of the United States (Davis et al. 1941). The team was especially interested in the strategies (e.g. clothing, language, housing, religion) people adopted when trying to climb the ladder and improve socially. Alisson et al. developed matrices to chart the coincidence between individuals and abstract items (e.g. events) to detect subgroups. The interaction matrix thus became the effective blue­ print of what we now call the affiliation network or two-​mode network. Methodologically and theoretically, the two-​mode model provides a firm

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122  Lieve Donnellan anchor point for addressing interaction and the formation of communities (Donnellan 2019b). Archaeologists have recently started to pay attention to communities, in general (e.g. contributions in Canuto and Yaeger 2000 or Mac Sweeney 2011 on identities) and more recently, from a technological perspective of production and consumption (e.g. Dietler and Herbich 1998; Hicks and Beaudry 2010; Van Oyen 2015; Donnellan 2019a). However, these studies often face challenges when trying to address several agents (human and non-​human) at the same time. The human brain can only operate with a limited amount of information; this is where quantitative methods come into play: they allow us to analyse larger amounts of objects (see also Donnellan 2016a). The unique make-​up of the funerary assemblages at Pithekoussai allows us to construct matrices of interaction that resemble those developed by Davis and his team in the Deep South. The Pithekoussan tombs are grouped spatially in what scholars believe to be family groups (Figure 6.2) (see Nizzo 2007 and 2016 for full discussion). So, rather than individual tombs, spa­ tial clusters, believed to have been managed by households, can be used as the unit of analysis. Economic anthropologists locate the organisation of production and consumption of resources in premodern societies at the household level (Patterson 2005). It can also be suggested that burial and the commemoration of the dead was located at a household level. Instead of connecting individuals with an abstract notion such as a party attended as Davis did, the present study uses the link between households (i.e. the human actor of Davis) and objects that were consumed during the funerary rites (i.e. the abstract notion of Davis). Subgroups of consumption or funerary communities of interaction are delineated in this process. Thus, we can study

Figure 6.2 Make-​up of the necropolis showing the development of the necropolis through time (left) and the spatial demarcation of family plots (right) (adapted from Buchner 1975 pl. II and Nizzo 2007, fig. 20d).

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Objects that bind, objects that separate 123 a large amount of agents (human and non-​human) and add more texture to the analysis. As far as our evidence allows us to reconstruct, burial at Pithekoussai was one of the, if not the, main contexts for the consumption of objects –​taken out of circulation through deposition in a tomb. Households mobilised resources on the occasion of burial –​especially ceramic containers, but also dress items and jewelry, as well as perishable materials such as foodstuffs and liquids (oil and wine) which were consumed at burial. Apart from a certain type of oil container (lekythoi) all objects were most likely used in daily life as well. This means that objects used in daily life were repurposed for deposition during funerary rites. The assumption here is that values attributed to objects in the funerary sphere did not differ radically from the value attributed to them in daily life. This view is in line with what Valentino Nizzo proposed recently (2016): we need to see burial as an extension of daily life, not as something that was radically opposed to it. Indeed, for a long time scholars have studied burial exclusively in terms of beliefs in afterlife and rites of passage. More recently the focus has shifted to the role of burial in the construction of power and memory (Donnellan 2019b), the affirmation (or contestation) of political power (Laneri 2007) and the opportunity for feasting and conspicuous consumption (Dietler 2001) (see also Nizzo 2015; Cuozzo 2016). The analysis, discussed below, uses digitised datasets obtained from the primary publication of the Pithekoussan necropolis (Buchner and Ridgway 1993)2, combined with a stratigraphic reconstruction (Nizzo 2007, 2016). In a detailed analysis, Valentino Nizzo grouped the tombs and labelled the groups for the trench (A or B) and as a sequence (01, 02, 03 etc) (Nizzo 2007). Thus, we possess groups of which we can be reasonably certain that they resulted from activities organized at the household level. The datasets constructed for the present analysis include general details organised on family group/​ household level.3 Information taken into consideration concerns (a selected group of) object types i.e. various forms of drinking cups (skyphos, kantharos, kotyle), oil containers (lekythoi and aryballoi) and trefoils jugs (oinochoe) and whether or not the object was locally produced.4 Unlike Davis’ approach for studying affiliation, however, there is the time interval taken into consideration in this analysis. We cannot record exact dates of events as Davis did, but need to work with an estimated time frame. Change over time was not taken into consideration by Davis but constitutes an important part of this work. We possess over two centuries of informa­ tion about tombs (ca. mid eighth to the very early sixth century BCE). In his detailed study of the stratigraphy, Valentino Nizzo did not only make a horizontal reconstruction in family groups, but also a vertical one, sep­ arating the tombs in levels (10–​40). The exact formation processes of the levels are not entirely clear, such as how many years they represent and whether all levels represent the same amount of years. However, the chrono­ logical sequence allows us at least to see shifting trends. For the present

124

124  Lieve Donnellan Table 6.1 Overview of the correlation between stratigraphic levels and generational phases included in the analysis Time interval

Stratigraphic levels

ca. 750–​725 BCE ca. 725–​700 BCE ca. 700–​675 BCE ca. 675–​650 BCE ca. 650–​625 BCE ca. 625–​600 BCE

Level 10–​16 Level 17–​23 Level 24–​29 Level 30–​32 Level 33–​34 Level 35–​37

study intervals of 25 years are taken into account, thus grouping a number of levels together (see Table 6.1). The digitised datasets were analysed with a standard network ana­ lysis package UCINET®. The program enables us to calculate formal characteristics of the network at the level of the network and at the level of the individual nodes. However, local or global metrics are not discussed further here, as the analysis simply focuses on presence, absence and degree (frequency of links) which can be gathered intuitively from the graphs, which the program produces.5

The lives of Pithekoussan objects Drinking cups Ceramic drinking cups have been found throughout the entire period of use of the necropolis, right from the beginning onwards. Typologically, they represent a large variety (Figure  6.3):  one-​handled cups, goblets, skyphoi, kantharoi, kylikes, kotylai and some kyathoi have been identified among the material. The drinking cups were open vessels, normally deep with a varying diameter. The lips could be turned outward or be straight. Handles (vertical or horizontal depending on the type) were placed on the upper part of the body. Some vessels had a small ring base, others had a flat bottom. Elaborate decoration was concentrated on the upper part of the body, usually in the zone between the shoulders to the lip. The lower part of drinking vessels was often decorated with fine horizontal lines or painted monochrome black. Most shapes are attested both as imports and local imitations, the latter probably produced in the workshop under the church of S.  Restituta.6 A first important observation to make, however, is that the vast majority of drinking vessels was imported, rather than locally produced. This is curious, given that the technology to produce local vessels was available. Other shapes discussed in this analysis, such as the oinochoe and oil flasks, seem not to have been surrounded by the same restrictions. Quite the opposite, they were produced locally on an almost industrial scale.

 125

Objects that bind, objects that separate 125

Figure 6.3 Selected drinking cups from Pithekoussai (adapted from Buchner and Ridgway 1993 tav. 146/​495 and tav. 147/​498).

In the first period taken into consideration (ca. 750–​725 BCE)(Figure 6.4a), drinking cups were deposited in eight out of fourteen groups. A mix of shapes and of local and imported vessels was used in half of the cases, whereas in the other half, only one type was deposited. Local imitations and imports thus appeared in half of the cases together. In the next period (ca. 725–​700 BCE) (Figure 6.4b), non-​local drinking vessels were deposited more often, particularly kantharoi and kotylai. Very few local imitations were deposited and those that were present were left by groups that had also had access to originals on other occasions. In addition, it can be observed that there was continuity in the patterns of deposition: drinking vessels seem to have been more exclusively used by groups that used them also more often in the previous period (most notably groups A01 and B02). This continuity hints at the possibility that production and circulation of local imitations was limited. Local imitations thus seem not to have aided to broaden the group of consumers, rather they served the groups that had access to this type of

126

Figure 6.4 Two-​mode network representing the consumption of drinking vessels per household burial group (a = ca. 750–​725 BCE, b = ca. 725–​700 BCE, c = ca. 700–​675 BCE, d = ca. 675–​650 BCE, e = ca. 650–​625 BCE, f = ca. 625–​600 BCE).

 127

Figure 6.4 Continued

128

128  Lieve Donnellan vessel already. To be noted, furthermore, is that out of 33 groups, twenty did not deposit any drinking vessels. In the period (ca. 700–​ 675 BCE) (Figure  6.4c), a different pattern emerges:  many more skyphoi, both originals and imitations are consumed, whereas there was no deposition of locally produced kotylai. The restrictions that seem to have surrounded the production and consumption of local imitations observed in the previous period seems to have been lifted. Locally-​produced skyphoi were deposited by five groups that did not deposit any other type of drinking vessel. In six groups, however, the use of locally-​produced skyphoi was combined with that of one or more other drinking vessel type. Locally-​produced kantharoi seem to have been used in a very similar way: they were deposited by three groups that did not use any other type of drinking vessel, whereas six other groups combined the use of locally-​produced kantharoi with one or more other type of drinking vessel. The deposition patterns of drinking vessels in this period suggest that, even though more people participated in the practice of handling drinking vessels, there was still a select group at the core that used more items and had access to more variation. Also the fact that in eleven of the burial clusters no drinking vessels were deposited suggests that access to these vessel types might have been more restricted than is usually assumed. Regretfully, the next generations provide very little information, due to the lack of finds. In the period ca. 675–​650 BCE (Figure 6.4d), drinking cups were used by most groups that were attested. Apart from one case, the local production served the groups that also had access to imports. In the period ca. 650–​625 BCE (Figure 6.4e) drinking cups were found in most burying groups that were studied, but due to the lack of finds, no specific pattern can be observed. The one thing that can be observed, however, is that the local production might have dwindled. In the last generation studied here, in the period ca. 625–​600 BCE (Figure 6.4f), no locally produced drinking vessels were deposited. The local production might have seized completely –​ a phenomenon that future publications would have to confirm. There was an exclusive interest in imported drinking vessels and only four out of ten burying groups deposited them. It also seems that drinking cups became the focus of conspicuous consumption and one group in particular engaged in depositing imported kotylai in larger quantities than other groups. Summarising the analysis of the consumption of drinking vessels, it can be proposed that this type of vessel did not circulate as widely as scholars usu­ ally assume. The production of local imitations was restricted and appears to have served households that had access to imports. These patterns are highly suggestive for the existence of specific values placed on these items, which prevented them from circulating widely or being consumed freely.

Oinochoai Oinochoai are one-​handled jugs with a trefoild mouth (Figure 6.5). They are very common vessels in the necropolis, considered to have been part of a basic set given to the deceased, consisting of a drinking vessel and

 129

Objects that bind, objects that separate 129

Figure 6.5 Selected oinochoai from Pithekoussai (adapted from Buchner and Ridgway 1993 tav. 80/​184 and tav. 81/189).

oinochoe. The body of the oinochoe could be slender to quite globular. Decoration is normally concentrated on the upper half of the body and mostly consists of lines and geometrical motifs. In later period, figura­ tive decoration combined with lines and other geometric motifs was more frequent. Oinochoai were locally produced in the workshop under the S.  Restituta church, but in addition to the local production several specimens were imported, most often from Corinth. In contrast to the pre­ vious vessel type, oinochoai do not seem to have been subjected to limits in local production. The local production actually outnumbered the imports. In fact, the local production of oinochoai was so vast, almost on an indus­ trial scale, that a flourishing export existed. Francesca Mermati (2013) has pointed out that, more than any other vessel type, Pithekoussan oinochoai were found in sites around Italy. In the first generation of the necropolis, ca. 750–​725 BCE (Figure 6.6a), only one group (A01) used foreign oinochoai. This group also consumed more local oinochoai than most other household groups. The local oinochoai production and imports seem not to have been able to charm everyone, as six out of fourteen groups did not deposit any. The subsequent phase ca. 725–​700 BCE (Figure 6.6b) sees a steep rise in popularity of the oinochoai. More groups consume both imported and local specimens, even though a significant part of the population did not participate in the consumption (sixteen without against seventeen with). Among the participants, roughly half consumed both local as well as foreign types, but only few consumed slightly more than others: A01 appears to have been the largest spender on both types, whereas B02, A05 deposited both types, but slightly more local than foreign ones. In the next phase, ca. 700–​675 BCE, the trend of the previous phase is virtually repeated (Figure 6.6c). Oinochoai were used in funerary rites by the larger part of the population; however, not everyone consumed them

130

130  Lieve Donnellan (twelve without against 23 with). Of the groups that consumed oinochoai, only a small part consumed both imports and local specimens. Again group A01 stands out for having consumed more than others of both foreign and local types. Some more groups (A05, A19, A25 and B12) also consumed slightly more local oinochoai than others. During the period between ca. 675–​650 BCE (Figure  6.6d), when the drinking vessels discussed earlier show a decline, the production of local oinochoai continues. In fact, the production and consumption of oinochoai flourishes. The consumption of

Figure 6.6 Two-mode network representing the consumption of oinochoai per household burial group (a = ca. 750–​725 BCE, b = ca. 725–​700 BCE, c = ca. 700–​675 BCE, d = ca. 675–​650 BCE, e = ca. 650–​625 BCE, f = ca. 625–​600 BCE).

 131

Figure 6.6  Continued

132

132  Lieve Donnellan oinochoai also becomes more widespread, as only one group did not deposit any items; however, the absence of foreign pieces in this phase is notable. The next, not well-​attested, period ca. 650–​625 BCE (Figure  6.6e) still provides information about consumption of oinochoai. Again, only one household did not participate in the consumption, whereas all the others did. Imported oinochoai appear again and local specimens start to be consumed on a larger scale by one group (A03). In the last phase of the necropolis ca. 625–​600 BCE (Figure 6.6f), foreign oinochoai are no longer consumed. Only locally-​produced ones were deposited, and this was done in a conspicuous way by three groups (A03, B01, B02). Despite six groups depositing one or more items, four groups did not participate in the consumption. Summarising the trends regarding the consumption of oinochoai, one can immediately observe that the patterns surrounding production and con­ sumption differ significantly from those of the drinking vessels. Whereas drinking vessels seem to have been surrounded by restrictions on their handling, oinochoai were used much more widely. They were produced on a massive scale locally and were highly favoured by the larger part of the population, albeit that not the entire population engaged in their con­ sumption. This suggests that the oinochoai were embedded with a special meaning, one that was significantly different from that of the drinking cups.

Oil containers Various different types of small containers for (perfumed) oil were found in Pithekoussai (Figure 6.7). A large part of these was imported from else­ where, mostly from Corinth and the Eastern Mediterranean, but another part was locally produced. Oinochoai and lekythoi might not have been produced at the workshop under the church of S. Restituta that produced the drinking cups and oinochoai. It has been argued elsewhere that the oil containers were produced at Cumae, a site on the mainland, opposite Pithekoussai (Donnellan 2019a).7 The earliest aryballoi are globular and decorated with lines and geometric motifs. Gradually, figurative decor­ ation is introduced and the body becomes more ovoid. Some more scarcely attested shapes exist as well, such as piriform, spherical or circular bodies. The lekythoi are typologically even more diverse, but past classifications have taken the presence of a long narrow neck combined with globular or conical-​hemispherical body and a vertical handle from the upper part of the body to the upper part of the neck or lip as a defining trait (Nizzo 2007, 125). The distribution of oil containers shows that in the first phase (ca. 750–​ 725 BCE) of the necropolis, very few groups consumed these vessel types (Figure 6.8a). The vessels seem to have been something of a curiosity as only four out of fourteen groups deposited them. Of these four groups, two used different types and imports and local products together. The next phase ca. 725–​700 BCE shows a more complex pattern as Figure  6.8b shows. Oil

 133

Objects that bind, objects that separate 133

Figure 6.7 Selected oil containers from Pithekoussai (adapted from Buchner and Ridgway 1993 tav. 74/​168).

containers were now consumed by more households; however, the majority of groups did not deposit any items (22 not against eleven groups with one or more specimens). The conspicuous consumption of especially foreign aryballoi is also striking and, to a lesser extent, of local ones by group A01. Conspicuous consumption only appeared in the later phases for other vessel types, but oil containers display a different consumption pattern. In the following period ca. 700–​675 BCE (Figure  6.8c), oil containers were used more widely on the occasion of burial. Especially locally-​produced aryballoi were consumed by a vast group of households. Foreign aryballoi but especially lekythoi (local and imported) were more exclusive objects, handled in the funerary sphere by fewer households. Conspicuous consump­ tion appears to have touched the foreign aryballoi. Especially groups A01 and A05 used more items than the other groups. The period ca. 675–​650 BCE (Figure 6.8d) is less documented generally. However, a clear pattern emerges, similar to the trends that were observed for the drinking cups. The local production appears to have fallen out of favour in funerary rites. It is difficult to conclude whether this was caused by a decline in supply, as we have no contexts to compare (e.g. domestic contexts). Between ca. 650–​625 BCE (Figure 6.8e), the little evidence we have further confirms the

134

134  Lieve Donnellan absence of consumption of local specimens, whereas a few foreign items were deposited. However, the majority of (the few) groups attested did not deposit any oil containers. In the last phase ca. 625–​600 BCE (Figure 6.8f), out of ten groups, six did not deposit any oil containers. The other groups only used imported items and one group (B02) engaged in conspicuous con­ sumption of foreign aryballoi. Concluding the analysis of oil containers, it is clear that this object class was handled in a different way than the previous two vessel classes. Oil containers were more exclusive than oinochoai and from early onwards, they were the object of conspicuous consumption. This suggests that they were invested with different meanings. They might have been highly valued, probably more for their content than their container.

Pithekoussan interactions As the analysis supra suggests, the three object categories taken into con­ sideration operated very differently and shape or type is a valid heuristic tool in the study of consumption. Distinct differences could be observed in production and consumption patterns of the different vessel types and this suggests that they were attributed different values and structured inter­ action differently. The patterns at the meso scale can be juxtaposed with observations on the micro scale, to attempt to grasp the production of social reality and the mediating role of the objects in the interaction with people and other objects. First, it was observed that drinking cups were not produced locally on a massive scale, despite the technology being present and used for the pro­ duction of other vessel types (e.g. oinochoai). This suggests that non-​local items were seen as special and could not be handled by everyone. Local drinking vessels could still be produced, however, and they circulated in the first place among groups that also had non-​local items. Only a few groups seem to have gained access to the use of local items directly, without having been involved in the consumption of foreign drinking cups. This phenom­ enon suggests that the local production of drinking cups was linked closely to the use of the originals and perhaps could have been used to ‘multiply’ the effect of the foreign items. Future research should analyse to what extent the drinking vessels might have been produced in batches (e.g. for feasts in which a selected group of people only could participate). To understand how ceramic vessels could have been used to effect exclu­ sive handling, a Melanesian and Classical ontology (see Carl Knappett in Chapter  2 of this volume; Strathern 1988) can come into use. Knappett explains how Marilyn Strathern, based on a long tradition of Melanesian studies on interaction and exchange of objects, stressed the complex patterns that the production, exchange and use of objects created. Ties of obligation and expectation were forged by supplying raw material, handling and exchanging it. Drinking cups at Pithekoussai might have been loaded

 135

Figure 6.8 Two-mode network representing the consumption of oil containers per household burial group (a = ca. 750–​725 BCE, b = ca. 725–​700 BCE, c = ca. 700–​675 BCE, d = ca. 675–​650 BCE, e = ca. 650–​625 BCE, f = ca. 625–​600 BCE).

136

Figure 6.8  Continued

 137

Objects that bind, objects that separate 137

Figure 6.8  Continued

with webs of connections, related to ownership, power and gender. The drinking vessels were probably attributed agency and simply could not have been used by everyone in society. An iconic example is the inscription from Pithekoussai on a Rhodian bird skyphos: ‘I am Nestor’s cup, good to drink from. Whoever drinks this cup empty, straightaway, desire for the beauti­ fully crowned Aphrodite will seize him’ (Figure  6.9) (Filos 2013). In fact, drinking cups were one of the earliest vessel types to receive inscriptions of ownership in the ancient Greek world, and thus it is necessary to challenge the common assumption that drinking vessels were meant to be shared and were ‘impersonal’ (e.g. Wecowski 2014; Gaifman 2018a). The patterns described suggest that the drinking cups were highly personal and there­ fore could not be exchanged freely. A  Classical ontology, as suggested by Knappett, is valid in several ways, but the present case also shows that vessel shape alone cannot be taken to equal certain patterns of interaction or human/​object entanglement. In this case, only the comparison between production and patterns of consumption suggests that special value was attributed to drinking cups. The comparison between production and consumption showed that the restrictions observed for drinking cups did not apply for oinochoai. They were produced locally on a massive scale and the local production was pre­ ferred over imports. The value that might have been placed on the objects thus appears not to have been one of exclusivity as with drinking cups but of sharing or uniting the community. Oinochoai were not just used for pouring wine during the symposium but were widely used for libation acts during sacrifice, as has been well documented in Classical art (Gaifman 2018b). The frequency with which oinochoai were handled in burial at Pithekoussai suggests that libation was an important part of funerary rites. Libation as performance, as bodily act, was composed of a series of highly visible and impactful gestures. The widespread use of oinochoai and the flourishing of

138

Figure 6.9 The Nestor cup from Pithekoussai (adapted from Buchner and Ridgway 1993 tav. CCCVI and CXXVII).

 139

Objects that bind, objects that separate 139 a local production of oinochoai suggests that the performance of libation was considered by most people as an essential part of burial and thus the oinochoe can be seen as highly central in cultic performance and eventually social reproduction. The consumption patterns of oil containers were demonstrated to differ significantly from those of drinking vessels as well as of oinochoai. Whereas conspicuous consumption only affected drinking cups and oinochoai in later phases, oil containers were subject to conspicuous consumption from early on. Moreover, only a selected group of households deposited oil containers in their tombs, further suggesting that oil containers (their content probably rather than the packaging) were assigned a high intrinsic value, one that derived merely from possessing it. An inscription, found on an aryballos from Cumae, reads ‘I am Tataia’s lekythos. May he who steals me go blind’ (IG 14.865). The agency no longer resides with the cup, as with Nestor’s cup, but with the owner. The gods will punish the thief who dares to steal this valuable possession from its rightful master. Drawing on a Gothic ontology (cf. Chapter 2 in this volume), we can observe that objects act in sympathy and operate in webs of associations that are no longer questioned. The oil containers obtain an intrinsic value that is detached from previous ownership. Oil containers can be exchanged, but those who want to own one, will pay for it dearly.

Conclusion Objects in Pithekoussai are usually seen as passive objects, as markers of a static identity and as part of standard sets that people deposited with their dead, according to fixed social norms such as gender, age, rank and status. The foreign pottery that arrived in the tombs has been seen as part of trade, whereas the few valuables that were found are generally considered gifts, exchanged by elites who desired to participate in heroic Homeric-​ style practices. Traditionally, locally-​ produced pottery has not received much attention in terms of theoretically-​ informed interaction processes. Pithekoussai is thus not any different from most Mediterranean Iron Age sites. As was outlined in this chapter, recent advances in methodology allow us to include critical theoretical perspectives regarding the mediating role of objects in social interaction. A formal network analysis was adopted to trace consumption patterns that were juxtaposed with production patterns. This allowed us to locate interaction at an artificial but analytically useful meso scale from where inferences could be made about values that might have been attributed to objects. Departing from an ontological level, next we were able to add texture to the kinds of interactions that these objects could have mediated on a micro level. The analysis allowed us to observe that seemingly mundane, not very refined ceramic vessels, enacted very differently and created complex webs

140

140  Lieve Donnellan between people and objects. This strengthens the suggestion also made by Carl Knappett (2005) that ceramic vessels could lead complex social lives too. In contrast to what is usually assumed about drinking vessels, it was concluded that they were likely considered highly personal and highly valu­ able items that might have been attributed agency. Their circulation was very limited and their use and exchange probably could only exist in a highly ceremonial context. Exchange and use, moreover, must have generated complex patterns of dividual identities, power, ownership and obligation, as anthropological studies (e.g. Strathern 1988 cf. Knappett this volume) suggest. Oinochoai, it was proposed, circulated much more widely and were not surrounded by the same limitations as drinking vessels. They were used in highly visible performative acts that were powerful and probably allowed performer and observers to connect to a wider community of practice. Oinochoai thus mediated social reproduction. They were probably not as valuable as oil containers but they obtained a value through their associ­ ation with the human body. The patterns observed for oil containers were very different. From early onwards, they were the object of conspicuous consumption. Moreover, they seem to have been very exclusive. This is highly suggestive for the existence of an intrinsic value residing in the vessels (or more likely their content). The vessels were not attributed agency; the power now resides with the owner. Ownership could be transferred, but was very costly. Rather than passive identities residing in the deposition of objects, burial at Pithekoussai was an opportunity for making a number of active and powerful statements, such as materialising wealth, participation in a broader community, or belonging to a select group. Links were forged within the burial, but they extended far beyond it, reaching back in the past and repro­ ducing the present. The analysis suggests that objects were attributed certain values that placed a constraint on how they were used, or, contrary, could facilitate cer­ tain interactions. These values were not absolute but could be renegotiated. In later phases, drinking cups and oinochoai, previously subjected to limitations, are deposited in large numbers by some people. Some people permit themselves now to use quantity to make statements about access to resources and possibly to take them out of circulation by depositing them in a burial. The attitudes surrounding objects and the ways on which objects bind and separate are thus very clearly context-​specific and determined by social interaction. Despite limits posed by the specific format for handling data, network analysis as a method currently comes closest in recording this.

Notes 1 The argument has attracted a lengthy bibliography. As the ethnic identity issue is not central to the argument presented in this chapter and has been discussed

 141

Objects that bind, objects that separate 141 elsewhere, the reader is referred to the cited works for details and relevant literature. 2 This publication actually represents only a part of the excavations. The rest is still unpublished. More recently, some previously unpublished tombs have been discussed in preliminary fashion (e.g. Cinquantaquattro 2012–​13, 2017). But without the detail of information available for the other tombs, it is difficult to include them in the analysis. Their final publication can provide an opportunity for elaboration of the network analysis and an opportunity for testing previous analyses. 3 As the notion of ‘community’ or ‘household’ is taken as central given, it was decided to omit tombs with too little information from the analysis. Especially the lack of spatial information was considered detrimental for the analysis. Although one could construct a large group of tombs without connection, their analysis would contribute nothing to the question of practice at the household level. However, tombs with a vague location in time were considered less problematic, as the time intervals used are accepted as an artificial construction. Tombs with a vague chron­ ology were counted in each time slice where they could possibly have belonged. 4 The publication report contains much more detailed information and future research could take more typological details or decoration into consideration to see whether these played any mediating role, as the work on style of Dietler and Herbich (1998  –​also hinted at by Iaia 2016) would suggest. However, for the present analysis, it was decided to work on the question of object type and its influence on structuring interaction. 5 I have dedicated ample attention elsewhere to the analysis of the Pithekoussan datasets, from different perspectives. For further discussion see Donnellan 2016a, 2016b and 2019a. 6 As very few plates were found in Pithekoussai, it has been suggested that the cups might have been used for the consumption of food as well (Coldstream 1995, 267). The typology of the Pithekoussan pottery has been well-​studied. See Buchner and Ridgway’s key study (1993) and Nizzo’s fundamental work (2007). More recently, Francesca Mermati (2012) has published another important study on typology of selected published and unpublished vessels. 7 Given the short distance and given the fact that the local interaction and mechanisms of exchange within the Bay of Naples is not part of the enquiry, the production is still labelled as ‘local’ to distinguish it from the (mainly Aegean) imports.

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Objects that bind, objects that separate 143 Dietler, M. and Herbich, I. (1998). ‘Habitus, techniques, style: an integrated approach to the social understanding of material culture and boundaries’, in Stark, M.T. (ed.) The Archaeology of Social Boundaries. Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press, pp. 232–​263. Di Sandro, N. (1986). Le anfore archaiche dallo scarico Gosetti, Pithecusa. Naples: Centre Jean Bérard. Donlan, W. (1982). ‘The Homeric economy’, in Morris, I. and Powell, B. (eds.) A New Companion to Homer. Leiden: Brill, pp. 649–​667. Donlan, W. (1994). ‘Chiefs and followers in pre-​state Greece’, in Duncan, C.M. and Tandy, D.W. (eds.) From Political Economy to Anthropology: Situating Economic Life in Past Societies. Montreal: Blackrose Books, pp. 34–​51. Donnellan, L. (2016a). ‘A networked view on Euboean “colonisation” ’, in Donnellan, L., Nizzo, V. and Burgers, G.-​ J. (eds.) Conceptualising Early Colonisation. Turnhout: Brepols, pp. 149–​166. Donnellan, L. (2016b). ‘“Greek colonisation” and Mediterranean networks: Patterns of mobility and interaction at Pithekoussai’, Journal of Greek Archaeology 1, 109–​148. Donnellan, L. (2019a), ‘Changing pottery production technologies in urbanising societies in the Bay of Naples (8th–​7th centuries BCE)’, in Kadrow, S. and Müller, J. (eds.) Habitus, the Social Dimension of Technology and Transformation. Leiden: Sidestone Press, pp. 161–​180. Donnellan, L. (2019b). ‘Modeling the rise of the city:  Early urban networks in Southern Italy’, Frontiers in Digital Humanities 6(15), 1–​ 19. https://​doi.org/​ 10.3389/​fdigh.2019.00015 Filos, P. (2013). ‘Nestor’s Cup’, in:  Encyclopedia of Ancient Greek Language and Linguistics, Online Edition (Consulted online on 5 May 2019) http://​dx.doi.org/​ 10.1163/​2214-​448X_​eagll_​SIM_​00000502 Finley, M. (1953). Economy and Society in Ancient Greece. London: Penguin. Finley, M. (1954). The World of Odysseus. New York: Viking press. Gaifman, M. (2018a). ‘The Greek libation bowl as embodied object’, Art History 41(3), 444–​465. https://​doi.org/​10.1111/​1467–​8365.12383 Gaifman, M. (2018b). The Art of Libation. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Gialanella, C. (1994). ‘Pithecusa. Gli insediamenti di Punta Chiarito. Relazione preliminare’, in d’Agostino, B. And Ridgway, D. (eds.) APOIKIA. Scritti in onore di Giorgio Buchner. Napoli: Istituto universitario orientale, pp. 169–​204. Gregory, C.A. (1982). Gifts and Commodities. London: Academic Press. Grethlein, J. (2008). Memory and material objects in the Iliad and the Odyssey. Journal of Hellenic Studies 128, 27–​51. https://​doi.org/​10.1017/​S0075426900000045 Hicks, D. and Beaudry, M.C. (2010). The Oxford Handbook of Material Culture Studies. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hodder, I. (1982) Symbols in Action. Ethnoarchaeological Studies of Material Culture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hodder, I. (2012). Entangled. An Archaeology of the Relationships between Humans and Things. Oxford: Wiley. Hodder, I. and Mol, A. (2016). ‘Network analysis and entanglement’, Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 23(4), 1066–​1094. https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​ s10816-​015-​9259-​6

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144  Lieve Donnellan Hodos, T. (2014). ‘Stage settings for a connected scene. Globalization and material-​ culture studies in the early 1st millennium BCE’, Archaeological Dialogues 21(1), 24–​30. https://​doi.org/​10.1017/​S1380203814000051 Iaia, C. (2016). ‘Styles of drinking and the burial rite of Early Iron Age Middle-​ Tyrrhenian Italy’, in Perego, E. and Scopacasa, R. (eds.) Burial and Social Change in First Millennium BC Italy. Oxford: Oxbow Books, pp. 31–​54. Ingold, T. (2011a). ‘Materials against materiality’, in Ingold, T., Being Alive. Essays on Movement, Knowledge and Description. London: Routledge, pp. 19–​32. Ingold, T. (2011b). ‘When ANT meets SPIDER. Social theory for arthropods’, in Ingold, T., Being Alive. Essays on Movement, Knowledge and Description. London: Routledge, pp. 89–​94. Jones, D. (1999). ‘The archaeology and economy of Homeric gift exchange’, Opuscula Atheniensia 24, 9–​24. Kienlin, T.L. (2012). ‘Beyond elites:  An introduction’, in Kienlin, T.L. and Zimmermann, A. (eds.) Beyond Elites. Alternatives to Hierarchical Systems in Modelling Social Formations. Bonn: Rudolf Habelt, pp. 15–​32. Klein, J. (1972). ‘Greek metalworking quarter. Eight-​century excavations on Ischia’, Expedition 14(2), 34–​38. Knappett, C. (2005). Thinking Through Material Culture. An Interdisciplinary Approach. Philadelphia, PA: Penn Press. Knappett, C. (2011). An Archaeology of Interaction. Network Perspectives on Material Culture and Society. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Latour, B. (2005). Reassembling the Social:  An Introduction to Actor-​Network-​ Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press. MacSweeney, N. (2011) Community Identity and Archaeology:  Dynamic Communities at Aphrodisias and Beycesultan. Ann Arbor, MI:  University of Michigan Press. Malafouris, L. (2013). How Things Shape the Mind:  A Theory of Material Engagement. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Mead, G.H. (1934). Mind, Self and Society. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Mermati, F. (2012). Cuma: le ceramiche arcaiche: la produzione pithecusano-​cumana tra la metà dell’VIII e l’inizio del VI secolo a.C. Pozzuoli: Nauss. Mermati, F. (2013). ‘The Mediterranean distribution of Pithekoussan-​ Cumaean pottery in the Archaic period’, in Whitehouse, R. and Wilkins, J.B. (eds.) Accordia Research Papers XII. London: Accordia Centre, pp. 97–​118. Meskell, L. (2005). Archaeologies of Materiality. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Miller, D. (1987). Material Culture and Mass Consumption. Oxford: Blackwell. Morris, I. (2008). ‘Early Iron Age Greece’, in Scheidel, W., Morris, I. and Saller, R. (eds.) The Cambridge Economic History of the Greco-​ Roman World. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 211–​241. Neeft, C. (1994). ‘In the search of wealth and status in the Valle di San Montano’, in d’Agostino, B. and Ridgway, D. (eds.) APOIKIA. Scritti in onore di Giorgio Buchner. Napoli: Istituto universitario orientale, pp. 149–​163. Nizzo, V. (2007). Ritorno ad Ischia. Dalla stratigrafia della necropoli di Pithekoussai alla tipologia dei materiali. Napoli: Centre Jean Bérard. Nizzo, V. (2015). Archeologia e antropologia della morte. Storia di un idea. Bari: Edipuglia.

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Objects that bind, objects that separate 145 Nizzo, V. (2016). ‘Lo spazio funerario. Per una stratigrafia dei rapporti sociali: parentela, rito, tempo e filtri funerari nella necropoli di Pitecusa’, in Poleis e poleitai nella Magna Grecia arcaica e classica. Taranto: ISAMG, pp. 417–​451. Olcese, G. (2017). ‘Pithecusan workshops’. Il quartiere artigianale di S. Restituta di Lacco Ameno (Ischia) e i suoi reperti. Rome: Edizioni Quasar. Olsen, B., Shanks, M., Webmoor, T. and Witmore, C. (2012). Archaeology. The Discipline of Things. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Papadopoulos, J. and Urton, G. (2017). ‘Introduction’, in Papadopoulos, J. and Urton, G. (eds.) The Construction of Value in the Ancient World. Los Angeles, CA: Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, pp. 1–​49. Patterson, T.C. (2005). ‘Distribution and redistribution’, in Carrier, J.G. (ed.) A Handbook of Economic Anthropology. Cheltenham: Edward Elgar, pp. 194–​209. Pink, S. (2011). ‘From embodiment to emplacement: Rethinking competing bodies, senses and spatialities’, Sport, Education and Society 16(3), pp. 343–​355. Preucel, R.W. and Meskell, L. (2004). ‘Knowledges’, in Preucel, R.W. and Meskell, L. (eds.) A Companion to Social Archaeology. Oxford: Blackwell, pp. 3–​22. Rundin, J. (1996). ‘A politics of eating: Feasting in Early Greek society’, The American Journal of Philology 117(2), pp. 179–​215. http://​doi.org/​10.1353/​ajp.1996.0029 Sheratt, S. (2004). ‘Feasting in Homeric epic’, Hesperia 73, 301–​337. Sheratt, S. and Bennet, J. (eds.) (2017) Archaeology and Homeric Epic. Oxford: Oxbow. Shipley, L. (2016). ‘Potting personhood: Biconical urns and the development of indi­ vidual funerary identity’, in Perego, E. and Scopacasa, R. (eds.) Burial and Social Change in First Millennium BC Italy. Oxford: Oxbow Books, pp. 55–​76. Strathern, M. (1988). The Gender of the Gift. Problems with Women and Problems with Society in Melanesia. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Tandy, D.W. (1997). Warriors into Traders: The Power of the Market in Early Greece. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Ulf, C. (2007). ‘Elite oder Eliten in den Dark Ages und der Archaik. Realitäten und Modelle’, in Alram, E. and Nightingale, G. (eds.) Keimelion. Elitenbildung und elitärer Konsum von der Mykenischen Palastzeit bis zur Homerischen Epoche. The Formation of Elites and Elitist Lifestyle from Mycenaean Palatial Times to the Homeric Period. Wien: ÖAW, pp. 317–​324. Van Oyen, A. (2015). ‘The Roman city as articulated through terra sigillata’, Oxford Journal of Archaeology 34(3), 279–​299. https://​doi.org/​10.1111/​ojoa.12059 Van Oyen, A. (2018). ‘Material agency’, in López Varela, S.L. (ed). The Encyclopedia of Archaeological Sciences. Oxford:  Wiley-​Blackwell. https://​doi.org/​10.1002/​ 9781119188230.saseas0363 Wecowski, M. (2014). The Rise of the Greek Aristocratic Banquet. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Whitley, J. (2013). ‘Homer’s entangled objects:  Narrative, agency and personhood in and out of Iron Age texts’, Cambridge Archaeological Journal 23(3), 395–​416. https://​doi.org/​10.1017/​S095977431300053X Yaeger, J. and Canuto, M.A. (2000). ‘Introducing an archaeology of communities’, in Canuto, M.A., and Yaeger, J. (eds). The Archaeology of Communities: A New World Perspective. London: Routledge, pp. 1–​15.

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7  A complex beadwork Bead trade and trade beads in Scandinavia ca. 800–​1000 AD revisited Søren M. Sindbæk

Introduction A sustained focus of archaeological interest in network analysis and concepts are the links that go beyond primary residence or kinship groups to form more complex forms of society. These peripheral and episodic social relations or ‘weak ties’, as famously named by Mark Granovetter, are essen­ tial to understand ‘how interaction in small groups aggregates to form large-​ scale patterns’ (Granovetter 1973, 1360). Connections of this kind have few direct archaeological proxies, and are typically approached in terms of evi­ dence for institutionalization and centralization (Yoffee 2005, 16). Studying flows of object and materials represents another way to approach the ‘interpersonal contacts comprising past social nets’ (Schortman 2014, 168). This has prompted provenance and distribution studies through the use of maps and statistical approaches (Schortman and Urban 1992). Mapping, however, is mostly limited by considering only one or a few find types or complexes at a time. In this way they discount an elusive but potentially vast set of relational data retained in the association of objects, contexts and sites. One of the most appealing applications of networks analysis in archae­ ology is as a means of making sense of this record of flows and interactions retained in the things, which were moved and exchanged across space in the past. Network analysis has a potential to engage such evidence using methods designed to explore not only patterns in individual distributions but in the combination of many sets of data. While it may be impossible to show how any individual artefact arrived at the place where it is found, the patterns traced by large numbers of finds may hold potentially retract­ able evidence, if relevant methods can be designed to gather and extract the patterns. Material flows are not, by any means, a direct imprint of communica­ tion. Beyond the basic fact that provenance is a poor guide to the routes, processes, significance and sentiments of exchange, the record is permeated by patterns of deposition, survival and retrieval. The networks marked by the displacement of objects and materials in the archaeological record are

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A complex beadwork 147 best regarded as palimpsests of these multiple dynamics: there is usually no direct path to proceed from the analysis of archaeological data to the mod­ elling of the social process, which conditioned distributions (Sindbæk 2013; Östborn & Gerding 2014). What network analysis may contribute, how­ ever, is a means to explicate and analyse the relational data, that may inform modelling and theorization. Formal social network studies have had minimal impact in archae­ ology until the early 2000s. One reason for the interest it has subsequently attracted is certainly the growing availability of powerful computers, and the rising impact of electronic networks in the contemporary world (Collar et  al. 2015, 2). Yet another important reason why it was not previously explored more widely is that it has been difficult to match the type of data supplied by archaeology with common tools of social network analysis. Most of these assume that direct relations can be established between a class of actors. Examples of such networks could be, for example, letters sent between individuals, or ties of kinship in a village. Archaeological data rarely provides evidence for such direct relations. A different class of networks provides much more relevant templates for archaeological data. These are affiliation networks in which actors are considered as members or participants in overlapping groups, and analysed using bipartite or two-​mode graphs (Borgatti and Halgin 2011). An important step in the adoption of network analysis in archaeology was the discovery that this form of analysis could be readily adapted to arch­ aeological data such as that resulting from provenance studies and dis­ tribution maps (Sindbæk 2007; Mills 2015, 387). As yet, few published archaeological studies explore large-​scale datasets on a basis of affiliation networks (Sindbæk 2013; Mills et al. 2015). This chapter presents a case-​ study which explores the potential and problems by direct comparison with a non-​network approach. ‘Trade beads and bead trade in Scandinavia, ca. 800–​1000 AD’ is the doc­ toral dissertation of Johan Callmer, defended in Lund, Sweden in 1977. The aim of the study was to understand how beads found in Viking-​age graves could reveal chronological and regional groups that might hold information on the patterns of trade and exchange. Callmer was aware of the exceptional potential of the burial assemblages as a firm record of find combinations, and also of the potential of this material for formal analysis. The means he envisaged was a quantitative analysis of the association between a wide range of bead types occurring in combination in a large set of individual assemblages  –​essentially a two-​mode affiliation problem. In approaching this problem, Callmer used available network concepts and tools, including graph analysis. Callmer’s study remains a basic reference for the study of Viking Age glass beads in Northern Europe. What makes it interesting in the present context is that it is a reminder that method and theory from network science were known and occasionally applied in archaeology long before the 2000s.

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148  Søren M. Sindbæk However, while recent archaeological applications of network analysis have thrived on the growth of powerful computers and dedicated software, ‘Trade beads and bead trade’ was based entirely on hand calculations. As such, it can be seen as a benchmark to study how far electronic computing has changed the scope of network analysis. This chapter revisits Callmer’s 1977 study based on a full digitization of the original data, and repeats and extends the network analysis using the soft­ ware package Pajek (de Nooy et al. 2018). The comparison vindicates many results of the original analysis and confirms that the analytical principles, guided by an intimate familiarity with the archaeological material, identified robust patterns of clustering and similarities, which are repeated in the Pajek analysis. It also demonstrates what is argued here to be the principal benefit of the computerized analysis: while the 1977 analysis was bound to proceed through a research design of tightly planned, separate steps of calculation and classification, computers have enabled an explorative approach, facili­ tating variations and re-​iteration, which is better suited to cope with the inevitable exceptions and inconsistencies arising in archaeological data. The results show how shifting Eurasian trade patterns can be untangled from the adornments of Viking Age women, but also how these trends are interwoven with non-​spatial patterns revealing the aesthetic perceptions and cultural identities of Viking Age people.

Beads and bead trade The burial customs of eighth to tenth century CE Scandinavians have left a record of hundreds of mostly female graves containing rich dress ornaments. Often these incorporate a wide variety of glass and stone beads. They dis­ play a panorama of bead types produced in regions ranging from the Indian Ocean to Scandinavia, and somehow transported, exchanged, collected, and at one point buried as closed assemblages. Glass and stone beads are near-​ perfect data for archaeological net­ work analysis. Beads eschew many of the predicaments seen with other materials as a basis. Unlike many materials, beads preserve well under most conditions. Unlike more utilitarian object types, they are genuinely com­ parable, being functionally equivalent while displaying an almost indefinite range of stylistic variation. The fact that they are regularly found as sets containing a number of beads, buried together with one individual, implies that clear criteria can be set for association –​by contrast to, for example, finds from settlements, where one may discuss whether finds found in the same building, the same pit, or the same general area should be regarded as associated or not. The find context in furnished grave finds also means that many assemblages can be dated with a fair degree of accuracy. The typology of beads has been studied in detail, and firm schemes of classification exist. Moreover, beads have been some of the most widely circulated objects in trade and exchange for millennia, and still many types can be sourced to a

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A complex beadwork 149 general area of production, making them highly pertinent as vectors of long-​ distance flows and interactions in the past. The patterns of association seen in the composition of beads assemblages may reflect a range of dynamics in combination. At a basic level, they express chronological and spatial variation, formed as certain types of beads became available and were selected by individuals at a given point in time. This again was conditioned by access to raw materials and technologies of pro­ duction, by patterns of regional and long-​range exchange, by aesthetic and symbolic preference, and ultimately by personal choice. For the purpose of disentangling how all of these parameters are traced in a rich and com­ plex data-​set, formal network analysis presents a compelling tool. Yet the dynamics behind this variation may interact and vary in unpredictable ways, hence there is no simple way in which a network analysis is likely to reveal patterns that can be translated directly into either chronologies, regional groups, trade routes or styles. The difference can be summarized as the work of analysis versus syn­ thesis. Network analysis may characterize patterns of association from observable traits in a data-​set, such as the co-​occurrence of different types of archaeological objects. These patterns cannot be substituted for the networks of association in past societies, which they eventually reflect. The latter can only be conjectured from the patterns of the former through a creative process of reconstructing workings from observed perform­ ance –​a process of network synthesis (Sindbæk 2013). Network synthesis involves the contextual assessment of the results of network analysis  –​ considering further evidence pertaining to setting, interaction and cul­ tural embedding of the data –​and eventually the modelling matches the observed performance.

‘Trade beads and bead trade’ –​unplugged The material analysed by Callmer in ‘Trade beads and bead trade’ comprises 296 bead assemblages from Viking Age burials from across Scandinavia, each with at least ten beads recorded. These graves include a total of 13,395 beads, each of which are studied, recorded and in many cases drawn (Figure 7.1). In order to analyse this material, Callmer devises a strictly formal system of classification, based on a combination of traits. He first distinguishes fif­ teen basic groups of beads, defined by material and production techniques (Figure  7.2):  glass beads produced either as wound, folded, blow, drawn tubes or composite mosaics (A–​K), beads made from cut glass (Q), faience (R) or different types of stone (S-​V). The number of beads assigned to these groups varies greatly. Four groups occur very sparsely, namely C (folded glass beads), D (blown glass beads), U (amethyst beads) and V (jade beads), while three others are very rare: H, J, and K (4–​15 beads recorded). The vast majority of beads are spread among the remaining eight groups.

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150  Søren M. Sindbæk

Figure 7.1 Examples of Viking Age beads classified according to Callmer’s principles. Illustrated are a selection from six out of a total of 18 general bead groups: wound beads (B), folded (C), blown (D), segmented, drawn beads (E), cut, drawn beads (F) and composite mosaic beads (G). Not shown are the common (A) monochrome wound beads, rock crystal (S) and carnelian (T), and eight less common groups of stone or glass beads. After Callmer 1977, color plate III.

Every bead is subsequently classified among 27 types of shape, 4 classes of length/​diameter ratios, 11 classes of diameter, 3 classes of translucence, 24 color variations, and 3 classes of ornamental patterns, which are again subdivided into 106 specific traits. In theory, this classification allows for millions of unique bead variants. Out of this number, 406 individual trait combinations are found among the assemblages recorded, while further ones are noted in other data-​sets, leading to a total of 614 individually defined types. The types thus separated allow for a detailed and nuanced classification of the material. By present standards a dataset of this magnitude is a large but manageable material for analysis. Yet for the purpose of hand calculations, it was prohibitively complex. Callmer therefore determines that the ‘neces­ sary systematization of the beads must be worked out in steps’ (Callmer 1977, 33). He first reduces the 614 classes of beads to 54 general classes or ‘bead groups’ (Callmer 1977, 78). Each group comprises beads made in the same technique and range of colors, and which are considered relevant in terms of chronology and provenance.

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Monochrome

A

Polychrome

B

Wound

Folded

C

Blown

D

Segmented

E

Cut

F

Mosaic

G

Mosaic eye with >1 eye

H

Mosaic eye with 1 eye

J

From reticella rod

K

Drawn tubes Glass

Composite

Beads

Other

Cold made (cut)

Q

Faiance

R

Rock crystal

S

Carnelian

T

Amethyst

U

Jade

V

Stone

Figure 7.2 Basic division of Viking Age glass and stone beads according to Callmer’s classification.

152

152  Søren M. Sindbæk He then uses a general impression of the material to separate –​on eye, so to speak –​18 preliminary (‘postulated’) groups of bead assemblages (also called ‘bead groups’), that is, not a classification of the bead types, but of the graves in which they occur (Callmer 1977, 56). Twelve basic groups are labelled bead group I  to XII while six intermediate subgroups are called bead group I/​II, II/​III, etc. The groups are defined according to presence or abundance of seven general classes and 23 specific types of beads. These initial groups are assessed in relation to 62 types of metal ornaments found with the bead assemblages in order to assess chronological trends. Six of the ‘bead groups’ (group I, IV, VII, VIII, XI and XII) are characterized by a predominance of various types of wound beads. Most of these are supposedly hand crafted in small batches in Scandinavia. Six other groups defined by dominance (>49 percent) of resp. segmented beads (group II and IX), small cut beads (Group III and VI) and stone beads (Group V and X). The 18 bead groups are then examined by means of a graph analysis (Figure 7.3). Here links (lines) between these edges (bead groups) indicate

Figure 7.3 Callmer’s (1977) graph analysis of beads associated in Scandinavian Viking Age burials. To enable a paper calculation the 584 individual types of beads are lumped into 18 groups prior to formal graph analysis. Lines between these groups indicate strong (‘primary’) relations (double lines), or weaker (‘secondary’) relations (single lines). The diagram is interpreted to show that these groups can be further merged as 9 revised groups (‘Bead Periods’), assumedly chronological phases. After Callmer 1977, fig. 6.

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A complex beadwork 153 common bead types in bead groups, resp. strong (‘primary’) relations (double lines), or weaker (‘secondary’) relations (single lines). The inter­ mediate groups are shown tied closely with the main groups. As the number of groups is deemed ‘too large’, they are merged with these (group I/​II is merged with II, etc.) on the assumption that this will not affect the chrono­ logical analysis (Callmer 1977, 65). Group V and X (assemblages with >49  percent stone beads) are found to display a mixed chronology, and are split and recombined with other groups. Group XI, a small group with only three assemblages, is merged with group VIII (both >49 percent wound beads). In this way nine revised groups or ‘Bead Periods’ are defined, which are proposed to correspond to chronological phases (Figure 7.4). This step-​wise procedure allows for a detailed comparison with the arch­ aeological material. Yet each step in the process implies a reduction in the amount of relational data considered in the next step. The initial 18 groups are thus separated with reference to broad trends, without reference to a detailed comparison, while the later reduction to nine ‘Bead Periods’ is jus­ tified by pragmatic considerations, only partially supported by the relations visualized in the graph analysis. It is conspicuous that the groups eventually divide up the entire set tidily without any remaining outliers or groups. In

A

B

E

F

s

T

GHJK Q R

C

I

II

III VA IV

VII

VIII

VI

IX

XII

Figure 7.4 The distribution of the main types of beads according to the nine ‘Bead Periods’. Note non-​normal peak distributions of ‘A’ (monochrome wound beads, phase I & XII), E (segmented, drawn beads, phase II and IX) and ‘F’ (small cut beads, phase III and VI). After Callmer 1977, fig. 8.

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154  Søren M. Sindbæk some steps, for example when bead group V, X and XI are abandoned, it could have been relevant to revise the parameters and restart the analysis in a new iteration. Instead, the initial groups and group names are retained wherever possible, presumably because each change would involve a time-​ consuming manual revision of records. The intricate steps with repeated sub-​definition and re-​working of the analytical groups makes the process of analysis difficult to follow. Callmer proposes that the nine Bead Periods eventually defined represent a chronological sequence. The principal dynamic behind the topology of the network is supposedly a successive introduction and abandonment of types according to changing fashions. He summarizes the assumptions in what might well be called an agent-​based model: Since we may assume an extra-​Scandinavian provenance for at least part of the bead material in Scandinavia in the Viking Period, we may suggest that beads were diffused to Scandinavia probably primarily, to the large centres of diffusion, in bags from the workshops. Beads could be acquired either regularly or irregularly by certain agents of further diffusion or directly diffused by the original agent. As a consequence of these assumptions and presumptions it is likely that a quantity of beads locally acquired is characterized by the workshops dominating the total supply of beads at a given time or, if there are stable regular exclusive relations between certain agents of diffusion hinted at above, a locally acquired quantity of beads could be characterized only by a part of the total available supply of beads. (Callmer 1977, 56) In accordance with the periods defined, the main trends of the process may be summarized thus:

• Bead Period I:  At the beginning of the Viking Age, North European • • • • • •

beadmakers produced wound beads, using a dark blue glass mass as the most abundant raw material. Bead Period II: Early in the Viking Age masses of segmented beads began to be imported from the Middle East, in particular dark blue or silver and golden ‘metal foil’ beads. Bead Period III:  Somewhat later, the vogue for segmented beads was superseded by masses of small cut, tubular beads, also imported from the Middle East. Bead Period IV: Subsequently beads cut from cornelian and rock crystal came into fashion, and were similarly imported. Bead Period VII: Imported beads go out of fashion, and there is a return to wound beads, now predominantly made from green or turquoise glass. Bead Period VIII: Stone beads come into fashion again. Bead Period VI: (Very) small cut beads are in vogue again.

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A complex beadwork 155

• Bead Period IX:  Eventually there is a revival of imported segmented, now mostly from yellow or green glass.

• Bead Period XII:  A final return to wound beads, many either red or transparent.

Some aspects of this synthesis are puzzling. First, it appears conspicuous that the beads can apparently be assigned to phases that are generally less than 30 years’ length, in a situation where other artefact chronologies are much broader. Second, no other dynamic except chronological succession is seen to have a significant impact on the associations of the materials. This is partially mitigated in Callmer’s subsequent regional analysis, which uses the Bead Periods to chart the relative abundance of finds in regions across Scandinavia as an index of the intensity of exchange. Third, the resulting distribution of the main types of beads according to the Bead Periods (Figure  7.4) shows a curious, non-​normal distribution with two peak occurrences for each of the main groups, including ‘A’ (monochrome wound beads, Bead Period I & XII), ‘E’ (segmented, beads, Bead Period II and IX) and ‘F’ (small cut beads, Bead Period III and VI).

‘Trade beads and bead trade’ –​digitally remastered As explained, the data analysed in ‘Trade beads and bead trade’ represents a highly appropriate material for network analysis. The entire dataset of the study is presented as a catalogue with detailed information on the beads and other finds in each grave assemblage. This data is digitized for the present study in order to compare the original analysis with a computerized net­ work analysis. The geographical distribution of the archaeological contexts are spread across Scandinavia. In the map (Figure 7.5) the size of nodes corresponds to the number of beads in a context, ranging from a typical figure of 10–​40 per grave to a small number of very abundant contexts with more than 200 beads. The finds clearly cluster in certain regions. In particular, there are 87 recorded graves –​more than a quarter of the whole dataset –​from the trading town Birka in Middle Sweden. While Birka was a centre of a densely populated region, and some other parts of Scandinavia were more sparsely populated, it is clear that other regions are not equally well represented. There are few finds recorded from Denmark and Southern Sweden, and two small but significant regions, Gotland and the Åland islands, are not considered for the study (cf. Callmer 1977, 7 and 10). In order to enable a formal network analysis, the association of bead types and contexts is digitized and visualized as a two-​mode network with 916 nodes (bead types + contexts) where bead types are shown as dark gray nodes and contexts (graves) as light gray nodes (Figure 7.6). The scale of nodes corresponds to their degree centrality (i.e. the number of contexts per bead type, resp. bead types per context). The layout is generated using

156

Figure 7.5 The geographical distribution of 302 archaeological contexts with >10 Viking Age glass beads. The size of nodes corresponds to the number of beads in a find. Digitized after data in Callmer 1977.

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A complex beadwork 157

Figure 7.6 The association of bead types and contexts in Callmer (1977) visualized as a two-​mode network. White nodes: bead types. Black nodes: contexts (graves). The size of nodes corresponds to their degree centrality (number of contexts per bead type resp. bead types per context). The layout is generated using the VOS Mapping algorithm of the Pajek software package. Graphics: Pajek and S. Sindbæk.

the VOS (Visualization of Similarities) Mapping algorithm (Waltman et al. 2010) and the Pajek software package (de Nooy et al. 2018). VOS was originally developed for community detection in bibliometric research, but lends itself well to other forms of affiliation data. Whereas network analysts have often used separate algorithms to define groups and to visualize similarities (e.g. Sindbæk 2010), VOS has the advantage of using the same integrated algorithm for both clustering and topological mapping. Compared to other techniques for detecting clustered groups in network data, such as block-​ modelling, multidimensional scaling or mapping techniques, VOS has been shown to be less prone to produce artificial patterns (‘artefacts’), and to yield a generally more satisfactory representations of datasets (van Eck et al. 2010). In the graph Figure  7.6 the data in the VOS algorithm calculates the position of nodes to produce a measure of relative similarity of nodes in a network. Nodes with very different connections appear far apart in the graph, while nodes with strong similarities cluster in the same region. Densely connected nodes draw towards the middle of the graph and sparsely connected nodes towards the periphery. The graph reveals a relatively

158

158  Søren M. Sindbæk sparse and evenly distributed set with no conspicuous hubs or cliques. The relations are widely distributed: the network is not held together by a few hyperabundant bead types –​rather, there are more than 60 bead types which occur in more than 20 different contexts. The network has 3098 links in total, and a density of 0.025 (i.e. 2.5 percent of all possible lines are present). This is a fairly typical score for a social network of this size, and suitable for many forms of analysis (de Nooy et al. 2018, 76). The average degree is 8.75, and the degree variation ranges between 1 and 122 (the latter being the maximum number of assemblages in which the same bead type occurs). A special phenomenon can be seen at the margin of the graph where rare bead types that occur only once are shown. These often occur in find-​rich assemblages, whence some of these (shown as relatively large, yellow nodes) are also drawn towards the outer parts of the graph. In order to asses Callmer’s classification of beads, the two-​ mode network is reworks as a one-​ mode network:  the nodes representing assemblages are removed and replaced by links between every bead type linked to that node/​assemblage. When represented in this way, the graph becomes visually very dense. By analysing nodes of only one mode, how­ ever, we are able to apply more adequate analytical tools to search for structure. The one-​mode network now consists of 406 specific bead types, which Callmer has classified as 54 bead groups. To test the validity of this classifi­ cation, we add a separate ‘partition’ list, where each individual bead type is assigned to the relevant group. We remove bead types that are not assigned to any group, as well as rare bead types, which are not linked to any other types.1 Two rare bead groups, which are unrelated to other groups, are simi­ larly excluded. The resulting network has 382 bead types assigned to 52 bead groups. Using again the VOS mapping algorithm we can now map the relative affinity of these groups (Figure  7.7a). The resulting graph shows the bead groups separated by shades and marked by numbers from 1–​54. Callmer labels the groups Aa, Ab, Ac, Ba, Bb, etc.; for convenience they are numbered here, but follow his order of presentation. The individual types are labelled using Callmer’s type codes (e.g. B408, E140, etc.). The graph shows clustering among beads types in some bead groups, but for many others there is no visible association. Rather, the shape of the graph suggests that other relations are present. To complement the mapping we can use the clustering function of the VOS algorithm to suggest how the set could be split into groups on purely formal grounds. The algorithm can be set to separate the nodes into many or few groups depending on the ‘Resolution Parameter’. Setting this to 1.0, 18 groups appear (Figure  7.7a). They comprise three groups (16, 17 and 18), which consist of one bead type each. These are types, which associate so differently to all other groups that they are statistically more properly sorted as singular outliers than grouped with any others. The remaining 15 groups include between 8 and 46 bead types. Most of these show a tight

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Figure 7.7 The association of 382 bead types in Callmer (1977) visualized as a one-​mode network. Links indicate occurrence in shared assemblages. The layout is generated using the VOS Mapping algorithm of the Pajek software package. In a) the nodes are shaded and labelled according to Callmer’s 54 general classes or bead groups; in b) the shades and labelling correspond to 18 groups defined by VOS clustering (resolution parameter = 1.0). Graphics: Pajek and S. Sindbæk.

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Figure 7.7 Continued

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A complex beadwork 161 clustering in one region of the graph, suggesting that the groups express robust patterns in the data. We may compare the result of the VOS classification to Callmer’s bead groups directly by re-​coding the two sets of classification as a two-​mode net­ work in which Callmer’s groups constitute one mode of nodes and the VOS groups the second. A bead type assigned, for example, to bead group no. 25 in Callmer’s classification and to group 5 in the VOS classification will mark a link between these two classes (Figure  7.8). Many of Callmer’s groups appear to be randomly connected among several VOS groups, suggesting that the individual bead types assigned to them do not associate closely in assemblages. Some notable exceptions stand out: Group 43 (segmented beads, class E) and 44 (cut, drawn beads, class F) both have a strong cor­ respondence to VOS group 11. The VOS algorithm associates these two bead groups, and separates both from the rest of the set. Group 45 (com­ posite mosaic beads, group G) corresponds similarly closely to VOS group 8, which, moreover, show a strong link with bead group 14 (dark blue mono­ chrome, wound beads). This confirms a well-​known chronological pattern, according to which composite mosaic beads are associated with a ‘blue period’ of beads. A  last, very prominent correspondence is seen between groups 51 and 52 (rock crystal and cornelian beads) and VOS group 13. The stone beads cluster very strongly, and associate less often with other bead types. Although Callmer’s bead groups do not all display coherent clustering, they are based on well-​reasoned, typological generalization. Many of the 406 bead types represent minor variations in shape, size, color, etc. Beads produced by one bead maker in the same batch might come out as half a dozen different types in this classification. When split into many subtypes, as in the analysis above, they will only trace links to exactly the same sub-​type of bead. Associations might come out differently if we accept the 54 general, typological bead groups as a basis of analysis. We can test their coherence using another approach in Pajek. To explore this, the network of 382 bead types is reduced (‘shrunk’) to Callmer’s 54 bead groups. In this operation, the multiple Bead Types in each bead group are combined to one single node, which sums up the relations of all bead types in the group. This network is displayed using VOS mapping, and split into groups defined by VOS clustering with various parameters (Figure  7.9). The resulting graph displays clear patterns, con­ sistent with trends noted above. The two major import types, the segmented (bead group 43) and cut (bead group 44) beads are united in all versions. In Figure  7.9c they form a small VOS group together with another char­ acteristic type of imported beads, mosaic eye beads (bead group  46), an association which makes excellent sense in terms of known chronological patterns. In the same graph, another group captures an equally distinct set of types:  Blue monochrome (bead group  14), monochrome greyish green

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Figure 7.8 Associations between classes of beads in Callmer’s 54 bead groups (outer circle) with 18 groups (inner circle) defined by VOS clustering (cf. Figure 7.7). Lines indicate bead types shared by a class in Callmer’s classification and a VOS cluster. Multiple associations are indicated by wider lines. Graphics: Pajek and S. Sindbæk.

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Figure 7.9 a) The same network as in Figure 7.7 reduced (‘shrunk’) to Callmer’s 54 bead groups. Each class of bead types is reduced to one node, which sums the relations of all bead types in the group. Nodes are labelled according to Callmer’s 54 general classes or bead group. Shades correspond to groups defined by VOS clustering, with various parameters, a) Resolution Parameter = 3.0, N clusters = 32; b) Resolution Parameter = 2, N clusters = 22; c) Resolution Parameter = 1.5, N clusters = 13; d) Resolution Parameter = 1.0, N clusters = 6. Graphics: Pajek and S. Sindbæk.

164

Figure 7.9 Continued

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A complex beadwork 165 (Bead Group  23), blue with white and read trail decoration (bead group 29), beads with reticelli (twisted rod) decoration (bead group 33), composite mosaic beads (bead group  45), ‘frosted’ opaque rock crystal beads (bead group 50) and amethyst beads (bead group 53). All these are known from stratified excavations to be associated with the earliest phase included in this dataset, Callmer’s Bead Period I (Feveile and Jensen 2000). These and other patterns suggest that the bead groups are relevant tools for classifying the set. When a two-​mode network is reworked into one mode, we can choose to look at either of the original two modes as nodes. Above, we have considered the bead types connected by joint occurrence in assemblages. We can shift mode to analyse the same data as a complementary network of bead assemblages linked by the shared bead types (Figure  7.10). As is often the case when a two-​mode network is converted to one-​mode, the links become a dense mesh. The size of nodes corresponds to their degree centrality (number of bead types per context), while the shading of the lines indicates the strength of ties (darker lines indicate more shared bead types). The nodes are labeled according to Callmer’s twelve main groups of assemblages. VOS mapping is used again to map the relative similarities of the nodes. Most of Callmer’s Bead Periods can be seen to cluster fairly tightly in one area of the graph. Two groups are notably fuzzy: Bead Period 3, characterized by small cut, tubular beads (red nodes); and Bead Period 9, characterized by segmented beads of mainly yellow or green glass. These two groups spread over a wide area of the graph, suggesting that they are not well-​defined clusters within the set. We can explore the classification again using the VOS clustering algo­ rithm. This search can be calculated on the basis of the weight of links, i.e. the number of individual, similar beads between every assemblage. In the present data, however, this can be shown to lead to strongly skewed results because of the highly uneven total number of beads. In particular, the small cut beads, which define Callmer’s Bead Period 3 and 6 tend to occur in very large numbers in the assemblages where they are found. This is the case, for example, for the two assemblages with the highest number of beads recorded:  a grave with 1216 beads from Harbartholmen, Steigen Parish, Norway (T5281), and another with 603 beads from Järvsta, Valbo parish, Sweden (SHM 28025:24C), both consisting almost exclusively of small cut beads. The number of beads in these graves is a simple reflection of their tiny size, which implies that many beads are needed to cover any length of string. Yet when compared to assemblages with larger and less numerous beads, the huge number of shared beads in these and a few other finds will stand out as an extremely strong cluster. It is necessary for a meaningful comparison, therefore, to ignore the number of individual beads, and consider the number of shared bead types. For resolution parameter  =  1.0 VOS returns five with a fairly robust div­ ision (Figure 7.11a). If we compare this division to Callmer’s groups we find

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166  Søren M. Sindbæk

Figure 7.10 The association of 296 bead assemblages in Callmer (1977) visualized as a one-​mode network. Links indicate shared bead types, multiple associations indicated by darker shading. The size of nodes corresponds to their degree centrality (number of bead types per context). Nodes labeled according to Callmer’s groups. The layout is generated using the VOS Mapping algorithm of the Pajek software package. Graphics: Pajek and S. Sindbæk.

no strict correspondence, but there is a marked tendency for three of the five clusters to coincide with assemblages dominated respectively by wound beads (I and VII), segmented beads (II and IX) and stone beads (IV, V and VIII). This confirms Callmer’s proposition that these material type groups are important vectors of the set. If we explore different settings, we find that a resolution parameter = 1.5 yields a total of 20 clusters, of which a number, however, are cliques of only one or two assemblages (Figure  7.11b). Considering the nature of the dating set, it is intuitively plausible that outlying cliques should occur, as evidence of assemblages brought together by unusual circumstances.

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A complex beadwork 167

Figure 7.11 The association of 296 bead assemblages in Callmer (1977) visualized as in Figure 7.7, but with clusters defined by the VOS algorithm with two different settings: a) Resolution Parameter = 1.0, VOS Qual. = 0.25584, N clusters = 5; b) Resolution Parameter = 1.5, VOS Qual. = 0.17361, N clusters = 20. Graphics: Pajek and S. Sindbæk.

Among the remaining groups thus defined, five show a very strong cor­ respondence with Callmer’s groups. This can be demonstrated with refer­ ence to a graph showing how bead assemblages are correlated between the two sets of classification (Figure  7.12). The size and shading of the lines are scaled relative to the number of shared contexts (thicker line/​darker shading  =  more shared contexts). For clarity, links with a weight of less than 5 shared contexts are omitted. This comparison reveals that five of the VOS clusters in Figure 7.11b show a strong correspondence to groups in Figure 7.7: I –​Cluster 8; III –​Cluster 4 and 13; VI –​Cluster 10; VII – Cluster 3. The correspondence confirms that Callmer’s groups I, VI and VII are rightly identified as clusters in the set. For the remaining groups, the relation­ ship is more ambiguous. III (dominated by cut, tubular beads) may be better analysed as two or three distinct groups. II and IX (both defined by a ratio of >49 percent segmented beads) are both strongly associated with cluster 1 (yellow), but are also linked with other clusters. This could suggest that assemblages with segmented beads have much in common despite chrono­ logical spread. The same is the case for IV, V and VIII, all marked by a strong proportion of stone beads. The graph suggests that assemblages with stone beads cluster strongly, and are not easily divided into two distinct, chrono­ logical groups. Rather, they appear to form a distinctive group of ornaments used over an extended period of time. Finally groups X and XI are not well defined but cluster with other groups, as Callmer also notes in the course of his analysis (Callmer 1977, 65).

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168  Søren M. Sindbæk

Figure 7.12 Comparison between Bead Periods in Callmer (1977) and clusters defined by the VOS algorithm in Figure 7.11b. Five clusters (3, 10, 13, 4 and 8) show a strong correspondence to one Bead Period each, while the remaining four have an ambiguous association. Graphics: Pajek and S. Sindbæk.

Beadwork dynamics Important as formal network analysis is as the tools, it is through conceptual models proposed by network theory that we may modify the assumptions guiding analysis. While a key objective of ‘Trade beads and bead trade’ was to produce a detailed chronology, the consideration of the data as a network highlights the fact that chronology may not be the sole parameter struc­ turing the set. The chronological pattern underlying the early bead periods proposed in ‘Trade beads and bead trade’ are sustained by results from stratigraphic excavations (Feveile & Jensen 2000; Ambrosiani 2013). During the period ca.750–​900 CE, wound glass beads were replaced as the most common bead type by first segmented beads, then small cut beads, and eventually (after the middle of the ninth century) by stone beads. For the later divisions, the assumption that particular kinds of beads repeatedly fell out of favour, only then to be revived in turn later, and that this took place in synchronized shifts across Scandinavia makes high demands on the evidence. The clustering shown by the VOS analysis makes it more likely that the groups defined by segmented beads, small cut beads,

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A complex beadwork 169 stone beads and wound beads co-​existed to some extent through much of the Viking Age. There are other factors other than chronology, which could have caused these to have formed distinct groups of association. Various groups of beads had markedly different material properties, which would have discouraged some combinations and informed aesthetic choices. Not all bead types would afford matching in terms of size, material, shape or color: tiny cut beads are not easily combined with larger bead types such as wound beads or stone beads. Nor are rock crystal and carnelian beads aesthetically effective in combination with every color of class. The choice to combine certain types of beads would ultimately depend on aes­ thetic perceptions and choices. Chronological shifts must thus almost certainly have co-​existed with other dynamics including trade patterns, aesthetic choice and not least the material properties and affordances of beads of very different sizes and made from different materials. The patterns revealed through network analysis, and the synthesis built on this observation, may help us to untangle how these trends and dynamics are interwoven, and thus to make sense of the extraordinary but challenging evidence preserved in the bead adornments found in Viking Age graves.

Networks compared The analysis presented in ‘Trade beads and bead trade’ deals with what are essentially network problems, and present a prototype of network analysis in the form of a step-​wise search for affiliations and clusters among Viking Age bead assemblages. The groups identified in this analysis are defined by a combination of observations on statistical patterns and a consideration of chronological information on find contexts. As such, a form of network ana­ lysis –​a formal analysis of associations –​is combined with a network syn­ thesis: a model constructed to explain the observed patterns. This synthesis is the proposed chronological succession of nine Bead Periods. The principal limitation for a network-​oriented analysis in 1977 was the limited speed of computation. This required the formal analysis to be conducted in carefully defined steps, with limited scope for adjustments or recursive iterations. One result may be seen in the way in which the bead groups initially defined are split and merged in the graph analysis, while retaining the original labelling and delimitation. Such an approach was required, because a full revision would have required a manual reorganiza­ tion and re-​labelling of the data archive. The step-​wise process led to a loss of complexity, as only a limited part of the associations were considered for each step of analysis. The shifts between formal and informal classification also makes the analysis difficult for the reader to follow, and to validate. The limitations were made up for, to some extent, by an intimate familiarity with the dataset and sense of the material, which allowed Callmer to intuitively grasp at valid classifications and parameters.

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170  Søren M. Sindbæk A computerized network analysis allows a very different approach to the material. In the VOS clustering and mapping presented in this study it takes only minutes to re-​run an analysis using different parameters  –​changing the resolution parameter of the algorithm, re-​starting the analysis with a new classification, or calculating the weight of links in a different way, for example. The explorative process could be continued with similar ease by adding finds, leaving out certain assemblages, merging or splitting subtypes of bead, exploring patterns within subsets of the set, or using different algorithms to map or classify the set. In the sense of defining groups that reflect formal properties of the dataset, as recorded and coded, the results of the computerized analysis are almost cer­ tainly superior to the groups defined by Callmer. This does not imply that they are always ‘better’:  Callmer’s divisions describe chronologically significant trends within groups, which the VOS algorithm cannot separate. A  strictly formal definition may even be counter-​productive, as when the vastly different absolute number of beads in assemblages forces us to ignore the number of individual shared beads in favour of shared types –​rendering it impossible to quantify the difference between two assemblages with a single common bead, or two full sets of one identical bead type; or when the association of very characteristic beads, known to share a specific origin in time and space, counts for the same as common, indisctinct types, which could have been produced in any number of locations at virtually any point in the Viking Age.

Conclusion Network analysis has great attraction as a way of exploring relational patterns that were generated by interactions in past social networks. The generative processes behind these material networks were not limited to social relations; but they do reflect the elusive interactive patterns, which we are seeking to approach in applying network analysis and concepts in social archaeology. Without the trends, which can be made observable and substantiated by this means, our capacity for modelling social interaction and integration in the past is weaker. The analysis of bead combinations in Viking Age Scandinavian graves reveals the outline of a world of interactions, in which the influx from directed, long-​distance trade patterns were often sufficiently prominent to override the signal of regional production, exchange and recycling. While the patterns of combinations suggest that aesthetics choices and individual histories were important, the strong coherences and swift replacement of particular bead flows testifies to a social order integrated by powerful ‘weak ties’ across social and geographic distances. The technical advances of formal network analysis unquestionably expands the scope for the kind of analysis aimed at in ‘Trade beads and bead trade’. Had a similar analysis been initiated today, there is no doubt

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A complex beadwork 171 that formal network analysis would have presented itself as a compelling tool to be tried, or that it could have facilitated and improved many aspects of the analysis and its presentation. The observations presented in the pre­ sent chapter can only draw attention to selected patterns and potential. To gain full advantage from the findings, a full consideration of material and questions would be required, ideally in combination with an updated material basis. Until this has been achieved, Callmer’s Bead Periods remains the essential synthesis of the Viking Age trade bead network in Scandinavia.

Acknowledgements This work was supported by the Danish National Research Foundation under the grant DNRF119  –​Centre of Excellence for Urban Network Evolutions (UrbNet). Student Assistant Anders D.  Hove kindly helped in digitizing the data. I am grateful to Johan Callmer for permission to use his data and for discussing the findings. All mistakes are mine.

Note 1 This takes several steps of operation in Pajek: First, we create a second partion, which lists the number of links for each node: Network > create partition > degree. Next, we select our original bead group partition in the top bar of the ‘partition’ window, and the new degree partion in the second bar. We can now remove the un-​linked bead types by selecting: Partitions > Extract SubPartition (Second From First) > Select Clusters = 1-​(i.e. excluding the ‘cluster’ of beads with degree = 0). We reduce the network in a similar way by selecting: Network > Create new net­ work > Transformation > reduction > degree > minimum degree of vertices = 1. We reduce the resulting network and partition further by removing the ‘group’ of beads not assigned by Callmer to any bead group. In the bead group partition list these were listed as ‘0’, so we can now simply remove this group by greating a new network and partition which consists of all other groups: Operations > network + partition > extract > SubNetwork Induced by Union of Selected Clusters > Select Clusters = 1-​(i.e. excluding ‘cluster’ 0).

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172  Søren M. Sindbæk van Ec, N.J., Waltman, L., Dekker, R. and van den Berg, J. (2010). ‘A comparison of two techniques for bibliometric mapping:  Multidimensional scaling and VOS’, Journal of the American Society for Information Science and Technology, 61(12), 2405–​2416. Feveile, C. and Jensen, S. (2000). ‘Ribe in the 8th and 9th century. A Contribution to the archaeological chronology of North Western Europe’, Acta Archaeologica 71,  9–​24. Granovetter, M. (1973). ‘The strength of weak ties’, American Journal of Sociology 78, 1360–​1380. Mills, B.J., Peeples, M.A., Haas, W.R., Borck, L., Clark, J.J. and Roberts, J.M. (2015). ‘Multiscalar perspectives on social networks in the late prehispanic Southwest’, American Antiquity, 80(1), 3–​24. De Nooy, W., Mrvar, A. and Batagelj, V. (2018). Exploratory Social Network Analysis with Pajek. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Östborn, P. and Gerding, H. (2014). ‘Network analysis of archaeological data: a sys­ tematic approach’, Journal of Archaeological Science 46, 75–​88. Schortman, E.M. (2014). ‘Networks of power in archaeology’, Annual Review of Anthropology 43, 167–​182. Schortman, E.M. and Urban, P.A. (1992). ‘The place of interaction studies in arch­ aeological thought’, in Schortman E.M. and Urban, P. (eds.), Resources, Power, and Interregional Interaction. Boston, MA: Springer, pp. 3–​15. Sindbæk, S.M. (2007). ‘The small world of the Vikings. Networks in Early Medieval communication and exchange’, Norwegian Archaeological Review 40(1), 59–​74. Sindbæk, S.M. (2010). ‘Re-​assembling regions. The social occasions of technological exchange in Viking Age Scandinavia’, in Barndon, R., Øye, I. and Engevik, A. (eds.) The Archaeology of Regional Technologies: Case Studies from the Palaeolithic to the Age of the Vikings. Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press. Sindbæk, S.M. (2013). ‘Broken links and black boxes:  Material affiliations and contextual network synthesis in the Viking world’, in Knappett, C. (ed.) Network Analysis in Archaeology. New Approaches to Regional Interaction. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 71–​94. Waltman, L., van Ec, N.J. and Noyons, E.C.M. (2010). ‘A unified approach to mapping and clustering of bibliometric networks’, Journal of Informetrics 4(4), 629–​635. Yoffee, N. (2005). Myths of the Archaic State: Evolution of the Earliest Cities, States, and Civilizations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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8  Social network analysis and the social interactions that define Hopewell Mark A. Hill, Kevin C. Nolan and Mark S. Seeman

Introduction From approximately AD 1 to AD 400 (Nolan et al. 2017; Miller 2018; Seeman 2004), the Scioto River valley of south central Ohio was the setting of one of the most important American Indian developments in the precolonial history of North America. Nineteenth-​century excavations at a major site on the farm of Mordecai Hopewell lent this phenomenon its current name:  Hopewell (see Greber and Ruhl 2000). Superlatives are commonly used in describing Hopewell: continental scale interaction networks, elaborate tombs, stunning artistry in exotic materials such as copper, mica, obsidian and stone –​even silver and meteoric iron were employed, extensive and amazingly precise geo­ metric earthworks and mounds (Abrams 2009; Caldwell 1964; Carr and Case 2005; Dancey 2005; Hill et al. 2018, 2020; Lepper 2010; Nolan et al. 2020; Shetrone 1930; Struever and Houart 1972; Seeman 1979, 2005; Seeman et al. 2019). Used as ritual centers, major earthwork sites such as Hopewell, Seip, Mound City and Harness cover hundreds of acres with their square, circular and octagonal earthen walls enclosing large tumuli used as elaborate tombs. While the use of such superlatives is appropriate for these large earthwork complexes and elaborate tombs, they do not apply to residential sites. The few well-​studied residential sites, such as Lady’s Run and Brown’s Bottom (Pacheco et al. 2005, 2009a, 2009b, 2019), McGraw (Prufer 1965), Strait (Burks 2004), Murphy (Dancey 1991), reveal communities containing a small number of houses that appear to represent occupation by an extended family over a span of a few generations (see also Dancey and Pacheco 1997). Indeed, Scioto Valley Hopewell society is marked by these contrasts –​a population residing in small dispersed households, reliant on hunting and growing domesticated crops of the Eastern Agricultural Complex (Abrams 2009; Patton 2019; Wymer 1996, 1997, 2019), side-​by-​side with elaborate and extensive ritual centers containing exotic materials from distances of hundreds to thousands of miles, rich tombs and remarkable artistry (Seeman 2004). Consequently, much attention has been directed at the relationship between these small dispersed households and the large elaborate earth­ work complexes (Carr and Case 2005; Coughlin and Seeman 1997; Dancey 2005; Pacheco 1997; Pacheco and Dancey 2006; Ruby et  al. 2005; Seeman 1979). These studies particularly focus on how the large

174

174  Mark Hill, Kevin Nolan & Mark Seeman earthwork complexes are used by the dispersed households, and how the social networks that form the relationships between households and the ritual centers come to define communities in the Scioto Valley. These ana­ lyses range from the general (e.g. Caldwell 1964; Seeman 1979; Streuver and Houart 1972) to those rich in near-​ethnographic detail (e.g. Byers 2004; Carr and Case 2005). This is similar to the conflicts between lived social reality (emic, short-​term, personal) and archaeologically analysable (etic, long-​term, detached) noted in Knappett’s (Chapter 2) introduction. We view these as partially issues of scale matching (scale of the data versus scale at which the researcher desires interpretation) and the difference between measurement and meaning. It is often the goal to push interpret­ ation to a finer and finer point; however, interpretations must be grounded in robust, explicit, and consistent measurement. Before we can dig into the interpersonal relations of day-​to-​day Hopewell life, we must have a robust, replicable understanding of the structure of the material results of those relationships. SNA is appropriate to analyzing the structure of that distribution. Depending on the scale of the data and the scale of the ana­ lysis, the anthropologist may be able to add the thick detail; however, it is possible to take that exercise too far (c.f. Carr and Case 2005). As a first step towards developing an understanding of the structure of the distribu­ tion of the appearance of the relations we seek to ultimately understand, we undertake a network analysis of lithic raw material at Hopewell sites in the Scioto heartland (Table 8.1). Two competing models have come to dominate current views on the organization of these social networks (Figure 8.1). At the risk of oversimpli­ fication, we term these: 1) the proximity model; and 2) the synaptic model (see Nolan et al. 2020). The proximity model of Ohio Hopewell communi­ ties can be traced back at least to the writings of Olaf Prufer (1964). More recently, this view has been refined by Dancey and Pacheco (Dancey and Pacheco 1997; Pacheco 1996; Pacheco 2010; Pacheco and Dancey 2006) viewing widely dispersed, extended-​family households with upwards of 19–​28 people under one roof bound together by social ties to nearby earth­ work constructions. The latter are the centers of large-​scale public action and mortuary ceremony. The earthworks themselves are part of the local cultural landscape and by extension everyday life –​hunting, visiting or the gathering together of other necessary materials  –​would cause people to see and relate to ‘their’ earthwork and its associated mounds with great regularity, and no doubt, familiarity. It can be assumed that individual earthwork-​related activities, however, may obtain a greater following or participatory draw at certain times as the result of especially ambitious and/​or charismatic individual actors. In other words, proximity does not deny contingency. The synaptic model is more complex, like the synaptic connections among individual neurons, suggesting that many earthwork centers themselves are paired with reciprocal obligations to each other, and that these pairs

 175

Social interactions that define Hopewell 175

Figure 8.1 Simplified models of the relationships between residential sites (small squares) and major earthworks (circle with square) for Scioto Valley Hopewell. Top, the proximity model. Bottom, the synaptic model (after Nolan et al. 2020: Fig. 1).

themselves were linked in a three-​way alliance (Carr 2005a, 85). Individual households are tied to multiple earthworks by a complex network of sodal­ ities and clan obligations; thus, individuals from a given household or nearby households may be buried in shrine buildings well separated from their resi­ dential location. The Hopewell site is viewed to have apical properties in the sense that male leaders from all other inferred groupings were taken there for burial (Carr 2005a, 89). The synaptic model holds that geographic prox­ imity of households and earthwork centers is trumped by populations too low, and earthwork centers too close together, to be supported unless indi­ viduals drawn from many households, regardless of location, cooperated on the construction of more than one earthwork simultaneously (Carr 2005a, 94–​100; Carr 2005b, 296–​297, 316–​324; Carr and Case 2005, 22; Byers 2015). How the insufficient populations to support individual centers are supposed to have conjured the labor to work simultaneously on at least three centers remains unexplained. In the context of this volume, it becomes immediately apparent that these models are social networks with differing topologies. Since Hopewell is defined in many ways as interaction across both spatial and social distances, understanding Scioto Valley Hopewell thus becomes

176

176  Mark Hill, Kevin Nolan & Mark Seeman approachable through social network analysis. These are macro-​ scale models of how relations are nested, how materials carry nested obligations. Each of these models carries implications for the distribu­ tion of the objectifiers of relations. In the synaptic model, the organiza­ tion of relations symbolled by (and with empirical consequences for) material exchange are focused at the major earthworks as producers of the relations and manifestations of the collective selves of the communi­ ties engaged in exchanges. In the proximity model, the organization of relations is driven by the family, or even the individual, and the relations among them. Earthworks emerge from these household-​based relations as another avenue by which objectification of relations can be seen. Perhaps from this perspective, following Knappett’s discussion, the earthworks are the communities that develop from these relations, composed of parts of all the extended members who have given of themselves (their labor and their valuables) to write their cosmic knowledge on the ground.

Methods and materials This study uses similarities in material culture to assess frequency and struc­ ture of interaction across two scalar dimensions. These dimensions include social scale differences between households, communities, and integrative sites including large earthwork centers, while the other dimension examines the scale of geographic distance from raw material source to the sites of the Scioto Valley, thus measuring the scale of economic production and consumption. The larger SCHoN project (Nolan et al. 2020) examined data from lithics, ceramics and copper artifacts from over 30 sites (see also Hill et  al. 2018, 2020; Seeman et al. 2019; Table 8.1). Here we focus on the networks revealed by the distribution of lithic raw material from various local and exotic sources among sites. Lithic data used in this chapter consist of counts of key raw materials that represent different scales of production and consumption. These lithics include locally available materials of low to moderate quality such as Delaware and Brush Creek cherts; high-​quality raw materials from the nearby region including Flint Ridge and Upper Mercer cherts; more distant high-​ quality materials found in the Ohio and Mississippi valleys and Appalachian Mountains including Wyandotte, Knox, and Burlington cherts; and distant lithics from sources over one 1000 miles away in the northern Great Plains and Northern Rocky Mountains including Knife River Flint and Obsidian. These lithic materials were chosen because of their historic importance in Ohio Hopewell societies, and the reliability with which each can be identified. All identifications were conducted in comparison with known specimens under magnification. Magnification used was generally 10x or 25x hand lenses. Occasionally, a 57900–​04 Boreal Zoom Stereo Microscope, up to 40x, was employed in matching artifacts to known samples (see Nolan et al. 2020: 153). We analyzed material from 30 sites containing Hopewell lithic material representing Major Earthworks, Minor Earthworks, sites directly associated

 177

Social interactions that define Hopewell 177 Table 8.1 Sites represented in the analysis Major earthworks

Minor earthworks

Earthwork affilliated

Non earthwork (residential)

Harness Hopeton Hopewell Mound City

Ater Ginther Rockhold Tremper

Hopewell East Village MC Teacher’s Workshop North 40 Riverbank

Brown’s Bottom Lady’s Run McGraw 33Fr1033 33Fr706 33Fr801 33Fr810 33Fr810 33Fr819 33Fr820 33Fr883 33Fr941 33Fr945 33Fr992 33Fr994 33Ro507 33Ro532 33Ro550

with earthworks and non-​ earthwork sites that represent one or more households (Table  8.1). We analyzed up to 400 randomly selected non-​ diagnostic lithics from each site. Where less than 400 non-​diagnostic lithic artifacts were available, all available materials were included. In addition to the random sample of non-​diagnostic materials, we included all diagnostic artifacts from the Middle Woodland Period. Counts of these raw materials were converted to percentages to allow comparisons across different sample sizes, and Brainerd-​ Robinson simi­ larity coefficients were calculated from these frequencies using R. The BR coefficients were then used in a non-​binarized weighted network analysis using UCINET, and graphic representations were produced with NetDraw. Network statistics, including Degree, Betweenness, and Eigenvector Centrality; Density; number of active nodes and number of isolates; and number of edges, were calculated to assess topological features. All statistics were calculated using methods developed for weighted networks (Horvath 2011), and standardized centrality values are used here to facilitate com­ parison across network scales. The analyses focus on three scales: 1) the entire lithic network, dominated by local and regional lithics; 2)  the Middle Distance Scale outside of the Scioto Valley but still within the broader area of related Hopewell societies represented by Wyandotte, Burlington and Knox cherts; and 3) the Distant Exotics scale that includes Obsidian and Knife River Flint from sources over 1000 miles distant in regions lacking Hopewellian societies (Table 8.2, Figure 8.2).

178

Table 8.2 Scales of analysis Scale name

Location

All Lithics

Entire range of Full range of Scioto Valley Hopewellian Hopewell and non-​ Production Hopewellian social interaction. Dominated by Scioto Valley Hopewell Ohio Valley Crab Orchard and Hopewell Mississippi Havana Valley Hopewell Northern Distant Non-​ Rockies Hopewellian Northern societies, Great Plains likely mediated by Hopewellian societies

Middle Distance Distant Exotics

Social contexts Distance

Materials

0 to 1500 miles 96 percent within 50 miles

All lithics

200 to 400 miles

Wyandotte Knox Burlington

1,000 to 1,500 miles

Knife River Flint Obsidian

Figure 8.2 Scales of analysis, showing the relationship between the Middle Distance (regional) Scale and the Distant Exotics (continental) Scale.

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Social interactions that define Hopewell 179

Results All lithics network Ninety-​six percent of the lithics represented in this sample are locally avail­ able in the Scioto Valley or derive from sources located within approxi­ mately 50 miles of the Scioto Valley sites. At this scale we see the entirety of the Scioto Hopewell lithic relationships and note that this is a densely connected network in which all sites share strong similarities in lithic pro­ duction and consumption practices across the region and across different site types (Figure 8.3). No isolated nodes are present, and network density is 1.0 indicating that all nodes are connected to all other nodes in the network. Statistics: (1) (2) (3) (4)

Total Nodes = 30 Active Nodes = 30 Total Edges = 435 Density = 1.00 (100 percent of potential connections)

Measuring the number of connections per node, Degree Centrality (Table 8.3) was calculated using methods developed for weighted networks (Horvath 2011). Degree Centrality is normally distributed across all nodes, and the highest values are associated with non-​earthwork sites. Betweenness Centrality measures the position of the node relative to other nodes in the network, and indicates the number of shortest paths from other nodes that pass through a particular node. This value correlates with the

Figure 8.3 All Lithics network.

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180  Mark Hill, Kevin Nolan & Mark Seeman Table 8.3 Centrality values and standardized centrality values for the All Lithics Network Node

Label

Degree

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

33FR1033 33FR706 33FR801 33FR810 33FR819 33FR820 33FR883 33FR941 33FR945 33FR992 33FR994 33RO507 33RO532 33RO550 Ater BB East Ginther Harness Hopeton Hopewell LR McGraw Mound N40 OSU Riverbank Rockhold Teachers Tremper

3633 3342 2278 3426 2913 3050 2405 2543 2148 1472 3576 3216 3465 2631 3226 3321 2436 2732 3252 3156 1929 3499 3228 2548 2492 2717 3421 2152 3564 2851

DC' 0.042 0.039 0.026 0.04 0.034 0.035 0.028 0.029 0.025 0.017 0.041 0.037 0.04 0.03 0.037 0.038 0.028 0.032 0.038 0.036 0.022 0.04 0.037 0.029 0.029 0.031 0.039 0.025 0.041 0.033

Betweenness BC' 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 9.917 0 0 8.375 0 0 0 0 0 2.542 0 0 0 0 0 0 0

0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0.024 0 0 0.021 0 0 0 0 0 0.006 0 0 0 0 0 0 0

Eigenvector

EVC''

0.027 0.042 0.297 0.032 0.047 0.044 0.204 0.063 0.572 0.68 0.032 0.04 0.037 0.102 0.039 0.028 0.057 0.041 0.035 0.049 0.066 0.032 0.034 0.057 0.044 0.155 0.031 0.058 0.032 0.054

0.009 0.014 0.098 0.01 0.016 0.015 0.067 0.021 0.189 0.225 0.011 0.013 0.012 0.034 0.013 0.009 0.019 0.014 0.011 0.016 0.022 0.011 0.011 0.019 0.015 0.051 0.01 0.019 0.011 0.018

DC' is the standardized index for Degree Centrality (DC divided by N-​1 (non-​valued nets) or by sumDC (valued nets). BC' is the standardized index for Betweenness Centrality (BC divided by (N-​1)(N-​2)/​2 in sym­ metric nets or (N-​1)(N-​2) otherwise. EVC'' is the standardized index for Eigenvector Centrality (EVC divided by the sum of all EVCs).

broker phenomenon in which nodes with high Betweenness values can control the flow of information or materials through the network. In the All Lithics network, Betweenness Centrality is very low (BC’ mean  =  0.002, variance =0.00), with most nodes having values of zero. The highest values, in fact the only non-​zero values, are associated with the non-​earthwork sites (33Ro550 and McGraw) and one earthworks associated site (Hopewell East Village). Few sites sit at critical positions from which to control or manage the flow, access, or distribution of lithic materials through the network at this scale.

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Social interactions that define Hopewell 181

Figure 8.4 Standardized Eigenvector Centrality values by site type. 1) Major earthworks; 2) Minor earthworks; 3) Earthwork associated; and 4) Non-​earthwork.

Eigenvector Centrality assesses the number of edges per node, but also takes into account the connectedness of all the nodes linked to the node in question. In other words, it measures not only the number of connections, but also the value of those connections within the network. Nodes with high Eigenvector Centrality link preferentially to other nodes with high values. For the All Lithics network, Eigenvector Centrality is highest for non-​earthwork sites (33Fr992, 33Fr945, 33Fr801, 33Fr883, OSU Ballfield, 33Ro550), though the values are highly variable (Table  8.3, Figure  8.4). Eigenvector Centrality for major and minor earthworks and earthwork-​associated sites are low. Among earthwork sites, Hopewell has the highest EVC and Harness has the lowest, though values are all between 0.025 and 0.01. Middle Distance Scale (Wyandotte, Knox, Burlington) The Middle Distance Scale looks at interaction beyond the local and imme­ diate region, and begins to integrate Scioto Valley Hopewell with other Hopewell societies in the lower Ohio Valley such as the Crab Orchard Hopewell, and in the Mississippi Valley featuring Havana Hopewell. Lithics represented here include Knox from eastern Tennessee, Wyandotte from southern Indiana, and Burlington from the middle Mississippi Valley.

182

182  Mark Hill, Kevin Nolan & Mark Seeman Ater

33FR1033 33FR706 33FR819 33FR883 33FR941 33FR992 33FR994 33RO507 33R0550 OSU Ballfield Rockhold

Tremper

N40

McGraw

Hopeton

MC Ginther

33FR820 East Village

Teachers

33FR945

33RO532

33FR801 Riverbank

BB Harness

33FR810 Hopewell

LR

Figure 8.5 Middle Distance Scale network, nodes sized by Eigenvector Centrality.

Figure 8.5 presents the results of the Middle Distance network analysis with nodes size scaled by Eigenvector Centrality. It is apparent that the network for Middle Distance lithics differs in many features from the All Lithics network above. Only 21 nodes are active, while nine sites are isolated from the network. Network density has decreased to 0.33 and the number of edges decreases to 145. i)

Statistics (1) Total Nodes = 30 (2) Active Nodes = 21 (3) Total Edges = 145 (4) Density = 0.3333

Degree centrality for this Middle Scale is multimodal, and the largest cat­ egory consists of nine nodes that are isolated from the network and thus have a degree centrality of zero (Table  8.4). Removing the isolated sites reveals that the remaining distribution is bimodal, with the lower values corresponding with seven sites (Tremper, Hopewell East Village, 33Fr810, 33Fr801, 33Fr820, Brown’s Bottom, 33Fr945, and Riverbank) that represent non-​earthwork and earthwork-​related components where Burlington chert from the Mississippi Valley –​characteristic of Havanna Hopewell communi­ ties –​is present in higher frequencies than is Wyandotte chert from the Ohio Valley, which is featured prominently in Crab Orchard Hopewell commu­ nities. The sites with higher degree centrality values (Lady’s Run, McGraw, Hopeton, Ginther, Mound City, 33Ro532, Harness, N40, and TW04)

 183

Social interactions that define Hopewell 183

Figure 8.6 Standardized Eigenvector Centrality by site type, Middle Scale network. Sites types include 1) Major earthworks; 2) Minor earthworks; 3) Earthwork associated; and 4) Non-​earthwork residential.

represent the opposite  –​higher frequencies of Wyandotte and lower fre­ quencies of Burlington. These higher value sites are a variety of earthworks, non-​earthworks, and earthwork related sites. All of the nodes except one have Betweenness Centrality values of zero, with the Hopewell site as the lone exception. With an equal number of Burlington (N=3) and Wyandotte (N=3) lithics, Hopewell has a higher Betweenness Centrality value reflecting its position between what appears to be two subgroups  –​one in which external relationships focus on the lower Ohio Valley represented by Wyandotte chert, and one where those relationships focus more on the Mississippi valley as represented by Burlington chert. Before we ascribe too much importance to the location of the Hopewell site relative to the topology of this network, it should be noted that the sample from this site that we could include in this analysis is small, and a single artifact of Burlington or Wyandotte would change this structure and move Hopewell into one subgroup or the other. Eigenvector Centrality is low with low variability (mean =0.127; vari­ ance = .017; Table 8.4). Overall there is no statistical difference in Eigen­ vector Centrality between sites types (Figure 8.6), but when looking at this metric by subgroup we see that there is a notable difference in Eigenvector Centrality between sites dominated by Burlington (mean EVC’’  =  .023 ± .004) versus sites dominated by Wyandotte (mean EVC’’  =  .074 ± .014) (Figure 8.7). In other words, Wyandotte dominant sites connect with other

184

184  Mark Hill, Kevin Nolan & Mark Seeman Table 8.4 Centrality values, Middle Scale network Node

Label

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

33FR1033 33FR706 33FR801 33FR810 33FR819 33FR820 33FR883 33FR941 33FR945 33FR992 33FR994 33RO507 33RO532 33RO550 Ater BB East Ginther Harness Hopeton Hopewell LR McGraw MC N40 OSU Riverbank Rockhold Teachers Tremper

DC 0 0 928 928 0 1019 0 0 1112 0 0 0 1514 0 0 1068 928 1694 1514 1709 1193 1730 1727 1576 1515 0 1121 0 1514 644

DC'

BC

BC'

EVC

EVC''

0 0 0.04 0.04 0 0.043 0 0 0.047 0 0 0 0.065 0 0 0.046 0.04 0.072 0.065 0.073 0.051 0.074 0.074 0.067 0.065 0 0.048 0 0.065 0.027

0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 36 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0

0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0.089 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0

0 0 0.071 0.071 0 0.11 0 0 0.099 0 0 0 0.227 0 0 0.1 0.071 0.332 0.227 0.33 0.327 0.331 0.329 0.283 0.227 0 0.099 0 0.227 0.337

0 0 0.019 0.019 0 0.029 0 0 0.026 0 0 0 0.06 0 0 0.026 0.019 0.087 0.06 0.087 0.086 0.087 0.087 0.075 0.06 0 0.026 0 0.06 0.089

higher value sites, and these are most often earthwork sites, while Burlington dominant sites are more commonly non-​earthworks and earthwork related. We can use the min-​max approach advocated by Golitko and Feinman (2015) to visualize these two subgroups (Figure  8.8). Using a Brainerd-​ Robinson value of 100 as a filter, we can look at the higher value edges to see the Wyandotte dominated network shown in Figure 8.8 on the left, and the Burlington dominated network, on the right. While Knox chert is pre­ sent at this scale, it is too rare to clearly show in the network, and the minor earthwork known as the Ater site represents its presence in the network (see Figure 8.6). Note that with a BR>100 filter, Ater is now isolated from the network in Figure 8.8. Recall that the Hopewell site sits between these two subgroups, a position revealed by its non-​zero Betweenness Centrality. Again, this may or may not be an accurate representation of this site’s location in the network, given the

 185

Figure 8.7 Standardized Eigenvector Centrality by subgroup. 1) Burlington dominant sites; 2) Wyandotte dominant sites.

Figure 8.8 Middle Scale network with a BR>100 filter applied. Nodes are scaled by Betweenness Centrality.

186

186  Mark Hill, Kevin Nolan & Mark Seeman small numbers of artifacts available for this study made from Wyandotte and Burlington cherts. Distant Exotics Scale This scale measures the relationships represented by the most distant reaches of Scioto Hopewell procurement, and consists of Obsidian from the Northern Rocky Mountains, and Knife River Flint from the northern Great Plains. These lithic resources occur outside the range of Hopewell societies that are found throughout much of the Midcontinent, and their presence in the Scioto Valley reflects some form of interaction –​direct or mediated –​ with people outside the Hopewell world. The analysis of lithics from this scale reveals a very different network than either of the two previous analyses (Figure  8.9). Only six nodes are active, and 24 nodes have become isolated from the network (not shown below). Network density has dropped to 0.016, and only seven edges link these nodes. This Distant Scale network is much more restricted and reflects a very limited number of agents or contexts involved in the production and use of these exotic lithic materials. It is also apparent that, much like the earlier division between Wyandotte dominant and Burlington dominant

Figure 8.9 Distant Scale network, node size by Eigenvector Centrality.

 187

Social interactions that define Hopewell 187 Table 8.5 Centrality and standardized centrality values, Distant Exotics Scale Node

Label

Degree

18 19 20 21 24 28

Ginther Harness Hopeton Hopewell Mound Rockhold

200 600 200 600 600 600

DC' 0.071 0.214 0.071 0.214 0.214 0.214

Betweenness

BC' Eigenvector

EVC''

0 0 0 0 0 0

0 0 0 0 0 0

0 0.25 0 0.25 0.25 0.25

0 0.5 0 0.5 0.5 0.5

sites at the Middle Scale, we now see a division between sites with Obsidian, and those with Knife River flint. All of the sites represented at this scale are earthworks, no residential sites in our sample participate in the relations that are represented by distant exotics. i) Statistics: (1) Total Nodes = 30 (2) Active Nodes = 6 (3) Total Edges = 7 (4) Density = 0.0161 (1.61 percent of potential connections) The distribution of degree centrality values are distinctly multimodal, as the 24 nodes with values of zero are isolated from the network (Figure 8.10). These nodes consist of all of the non-​earthwork and all of the earthwork associated sites, along with the minor earthworks of Ater and Tremper. Two of the remaining sites, the earthwork sites of Ginther and Hopeton, have low degree centrality values while four others, the earthwork sites of Harness, Hopewell, Mound City, and Rockhold have the highest, but still relatively low, values. All Betweenness Centrality values are zero, as no individual node/​site occupies an important position in the network. Eigenvector Centrality (Figure 8.11) occurs in two distinct classes of sites, those with Eigenvector Centrality values of zero, and four sites with standardized values of 0.5. These four nodes again represent the earthwork sites of Harness, Hopewell, Mound City and Rockhold. When examining these statistics by site type, it is clear that Major Earthworks have significantly higher Eigenvector Centrality than do Earthwork Associated and Non-​ Earthwork sites as the later two cat­ egories are now isolated from the network, and a higher mean centrality value than Minor Earthworks though they overlap at one standard devi­ ation (Figure 8.12). This is a shift from the All Lithics network where Non-​ Earthwork sites were highest, and also differs from the Middle Distance Scale where no significant difference was observed by site type.

188

Figure 8.10 Distribution of standardized degree centrality values, Distant Exotics Scale.

Figure 8.11 Distribution of standardized Eigenvector Centrality values, Distant Exotics Scale.

 189

Social interactions that define Hopewell 189

Figure 8.12 Eigenvector Centrality by site type, Distant Exotics Scale.

Discussion The above analysis represents a first pass on a single dimension of variability in material representations of the structure of meso-​to macro-​scale inter­ action among Scioto Hopewell households, communities, and aggregates thereof. While keeping in mind the limited scope of this analysis, it is apparent that for scales involving local and regional production, it is households and the relations among them that define Scioto Hopewell. Major earthworks, long thought to create and structure Hopewell interaction and integration and implicitly assumed by our dominant models to structure the interactions that form Hopewell, appear as emergent phenomenon from existing inter­ action between household-​level actors. Even at the Middle Scale where interaction is taking place across the mul­ tiple Hopewell societies of the Midcontinent, we see a significant represen­ tation of households. Yet at this scale we can see the beginnings of some differences –​two slightly different forms of interaction take place; one pref­ erentially featuring interaction to the west represented by resources from the Mississippi valley, and one preferentially featuring interaction to the southwest represented by resources from the lower Ohio valley. Time does not appear to be a factor in this distinction, as sites from both subgroups appear to cover the full range of Hopewell chronology (see Nolan et  al. 2017, 2019). There also is a lack of geographic patterning that might indi­ cate geographically delineated polities structuring the relations objectified by the distribution of these materials.

190

190  Mark Hill, Kevin Nolan & Mark Seeman Production at this Middle Scale still seems to include household level actors in the interactions with neighboring societies. Yet earthwork sites seem to be increasingly important in the spatial structure of interaction across regional scales –​particularly with regard to interaction involving Hopewell societies in the Lower Ohio valley represented by Wyandotte chert in this analysis. It is only as we leave the regional scale and engage with scales of produc­ tion that exceed the reach of Hopewell societies in the Midcontinent, do we see a significant change in this emphasis on household level production and interaction. Obsidian and Knife River Flint, both coming from distances in excess of 1000 miles, are greatly limited in their distribution within the Scioto Valley, and the activities performed at earthwork sites alone seems to control and direct the procurement of these distant exotics. Again, two different groups appear, one featuring obsidian and the relationships of production it represents, the other featuring Knife River Flint. As with the Middle Scale, time does not seem to be a factor in this distinction. There is some geographic patterning to the distribution of Knife River Flint, which is limited to two sites located close to one another on the east side of the valley, but obsidian is not geographically patterned. Lithic procurement overall is not structured around ceremonial earth­ work sites. Lithic procurement is not dictated by proximity. Lithic pro­ curement, and the relations objectified by the distribution, and, by proxy, exchange of certain raw materials appears to be driven by the household and not any specific spatially constrained community. The materials of the earthworks are indistinguishable from those of the non-​earthwork sites (with the exception of the exotic materials discussed above). Earthworks are not central to exchange, and do not structure the interpersonal relations we are interested in ultimately. The relations that determine the structures of these networks are formed at the lowest scale we can measure with these materials. The general lack of distinction between major earthworks, minor earthworks, and non-​earthwork sites seems to indicate an inversion of the typical view of what and where Hopewell is. If Hopewell is the pattern of interactions, the Interaction Sphere (Seeman 1979), then it is a milieu of independent household (likely extended fam­ ilies) to household relations giving themselves to networks they built themselves for their own needs. Looking back to Knappett’s framing of the appearance deriving from relations, we can interpret this near iden­ tity among site types as implying that the earthworks that emerge from these household ties are a more unified appearance of the relations objecti­ fied by the lithic material distributions at non-​earthwork sites. In the cooperative construction, over time (in most cases, see Lepper 2010 for an alternative explanation for the Newark Earthworks, a complex out­ side the Scioto Valley), the earthworks are another objectification of the same relationships. Following Knappett’s presentation of Gell (1999) and Strathern’s (1988) views of exchange relations where the givers ‘are giving away part of themselves’ in the exchange, the mutual giving of labor and

 191

Social interactions that define Hopewell 191 materials to construct the earthworks means these built landscapes are the people who make them and the relationships which brought them together. Those American Indians that constituted Hopewell were literally and fig­ uratively putting themselves into their ceremonial places writing not only their sophisticated understanding of the cosmos into the earth under their feet, but also writing their interpersonal relations into the earth itself. Several of the patterns are similar to those noted by Nolan et al. (2020) in the purely descriptive analysis of all materials analyzed for the SCHoN pro­ ject (ceramics, copper, and lithics), and echo the findings of one of the first systematic analyses of the Hopewell Interactions Sphere over a much larger scale than the present analysis (Seeman 1979). Namely, the relations objecti­ fied by ‘Interaction Sphere materials’ (Seeman 1979) are not hierarchically structured or constrained by a broader community, but access is mediated at smaller scales. Additional data from ceramic and copper artifacts have yet to be analyzed in a formal SNA context. These future analyses will add depth and texture to our understandings of the structure of Scioto Hopewell social interactions. Turning to the evaluation of the two major models above (see Figure 8.1), the synaptic model predicts a multi-​tiered structure of interaction focused on especially major earthwork sites, while the proximity model predicts independent households focusing their interaction predominately on a local community. While this analysis is preliminary, it does not support the syn­ aptic model proposed by Carr (2005a), and certainly does not indicate any tripartite divisions or a hierarchy of earthworks with the Hopewell site at its peak. Instead, it suggests that Scioto Hopewell is a phenomenon largely structured through the frequent interactions of households across local and regional scales. Only as the scale of production exceeds the reach of Hopewell societies do we see that all households become isolated from the network and the earthwork sites –​and the production and interaction they structure –​take a prominent role. Even at this scale, there is no hier­ archy. The individuals who gained access to these exotic Interaction Sphere materials are not localized. The potential exception is the circumscribed dis­ tribution of Knife River flint. The proximity model emphasizing household-​ level organization is in closer accord with these results. However, there is no geographic pattern to the lithic networks (again, except the Knife River distribution) as we would expect if these were structured communities, or even peer polities (Pacheco and Dancey 2006). The realization that Scioto Hopewell is a household level phenomenon should change the way we seek to explain its rise and its ‘demise’ (see Dancey 1996). Hopewell emerged from decisions about relations and resources at the household level. It was variously constituted in hamlets and small nucleated settlements, with a rise in the proportion of nucleated settlements through time and a possible shift in the types of places and degree of extra-​regional interaction around AD 200 (Burks 2004; Dancey 1992, 1996; Nolan and Howard 2010; Seeman and Dancey 2000).

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192  Mark Hill, Kevin Nolan & Mark Seeman The Hopewell pattern of independent households negotiating interpersonal relations with distant and diverse neighbors is eventually replaced with focused interaction and alliance with a cluster of households in the larger fortified nucleated villages of the early Late Woodland (ca. AD 500–​700; see Seeman and Dancey 2000). While earthworks may be the stage for Hopewell, earthworks do not make Hopewell; Hopewell starts with households and earthworks emerge from the relations and networks already established between households of the Scioto Valley and the greater Hopewell world.

Acknowledgements This research was supported by a grant from the National Science Foundation (BCS 1419225) and by the generous assistance of the Ohio History Connection, Hopewell Culture National Historical Park, SUNY Geneseo, the Field Museum, and the University of Michigan Museum of Anthropological Archaeology. We are very grateful for all the important contributions of our students Eric Olsen, Emily Butcher, Sneha Chavali, and Nora Hillard.

References Abrams, E.M. (2009). ‘Hopewell archaeology:  A view from the Northern Woodlands’, Journal of Archaeological Research 17, 169–​204. https://​doi.org/​ 10.1007/​s10814-​008-​9028-​0 Burks, J. (2004). Identifying Household Cluster and Refuse Disposal Patterns at the Strait Site: A Third Century AD Nucleated Settlement in the Middle Ohio River Valley. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Department of Anthropology, Ohio State University, Columbus, Ohio. Byers, M.A. (2004) Ohio Hopewell Episode:  Paradigm Lost Paradigm Gained. Akron, OH: University of Akron Press. Byers, M.A. (2015) Reclaiming the Hopewellian Ceremonial Sphere, 200 BC to AD 500. Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press. Caldwell, J. R. (1964) ‘Interaction spheres in prehistory’, in Caldwell, J.R. and Hall, R. (eds.) Hopewell Studies (Scientific Papers, No. 12). Springfield, IL: Illinois State Museum, pp. 133–​143. Carr, C. (2005a). ‘Salient issues in the social and political organizations of Northern Hopewellian peoples:  Contextualizing, personalizing, and gener­ ating Hopewell’, in Carr, C. and Case, D.T. (eds.) Gathering Hopewell: Society, Ritual and Ritual Interaction. New York: Kluwer Academic/​Plenum Publishers, pp. 73–​118. Carr, C. (2005b) ‘The Tripartite Ceremonial Alliance among Scioto Hopewellian communities and the question of social ranking’, in Carr, C. and Case, D.T. (eds.) Gathering Hopewell: Society, Ritual and Ritual Interaction. New York: Kluwer Academic/​Plenum Publishers, pp. 258–​338. Carr, C. and Case, D.T. (eds.) (2005). Gathering Hopewell: Society, Ritual and Ritual Interaction. New York: Kluwer Academic/​Plenum Publishers.

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Social interactions that define Hopewell 193 Coughlin, S. and Seeman, M.F. (1997). ‘Hopewell settlements at the Liberty Earthworks, Ross County, Ohio’, in Dancey, W.S. and Pacheco, P.J. (eds.), Ohio Hopewell Community Organization. Kent, OH:  Kent State University Press, pp. 231–​250. Dancey, W.S. (1991). ‘A Middle Woodland Settlement in Central Ohio:  A prelim­ inary report on the Murphy Site (33LI212)’, Pennsylvania Archaeologist 61(2), pp.  37–​72. Dancey, W.S. (1992). ‘Village origins in Central Ohio: The results and implications of recent Middle Late Woodland research’, in Seeman, M.F. (ed.) Cultural Variability in Context: Woodland Settlements of the Mid-​Ohio Valley (Special Paper No. 7, Midcontinental Journal of Archaeology). Kent, OH: Kent State University Press, pp.  24–​29. Dancey, W.S. (1996). ‘Putting an end to Ohio Hopewell’, in Pacheco, P.J. (ed.) A View from the Core:  A Synthesis of Ohio Hopewell Archaeology. Columbus, OH: Ohio Archaeological Council, pp. 394–​405. Dancey, W.S. (2005). ‘The enigmatic Hopewell of the eastern Woodlands’, in Pauketat, T. and DiPaolo Loren, D. (eds.) North American Archaeology. Oxford: Blackwell, pp. 108–​137. Dancey, W.S. and Pacheco, P.J. (eds.) (1997) Ohio Hopewell Community Organization. Kent, Ohio: Kent State University Press. Gell, A. (1999). ‘Strathernograms, or, the semiotics of mixed metaphors’, in Gell, A. The Art of Anthropology. Essays and Diagrams. London:  Athlone Press, pp.  29–​75. Golitko, M. and Feinman, G.M. (2015). ‘Procurement and distribution of pre-​ Hispanic Mesoamerican Obsidian 900 BC–​AD 1520: A social network analysis’, Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 22(1), pp. 206–​247. https://​doi. org/​10.1007/​s10816-​014-​9211-​1 Greber, N. and Ruhl, K.C. (2000) The Hopewell Site:  A Contemporary Analysis Based on the Work of Charles C. Willoughby. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Hill, M.A., Seeman, M.F., Nolan, K.C. and Dussubieux, L. (2017). ‘An empirical evaluation of copper procurement and distribution: Elemental analysis of Scioto Valley Hopewell copper’, Archaeological and Anthropological Sciences 10(5), 193–​1205. https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​s12520-​017-​0540-​3 Hill, M. A., Seeman, M.F., Pacheco, P.J. et al. (2019). ‘Material Choice and Interaction on Brown’s Bottom’, in Redmond B.G., Ruby B.J., and Burks, J. (eds.) Encountering Hopewell in Ohio and Beyond. Akron, OH: University of Akron Press, pp. 124–147. (2020) Horvath, S. (2011). Weighted Network Analysis:  Applications in Genomics and Systems Biology. New York: Springer-​Verlag. Lepper, B.T. (2010). ‘The ceremonial landscape of the Newark Earthworks and the Raccoon Creek Valley’, in Byers, M.A. and Wymer, D. (eds.) Hopewell Settlement Patterns, Subsistence, and Symbolic Landscapes. Gainesville, FL:  University of Florida Press, pp. 97–​127. Miller, G.L. (2018). ‘Hopewell Bladelets:  A Bayesian Radiocarbon Analysis’, American Antiquity 83(2), 224–​243. https://​doi.org/​10.1017/​aaq.2017.64 Nolan, K.C. and Howard, S.P. (2010). ‘Using evolutionary archaeology and evolu­ tionary ecology to explain cultural elaboration: The case of Middle Ohio Valley Woodland Period ceremonial subsistence’, North American Archaeology 31(2), 119–​154. https://​doi.org/​10.2190/​NA.31.2.a

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194  Mark Hill, Kevin Nolan & Mark Seeman Nolan, K.C., Seeman, M.F. and Hill, M.A. (2017). ‘New dates on Scioto Hopewell: A ScHON project’, Current Research in Ohio Archaeology, www.ohioarchaeology. org Nolan, K.C., Seeman, M.F. and Hill, M.A. (2018). ‘Time, Scale, and Community:  Hopewell unzymotic social systems (TSCHUSS)’, Paper presented at the 83rd Annual Meeting of the Society for American Archaeology, April 12, 2018, Washington, D.C., www.academia.edu/36396538/ Time_Scale_and_Community_Hopewell_unzymotic_social_systems_TSCHUSS. Nolan, K.C., Hill, M.A., Seeman, M.F. et  al. (2020). ‘Scale and community in Hopewell Networks (SCHoN): Summary of preliminary results’, in Redmond, B.G., Ruby B.J. and Burks, J. (eds.) Encountering Hopewell in Ohio and Beyond. Akron, OH: University of Akron Press, pp. 148–177. Pacheco, P.J. (ed.) (1996) A View from the Core:  A Synthesis of Ohio Hopewell Archaeology. Columbus, OH: Ohio Archaeological Council. Pacheco, P.J. (1997). ‘Ohio Middle Woodland intracommunity settlement vari­ ability: A case study from the Licking Valley’, in Dancey, W.S. and Pacheco, P.J. (eds.) Ohio Hopewell Community Organization. Kent, OH: Kent State University Press. pp. 41–​84. Pacheco, P.J. (2010). ‘Why move? Ohio Hopewell sedentism revisited’, in Byers, M.A. and Wymer, D. (ed.) Hopewell Settlement Patterns, Subsistence, and Symbolic Landscapes, Gainesville, FL: University of Florida Press, pp. 37–​55. Pacheco, P.J. and Dancey, W.S. (2006). ‘Integrating mortuary and settlement data on Ohio Hopewell society’, in Charles, D.K. and Buikstra, J.E. (eds.) Recreating Hopewell:  New Perspectives on Middle Woodland in Eastern North America. Gainesville, FL: University of Florida Press, pp. 3–​25. Pacheco, P.J., Burks, J. and Wymer, D.A. (2005). ‘Investigating Ohio settlement patterns in Central Ohio: A preliminary report of archaeology at Brown’s Bottom #1 (33RO21)’, Current Research in Ohio Archaeology www.ohioarchaeology.org Pacheco, P.J., Burks, J. and Wymer, D.A. (2009a). ‘The 2006 Archaeological Investigation at Brown’s Bottom #1’, Current Research in Ohio Archaeology www.ohioarchaeology.org Pacheco, P.J., Burks, J. and Wymer, D.A. (2009b). ‘The 2007–​2008 Archaeological Investigations at Lady’s Run (33RO1105)’, Current Research in Ohio Archaeology www.ohioarchaeology.org Pacheco, P.J., Burks, J. and Wymer, D.A. (2019). ‘Ohio Hopewell settlement on Brown’s Bottom’, in Redmond, B.G., Ruby B.J. and Burks, J. (eds.) Encountering Hopewell in Ohio and Beyond. Akron, OH: University of Akron Press. Patton, P. (2019). ‘Moving beyond the question: Were the Hopewell really farmers? Evidence from the Hocking Valley, Ohio’, in Redmond, B.G., Ruby B.J. and Burks, J. (eds.) Encountering Hopewell in Ohio and Beyond. Akron, OH: University of Akron Press. Prufer, O.H. (1964). ‘The Hopewell complex of Ohio’, in Caldwell, J. and Hall, R. (eds.) Hopewellian Studies (Scientific Papers 12). Springfield, IL:  Illinois State Museum, pp. 35–​83. Prufer, O.H. (1965). The McGraw Site. A study in Hopewellian dynamics (Cleveland Museum of Natural History Scientific Publications, N.S. Vol. 4, No. 1). Cleveland, OH: Cleveland Museum of Natural History. Ruby, B.J., Carr, C. and Charles, D.K. (2005). ‘Community organizations in the Scioto, Mann, and Havana Hopewellian regions: A comparative perspective’, in

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Social interactions that define Hopewell 195 Carr, C. and Case, D.T. (eds.) Gathering Hopewell:  Society, Ritual, and Ritual Interaction. New York: Springer, pp. 119–​176. Seeman, M. F. (1979) The Hopewell Interaction Sphere: The Evidence for Interregional Trade and Structural Complexity. Indianapolis, IN: Indiana Historical Society. Seeman, M.F. (2004). ‘Hopewell art in Hopewell places’, in Townsend, R.F. (ed.) Hero, Hawk, and Open Hand. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, pp. 57–​71 Seeman, M.F. and Dancey, W.S. (2000). ‘The Late Woodland Period in Southern Ohio: Basic issues and prospects’, in Emerson, T.E., McElrath, D.L. and Fortier, A.C. (eds.) Late Woodland Societies:  Tradition and Transformation across the Midcontinent. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, pp. 583–​611. Seeman, M.F., K.C. Nolan, and M.A. Hill (2019). Copper as an essential and exotic Hopewell metal. Journal of Archaeological Science: Reports 24:1095–1101. Shetrone, H.C. (1930). The Mound-​builders. New York: D. Appleton and Company. Strathern, M. (1988). The Gender of the Gift: Problems with Women and Problems with Society in Melanesia. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Struever, S. and Houart, G.L. (1972). ‘An analysis of the Hopewell Interaction Sphere’, in edited by Wilmsen, E. (ed.) Social Exchange and Interaction. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan, pp. 47–​79. Wymer, D.A. (1996). ‘The Ohio Hopewell econiche: Human-​land interaction in the core area’, in Pacheco, P.J. (ed.) A View from the Core:  A Synthesis of Ohio Hopewell Archaeology. Columbus, OH: Ohio Archaeological Council, pp. 36–​52. Wymer, D.A. (1997). ‘Paleoethnobotany in the Licking River valley, Ohio: Implications for understanding Ohio Hopewell’, in Dancey, W.S. and Pacheco, P.J. (eds.) Ohio Hopewell Community Organization. Kent, OH: Kent State University Press, pp. 153–​171. Wymer, D.A. (2019). ‘Ohio Hopewell as food-​ producers:  Regional intensifica­ tion of the domestication process’, in Redmond, B.G., Ruby B.J. and Burks, J. (eds.) Encountering Hopewell in Ohio and Beyond. Akron, OH:  University of Akron Press.

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9  Terrestrial communication networks and political agency in Early Iron Age Central Italy (950–​500 BCE) A bottom-​up approach Francesca Fulminante Introduction Transportation infrastructures are the outcomes of social interactions and interactions between societies and environments. Particularly, terrestrial routes can be considered as the result of the interplay of multiple factors: they are essential for permitting inter-​settlement cooperative processes (informa­ tion exchange, trade and defence) and, at the same time, they need some level of cooperation to be established (e.g. Trombold 2011 (1991) for the New World and Laurence 1999 for the Roman world). However, since their creation and maintenance require a not negligible amount of resources, they are affected by competing interests. We can think of each connection between a pair of places as the result of a negotiation that involves the two actors but that can also be influenced, to some extent, by ‘third parties’ as, for instance, a political authority acting on a higher level. The importance of such systems is self-​evident: they influenced the development of past soci­ eties enhancing trade dynamics and affecting the prosperity of a civilization and its complexification (e.g. emergence of ‘urbanism’, see Earle 2011(1991) and Lay 1992 and/​or ‘Romanization’, see Laurence 1999). Summarizing, terrestrial routes or terrestrial transportation infrastructures both shaped and were shaped by the societies who created them and the environment in which they existed in a very clear example of feedback loop. In the past, terrestrial transportation routes, especially Roman roads with their clear and imposing monumental appearance, have been the focus of traditional topographical research and landscape archaeology both at the centre (e.g. Forma Italiae volumes published by the Roman topo­ graphic school led by Castagnoli and later Sommella or the ATTA –​Atlante Tematico di Topografia Antica  –​and Latium Vetus volumes curated by Lorenzo and Stefania Quilici Gigli) and at the edges of the Empire (e.g. contributions in Koschick 2004 or Rathmann 2006). However, regional and/​or supra-​regional studies specifically focused on terrestrial transpor­ tation systems have been less common (see e.g. Dorsey 1991; Kolb 2004; Carreras and De Soto 2010; Nakoinz 2012b; Blöck and Beck 2017). In addition terrestrial transportation systems have been studied to understand

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Networks and agency in Iron Age Italy 197 better trade opportunities and relationships in the past and develop inter­ pretations and theories on the origin and development of ancient economies (e.g. McCormick 2002; Adams 2012). On the contrary, the study of terrestrial transportation systems for understanding the political and social organization of the communities that created and maintained them has been pioneered only by a few scholars (e.g. Chevallier 1976; Taylor 1979; Crumley and Marquadt 1987; Purcell 1990 and Mattingly 1997 on the Roman Empire and its provinces; Laurence 1999, on Roman Italy; Nakoinz 2012a on Pre-​Roman Europe; Potter 1979; Boitani 1985; Izzet 2007 and recently Tuppi 2014 on Etruria; and Trombold 2011 (1991), followed more recently by Jenkins 2001 and Smith 2005 for the New World). Recently Irad Malkin has adopted a network perspective as a methaphor and as an heuristic concept as he has compared the polycentric maritime network of Greek cities and colonies to the centralized road net­ work of the Roman Empire (Malkin 2011), but narratives on European terrestrial transportation systems have rarely adopted a comparative per­ spective and especially a quantitative approach to substantiate it. Only recently new studies conducted in regions of Pre-​Roman and Roman Europe (e.g. De Soto and Carreras 2013; Groenhuijzen and Verhagen 2016; Filet 2017; Volkmann 2017; Faupel 2018; Faupel and Nakoinz 2018) and also in Pre-​Roman and Roman Italy (e.g. Fulminante et al. 2017; Prignano et al. 2019; Matteazzi 2017) have shown the potential of novel quantitative studies based on Network Science approaches and/​or GIS applications and have shown that this is indeed a growing and important field of research (see e.g. recent projects such as ORBIS by Stanford University, http://​orbis. stanford.edu/​orbis2012/​, or the New Transhumance project in Toscana; Pizziolo et  al. 2016 or Mercator E-​Project in Spain http://​fabricadesites. fcsh.unl.pt/​mercator-​e/​). Summarizing, terrestrial routes both shaped and were shaped by the societies who created them and the environment in which they existed in a very clear example of feedback loop (Fulminante forthcoming). Therefore, understanding the development of terrestrial transportation and commu­ nication infrastructures in a region provides insights into its social and political functioning. To better understand emerging Latin and Etruscan urban polities and their interactions we modelled their terrestrial infrastruc­ ture networks to explore the underlying mechanism of their creation and maintenance.

Theory and methodology Actor Network Theory (Latour 2005) and Assemblage theory (De Landa 2006 and with reference to scale: Marston et al. 2005, Collinge 2006; par­ ticularly in archaeology, Harris 2017) provide the theoretical background for our case study, and Network Science provides the tools and the meth­ odology to build our argument. Thinking specifically about settlements and

198

198  Francesca Fulminante A

B AGENTS

Humans

THINGS Routes CreationMaintenance

cultural and social conditions

System of Interaction ion

at

lis

a an

c

Inter-polities interaction

System of Transportation

m

Political Entities (Cities & Villages)

od

ifi

ca

tio

n

Paths

natural conditions

Figure 9.1 a) Relationship between human/​agents (grouped into polities) and routes/​paths mediated by their creation/​maintenance which influences/​ is influenced by inter-​polity interactions; b) Interrelationship of infrastructure and interaction (image b reproduced thanks to courtesy by Oliver Nakoinz).

transportation routes in term of assemblages and Actor Network Theory is a quite interesting and fitting case study. People are human agents grouped into wider political entities (villages, cities etc.) that are assemblages and can be considered as node agents in themselves, or as part of wider assemblages such as the political and ethnic regional units of Etruria and Latium Vetus. Paths or routes are things and the relationship between the human agents and these things is their creation and maintenance, which requires a certain degree of coordination, integration and/​or control among the entities to be realized. In other words inter-​polity interaction among villages and cities (human agents) is somehow mediated also by the creation and maintenance of the paths-​routes among them (Figure 9.1). Before the creation of modern telecommunications interaction between two actors had to be based on overcoming a certain distance between them, which implied necessarily a spatial distance and eventually a cultural dis­ tance (Nakoinz 2012b, 2012a, 2013a, 2013b , 2013c). For the time being let’s put aside the cultural distance and let’s concentrate on the physical dis­ tance. In order to overcome a physical distance, in the past people needed to travel. The more intense is the interaction between two actors and the more frequent is the travel between them, which eventually led to the creation of a formal route or pathway. Therefore, an investigation of pathway systems can result in knowledge about the structure of interactions and, in turn, about cultural-​historical and social processes (Nakoinz 2012a; Fulminante et al. 2017; Prignano et al. 2019). In our models, settlements behave as node agents:  they act on them­ selves and their environment and they communicate among themselves. Their behavior is the result of their observation, their knowledge and their

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Networks and agency in Iron Age Italy 199 interaction with other agents. More specifically, we designed and applied to Southern Etruria and Latium Vetus three network models. Each model corresponds to a different hypothesis about the dominant mechanism underlying the creation of new connections. After locating the nodes at the positions inferred from the archaeological record, we started adding links according to a specific criterion. Once we had generated several synthetic versions of the networks, we compared them to the corresponding empir­ ical system to determine which model fitted the data better and therefore was more likely to resemble the actual forces at work.

Case studies and data Case studies The case studies used in this chapter are Etruria and Latium Vetus from the beginning of the Early Iron Age to the end of the Archaic Period (Figure 9.2). During this time those two regions underwent major socio-​political trans­ formation that led to the creation in middle Tyrrhenian Italy of the first cities in Western Europe. From an organization of dispersed villages and mostly ‘egalitarian’ com­ munities, assimilated by many scholars to the ‘chiefdom’ category (see

Figure 9.2 Early Iron Age Central Italy.

200

200  Francesca Fulminante Fulminante 2014 with previous references) or by other to ‘federative pol­ ities’ (Alessandri 2016), during the late Bronze Age, through an intermediary period lasted about two to three centuries (about three to five generations), the so-​called Early Iron Age, or proto-​urban period, the final result of this development in the late Early Iron Age and Orientalizing/​Archaic Period was the realization of full urban communities, living in monumentalized cities with proper hierarchical organization and dominant market economy (Table 9.1). More specifically, Etruria and Latium Vetus had parallel and very similar trajectories, but very different outcomes, with the emergence of Rome as a supra-​regional power and the submission of the whole of Etruria to its rival smaller neighbour. As we will see, the study of the two systems and their transportation networks will provide a possible explanation for this favor­ able outcome for one actor, Rome, that had such enduring consequences for the following historical developments not only of Italy but all Western Europe.

Data Data used are settlements (nodes) in Etruria and Latium Vetus between the beginning of the Early Iron Age and the end of the Archaic Period. In par­ ticular, Latium Vetus settlements had already been considered in another work by the author (Fulminante 2014), and the important works on the same region by Luca Alessandri (Alessandri 2007, 2013). For southern Etruria fundamental have been the Repertorio dei Siti Preistorici e Protostorici della Regione Lazio (Belardelli et al. 2007), the Dictionary of the Etruscans (Stoddart 2009) and the work by Marco Rendeli on the territorial organ­ ization of southern Etruria in the Orientalizing and Archaic Period (Rendeli 1993). In addition the list of settlements has been updated on the basis of more recent publication in Studi Etruschi, and most important confer­ ence proceedings (e.g. Preistoria e Protostoria in Etruria, gli Annali della Fondazione per il Museo ‘C. Faina’) and exhibition catalogues (E.g. Della Fina and Pellegrini 2013). We have considered the maximum period in which the settlements co-​ existed without major changes and we obtained five time slices:

• • • • •

Early Iron Age 1 Early (EIA1E): (950/​925–​900 BCE) Early Iron Age 1 Late (EIA1L): (900–​850/​825 BCE) Early Iron Age 2 (EIA2): (850/​825–​730/​720 BCE) Orientalizing Age (OA): (730/​720–​580  BCE) Archaic Perid (AA): 580–​500 BCE

Links among settlements have been built on the basis of terrestrial routes (links) hypothesized by scholars on the basis of later roads, topography and the position of existing settlements. In particular, links have been established

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newgenrtpdf

Table 9.1 Socio-political developments in Eturia and Latium Vetus Pre-​urban/​proto-​urban

Proto-​urban

Proto-​urban/​urban

Urban

LBA 1-​2

LBA3

EIA1E

EIA1L

EIA2

OA

AA

1200-​1050

1050-​ 950

950-​900

900-​825/​ 800

825/​800-​750/​725

750/​725-​580

580-​509

Definition of cities boundaries and internal organization Higher hierarchical settlement organization (3/​4 levels)

Cities

Monumentalization of cities

‘Warrior graves and rich female burials’

‘Hierarchical Society’

Peer-​Polity Interation

Peer-Polity Interaction

From small dispersed villages to large proto-​urban settlemtents Low hierarchical settlemtent organization (1-​2 levels) Mostly ‘egalitatian society’ with ‘emerging burails’ Chiefdom-​Federative Polities

Large proto-​urban nucleated settlements Higher hierarchical settlement organization (2-​3 levels)-​ Secondary settlements from EIA1L Hidden ‘social hierarchy’ by masking ‘egalitarian ideology Peer-​Polity Interation

Higher hierarchical settlement organization (3/4 levels) Higher hierarchical settlement organization (3/4 levels) Rome’s Primate ranking/starting Imperial policy

202

202  Francesca Fulminante

Figure 9.3 Reconstruction of terrestrial routes in Latium Vetus during the Archaic Period (from Colonna 1976).

between every two settlements directly adjacent on a terrestrial or a fluvial route without any settlement in between. The fluvial routes have been based on digital data provided by Regione Lazio. The routes of Latium Vetus have been based on the reconstruction elaborated by Lorenzo and Stefania Quilici Gigli (Figure 9.3), at the regional level for the Archaic Period in occasion of the famous exhibition: Civiltá del Lazio Primitivo (Colonna 1976). For the Etruscan region, instead, a com­ prehensive study is still missing (important in this sense is the work on road cuts by Tuppi 2014). Therefore different works have been considered (Potter 1979; Zifferero 1995; Tartara 1999; Brocato 2000; Enei 2001; Bonghi Jovino 2005, 2008; Schiappelli 2008). The different interpretations have

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Networks and agency in Iron Age Italy 203 also been tested by considering their alignment with settlements discovered more recently after the publication of those works. Both settlements and communication routes have been considered con­ stant within each time slice. In this sense the analysis concerned five static networks rather than an evolutive system. However, this does not mean that the system is constant in the five periods. Some sites are abandoned and some others are founded, therefore routes are not the only thing that changes but also the settlements. Finally, to consider the geography of the territory, the links between settlements have been weighted on the linear distance between each pair of settlements. This was the easiest way to con­ sider the environment and the cost of transport. It is a reasonable approach because the region is limited and relatively homogeneous with scarce oro­ graphic variability.

Analyses To identify the principles behind the creation and maintenance of terres­ trial communication routes in Etruria and Latium Vetus and better under­ stand their socio-​political organization that is behind this particular form of interaction between the communities and their environment, the empirical networks constructed as explained above have been characterized through a number of measures illustrated in more details in other works by the authors (Fulminante et al. 2017; Prignano et al. 2019): 1 Average strength : it measures the overall connectivity of the net­ work, taking the weight of the edges into account. It provides, on average, the sum of the weights (lengths) of the links connected to a site; 2 Average edge length ⟨l⟩:  it is the mean value of the weights of all the links that are present in the system. 3 Average clustering coefficient ⟨C⟩: among all the potential links between the neighbours of a node, the clustering coefficient indicates the propor­ tion of them that actually exist. Averaging this ratio over the whole set of sites, we obtain a global indicator of the density of closed triangles in the network; 4 Global efficiency ⟨Eglob⟩: the concept of efficiency implies a quantifica­ tion of how well information is exchanged across the whole network. In the case of geographic networks, it is calculated as the average ratio between the geographic distance separating every pair of nodes and the length of the shortest weighted path connecting them. In doing so, we are comparing the ideal case (a geographic straight line) to the commu­ nication capability of the network (Vragovic´ et al. 2005); 5 Local efficiency ⟨Eloc⟩:  the local efficiency of a node quantifies how well information would be exchanged between its neighbours if the node itself is removed. As in the global efficiency, weights are taken into account, so efficiencies are calculated using geographic distances and

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204  Francesca Fulminante shortest weighted path lengths. The local efficiency of a network is the average local efficiency of its nodes (Vragovic´ et al. 2005). In the construction of the models the settlements and their location are a fixed starting point. The models are built by a series of commands/​rules that start from a certain number of disconnected sites (the settlements of the empirical networks), defining which links would be created or not. The first model (L-L) implies that every node tries to connect to the highest number of nodes possible, with no specific strategy, but in a sort of blind competi­ tion, until the resources available to the system (the sum of the length of all the links as measured in the empirical network) are exhausted. In this model the nodes, which can be considered as agents, are aware only of their direct neighbors. In the second model (G-L), the nodes-​agents are slightly smarter and prefer to connect to those neighbors that are relatively more difficult to reach, that is for which there does not already exist another reasonable route. In this way, the nodes-​agents are aware of routes that exist also had a greater distance than a neighboring node, that is routes that are passing through a third node (and possibly fourth, fifth etc.). The mechanism (basic competition) is the same as in model 1, but the principle is different because each node does choose the new node to connect to not only on the base of linear distance, but on the knowledge of the overall system. The third model (EE) adopts the same criteria as the second, but the deci­ sion about which new connection to create is a global one. In other words, a level of ‘cooperation’ is introduced in the basic principle of coordinated prioritization of new connections creation:  each node agent has its indi­ vidual needs and priorities, but the new links are created where they are most needed at the global level. The new connections are those that create a shortcut between two (relatively close) nodes which otherwise were connected through a very long route (in comparison to their geograph­ ical distance). The information available to the nodes-​agents is the same as in model 2, but their use is different. A global priority is negotiated that mediates between different local and/​or individual interests and gives higher priority to more urgent necessities within a global awareness. In other works we could say that no one is left behind and there are no completely weak points in the system (for a mathematical explanation of the models see Prignano et al. 2019; Fulminante et al. 2017).1 As long as it concerns southern Etruria the first two models capture some of the characteristics of the empirical networks but miss some others; the third model instead is able to reproduce with good accuracy all relevant characteristics for all periods considered, apart from a not negligible diffe­ rence in the clustering coefficient: 1) decrease of average link length; 2) non monotonous increase of clustering coefficient; 3) constant global efficiency; 4) monotonous increase of local efficiency2 (Figure 9.4). Differently from Etruria, in Latium Vetus each model reproduces some of the trends of the

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Figure 9.4 Comparison between the results of the calculation of characterizing measures on the different network models and the empirical one in Southern Etruria (black dots = empirical network, gray dots = model 1 (L-L), pale gray squares = model 2 (G-L); dark gray squares = model 3 (EE)).

empirical networks but misses always some others. Therefore, in Latium Vetus model 2, in which the nodes-​agents’ pursuit a personal interest of improving connectivity, seems to work better than in Etruria (Figure 9.5). However, model 2 and model 3 (that works for southern Etruria) are not able to predict the situation existing in Latium Vetus of some sites with many distant links, such as Rome. However, if model 3 is slightly modi­ fied with introducing a preferential attachment mechanism according to which ‘the richest get even richer’ (that is the sites that have more links in turn attract more links in a feedback loop), then the model can reproduce

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Figure 9.5 Comparison between the results of calculation of characterizing measures on the different network models and the empirical one in Latium Vetus (black dots = empirical network, white dots = model 1 (L-L), white squares = model 2 (G-L); dark gray dots = model 3 (EE), light gray dots with dashes = model 3 (EE) with PA).

the empirical situation with Rome and its numerous links to neighboring sites (Figure 9.6).

Discussion of the results The analyses presented above showed that in Southern Etruria the model that worked better was based on a balanced coordinated decision-​making process (Prignano et al. 2019). Second, when we applied the three models to Latium Vetus, we found that each model could reproduce some of the features while failing concerning others, depending on the Age. After realizing that the most

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Rome

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Figure 9.6 Latium Vetus: empirical network (black) compared with the networks produced by the models (dark gray, top left = model 1; light gray, top right = model 2; medium gray, bottom left = model 3; pale gray, bottom right = model 3 with preferential attachment).

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208  Francesca Fulminante important difference between Latium Vetus and Southern Etruria network is the more prominent centralization of the connection in few sites, we included a positive bias toward nodes that already have more and larger links. Interestingly, as a consequence of the introduction of this mechanism, the centrality of a few nodes raised over the rest, being Rome the most outstanding case. Thus, the mod­ elling suggests that in Latium Vetus a slightly unbalanced dynamics of power constitutes the most likely underlying mechanism (Fulminante et al. 2017). It is interesting to note that the ‘richer get richer’ principle has been observed also in other urban developments and/​or systems such as Bronze Age Crete (Paliou and Bevan 2016), and with particular reference to terrestrial routes connections, in northern Mesopotamia during the third Millennium BCE (Menze and Ur 2012). This is rather interesting because it seems to represent a more general feature of urbanization with wider and more general implications (see also recent studies on settlement-​scaling theory, e.g. Ortman et al. 2016). However further parallels and case studies are necessary to asses its general validity. For example, in this chapter it seems less applicable to Southern Etruria, which also underwent urbanization processes similar to Latium Vetus. A  potential explanation for this exception might be found in the different dynamics of power observed in the two regions (see conclusions below).

Conclusions Transportation infrastructures are the product of social interactions and interactions between societies and environments. The creation and mainten­ ance of terrestrial communication routes requires a not negligible amount of resources and a certain degree of cooperation among the cities that are connected by them. Therefore, the analysis of the development of terrestrial transportation networks in a region can shed new light on the political, social and economic organization of that region. In this chapter we modelled and compared terrestrial transportation networks in Etruria and Latium Vetus to explore the underlying mechanism of their creation and maintenance and better understand their organization and modes of interaction. In our models, settlements behave as node-​agents: they are able to act on themselves and their environment and they communicate among themselves. Their behavior is the result of their observation, their knowledge and their interaction with other agents. We find that, in the case of southern Etruria, the model simulating a simple form of cooperation reproduces with a very good accuracy all the relevant features for all the Ages under study. On the contrary, in Latium Vetus, each model can reproduce some of the features while failing with others, depending on the Age. However, if we add a ‘rich get richer’ bias (which has been observed to be applicable also in other urban systems settings) to the cooperative model, its performance improves significantly. These results suggest that a balanced cooperative decision-​making pro­ cess was driving the creation and maintenance of the terrestrial route system in the Etruscan region; whereas in Latium Vetus a slightly unbalanced

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Networks and agency in Iron Age Italy 209 dynamics of power constitutes the most likely underlying mechanism. This fits very well with the picture elaborated by different scholars on the nature of power balance and dynamics in the two regions. Already some years ago Alessandro Guidi suggested cautiously a similar scenario by applying the rank size model to Etruria and Latium Vetus. Further analyses and interpretations advanced in more recent years seem to confirm this idea:  Etruria was dominated by a more balanced system of competitions among more or less equal cities-​actors, that some scholars have defined heterarchical (Becker 2002; Fulminante and Stoddart 2012; Stoddart 2016); while Latium Vetus was a smaller and more compact region where the emerging power of one dominant actor created a more unbalanced dynamic of powers and a more hierarchical organization that eventually was more efficient than the rival Etruria (Fulminante et al. forth­ coming, Fulminante forthcoming).

Acknowledgements I would like to thank Lieve Donnellan for inviting me to contribute to this stimulating discussion panel and the following proceedings. The research for this paper has been conducted thanks to a Marie Sklodowska Curie Fellowship, conducted by the author at the University of Roma Tre (Italy) between 2014 and 2016 (Grant N 628818). Network Analyses have been developed in col­ laboration with Luce Prignano, Sergi Lozano and Ignacio Morer. The paper was developed, written and revised thanks to a fellowship at the Institute of Advanced Studies at Durham (UK, Lent Term 2017) and at the ChristianAlbrechts-Universität zu Kiel (Germany, Autumn Term 2018). Discussions at those institutions respectively with Rob Witcher and Oliver Nakoinz have been most fruitful. Every error and inaccuracy remains with the author.

Notes 1 Models 1 (L-L) and 2 (G-L) are stochastic, which means they do not produce a single output (like model 3 EE); when their commands are run, they produce random outputs which are always different in the details even if the general characteristics are common and stable. 2 Note that the average weighted degree remains the same both for empirical networks and those created by the models because is based on the total length of all links divided by the number of settlements, that are both fixed input points in all the models.

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Note: references to figures are given in italics and references to tables are given in bold. abstraction 10, 23, 27, 28–29, 33, 35, 38, 44, 50, 56, 58 Actor Network Theory 197–198 actors 11–122, 32, 43–44, 122, 147, 174, 189, 196–198, 200, 209 affiliations 9, 43, 46, 73, 80, 121, 123, 147, 157, 169, 177 agency 1–3, 7, 8–10, 109, 137, 139–140, 196 agents 8, 12, 45, 51, 110, 121–122, 154, 186, 198–199, 204–205, 208 algorithms 58, 93, 95–96, 103, 157–159, 161, 165, 166–168, 170 amphora 30, 120 anthropology 20, 29, 65–67, 69 application 1–2, 5, 7, 9, 146, 148, 197 archaeology 1–3, 5–13, 20–21, 29, 38, 42–44, 49, 55–56, 58–60, 64, 67–70, 72, 75, 93–95, 107, 110, 116–121, 146–149, 153, 155–156, 170, 174, 196–197, 199 Archaic Period 74, 199–200, 202 architecture 9, 32, 91, 110 armour 116 artefacts 10, 20, 29, 31, 34, 51, 146, 155, 157, 176–177, 191 assemblage 6, 20, 32, 40, 44, 78, 80, 83, 94, 99, 119–120, 122, 147–150, 152–153, 155, 158–159, 161, 165–167, 169–170, 197–198 attributes 4, 7, 12–13, 29, 39, 51–53, 55–56, 58, 93, 95–98, 104, 106, 118–119, 121, 123, 134, 137, 139–140 beads 12, 146–150, 159, 161–163, 165–171

behaviour 1, 4, 7–10, 91, 198, 208 betweenness 95, 111, 177, 179–180, 183–185, 187 bimodality 9, 44, 182 block-modelling 157 body 11, 30, 32, 42, 117, 124, 129, 132, 140 bowls 30, 72–73, 80, 84, 120 Brainerd-Robinson 94–95, 97–102, 104–107, 111, 177, 184 Braudel, Fernand 8, 10 bronze 7, 31, 34, 38, 40, 42, 46, 51–52, 56–57, 59, 72, 80, 82–84, 200, 208 Bronze Age 7, 38, 40, 42, 59, 72, 200, 208 Brown’s Bottom 173, 177, 182 buildings 3, 4, 12–13, 55, 91, 109, 148, 175 burials 9, 11, 38, 40, 42–47, 49, 50, 55, 59, 78, 80, 82, 84, 121, 122–123, 126–128, 130, 133, 135, 137, 139, 140, 147–149, 152, 175, 201 Campania 64, 72, 75, 78, 80–84 Carpathian Basin 39, 46, 50 cauldrons 78, 80, 82–84 centrality 1, 5, 53, 95, 111, 155, 157, 165–166, 177, 179–189, 208 ceramics 12, 120, 123–124, 134, 139, 176, 191 circulation 7, 65, 108–109, 118, 120–121, 123, 125, 140 cities 5, 13, 89–90, 92, 94, 96–97, 99, 104, 108, 110, 117, 119, 173, 177, 182, 187

 215

Index 215 classification 44, 56, 58–59, 65, 132, 148, 149, 150–152, 158, 161–162, 165, 167, 169, 170 clothing 116, 121 clusters 24, 95, 101, 103, 155, 157, 161–162, 165, 167, 171, 192 commodity 65–67, 69 communication 11, 146, 196–197, 203, 208 community 9, 10, 40, 42–43, 46–47, 50, 55, 83, 108, 137, 140–141, 157, 176, 190, 191; communities of interaction 7, 121–122; communities of practice 9, 140 complexity 6, 11, 13, 38, 45, 50, 58, 89, 118, 169 concepts 1–6, 8–13, 20, 23, 30, 33, 35, 38, 42–45, 50–51, 53, 55–56, 58, 60, 65–67, 69–70, 73, 75, 78, 118, 146–147, 168, 170, 197, 203 connection 4, 5, 9, 21, 23, 31, 34, 44, 46–47, 56, 65, 78, 82, 95, 108, 110–111, 137, 141, 146, 157, 174, 179, 181, 187, 196, 199, 204, 208 connectivity 1, 3, 7, 13, 203, 205 consumption 7, 9, 12, 47, 70, 71, 73, 84, 118, 121–123, 126–128, 129–130, 132–135, 137, 139–141, 176, 179 context 11–2, 31, 38, 42–44, 46, 53, 55–56, 58–59, 64–66, 69–72, 77–78, 80, 83–84, 91, 116, 118, 121, 123, 133, 140, 146–149, 155–158, 165–167, 169, 175, 178, 186, 191 copper 173, 176, 191 Corinth 129, 132 cremation 38, 78, 80 culture 3, 7–9, 11–2, 38–40, 46, 53, 55, 64–66, 69–70, 75, 80, 83–84, 90, 117–118, 176 Cumae 78, 80, 82–83, 119, 132, 139 Danube 39 data 3, 6–8, 10, 20–21, 35, 43, 45, 51, 55–56, 59–60, 70, 78, 80, 84, 89, 92–5, 99, 103, 108, 110–111, 117, 123–124, 140–141, 146–150, 153, 155–17, 161, 165, 168–171, 174, 176, 191, 199–200, 202 Davis, Allison 9, 121–123 degrees 6, 30, 35, 42, 45, 47, 52, 55, 58, 60, 67, 84, 89, 90, 124, 148, 155, 157–158, 165–166, 171, 177, 179,

180, 182, 187–188, 191, 198, 203, 208–209 Delaware 176 Denmark 155 diagrams 4, 13, 23–27, 29, 33, 47, 49, 76, 152 distance 6, 7, 12, 21, 66, 82, 92–95, 99, 101–102, 104, 107–108, 111, 120, 141, 149, 170, 173, 175–178, 181–202, 187, 190, 198, 203–204 dividual 22, 29–30, 33, 68–69, 120, 140 domesticity 9, 12, 25–26, 68, 70, 77, 91–92, 109, 133, 173 dress 120, 123, 148 drinking cups 12, 83, 119, 120, 123–126, 132–134, 137, 139–140 earthworks 173–177, 179–184, 187, 189–192 eclipse 25, 27, 45–47, 49–50 economy 65–67, 69, 74, 118, 200 edges 44, 51–53, 55, 58–59, 95, 152, 177, 179, 181–182, 184, 186–187, 196, 203 Eigenvector 177, 180–183, 185–189 elite 7, 12, 38–40, 42–44, 46, 49, 50–51, 70, 73, 78, 80, 82–84, 91–92, 97, 106–110, 116, 118, 120, 139 embodiment 31–32, 34, 42, 45–47, 92, 117 emplacement 117 entanglement 1, 2, 11, 12, 20–21, 30–35, 38, 44, 49, 51, 53, 64, 84, 89, 117–118, 121, 137 ethnography 22, 24, 29 Etruria 78, 80, 197–200, 203–206, 208–209 exchange 6, 7, 11–2, 22–30, 33–34, 39, 44–47, 49–51, 53, 55, 64–69, 72–76, 78, 83–84, 116, 118, 120, 134, 137, 139, 140–141, 146–149, 155, 170, 176, 190, 196, 203 feasts 12, 64–5, 67, 70–73, 75–80, 82–84, 116, 123, 134 Finley, Moses 20, 73–74, 118 flint 176–178, 186, 190 food 68, 70–73, 75–77, 106, 120, 123, 141 formality 1–3, 5–6, 11–13, 21, 23, 35, 51, 53, 58, 67, 118, 121, 124, 139, 147, 149, 152, 155, 158, 168–171, 191, 198 France 39, 46, 50

216

216 Index Gell, Alfred 11, 22–29, 33, 35, 38, 44–45, 49–50, 56, 58, 64, 67–70, 75–76, 78, 190 gender 22–23, 33, 43–44, 64, 66–67, 69–70, 75, 120, 137, 139 The Gender of the Gift 22–23, 33, 64, 66–67, 69 geography 3, 5–8, 44, 92–93, 95, 99, 103–105, 108, 156, 170, 175–176, 189–191, 203–204 Germany 39–40, 59 GG see The Gender of the Gift gifts 12, 22–23, 30–31, 33, 45, 49–50, 64–78, 83–84, 116–118, 120, 139 globalisation 11 Gotland 155 graphs 4–7, 11–2, 23–24, 27, 29, 44, 53, 55–56, 58, 64, 75–76, 78, 80–82, 84, 89, 95–99, 101, 102, 104–107, 147, 152–153, 157–158, 161, 165, 167, 169, 177 graph theory 4–5 graves 39–57, 59, 78, 80, 84, 147–149, 152, 155, 157, 165, 170, 201 Great Plains 176, 178, 186 Greece 3, 22, 29–30, 31, 46, 69, 73–75, 78, 80, 82–84, 116, 118–120, 137, 197 Hallstatt 11, 39, 40, 47, 59 Heidegger, Martin 3 heroes 42, 72, 82, 116, 139 heuristics 2, 5, 8, 10, 13, 23, 44, 110, 134, 197 hierarchy 6, 25, 27, 35, 47, 49, 56, 70, 91, 95–98, 101, 103–104, 191, 200–201, 209 hoards 40, 47, 50 Hodder, Ian 1–3, 8–9, 11, 20, 32, 64, 84, 117 Homer 30, 49, 72–75, 77–78, 80, 82–83, 116–118, 120, 139 Hopewell 173–184, 186–187, 189–192 horses 44, 46, 59, 72, 80, 116 houses 12, 89, 90–111, 173 households 10, 13, 69, 77, 109–110, 117–118, 122–123, 126–128, 129–130, 132–133, 135, 139, 141, 173–177, 189, 190–192 humanities 35, 111 hydria 31, 34 identity 7–9, 11, 30, 38–40, 42–46, 49–50, 53, 56, 58–59, 65, 67–69,

71, 73, 92, 108–109, 117, 120, 122, 139–140, 148, 190 Indian Ocean 148 Indiana 181 Ingold, Tim 1, 3, 11, 20–21, 32, 117, 121 interaction 1–13, 20–22, 29–31, 34, 38, 42–44, 46–47, 50–51, 53, 59, 64, 67, 70, 84, 89–90, 96, 99, 105, 107–110, 116–118, 120–122, 134, 137, 139–141, 146, 149, 170, 173, 175–176, 178, 181, 186, 189–192, 196–199, 203, 208 interiority 23, 33, 45, 64, 75 intra-action 23, 34–35 iron 40, 42, 46–47, 49, 51–52, 59, 80, 82, 173 Iron Age 6, 9, 12, 30, 38, 40, 59, 64, 72–73, 78, 83, 116, 118–120, 139, 196, 199, 200 Italy 7, 12–13, 46, 59, 64, 75, 78, 80, 82–84, 119, 129, 196–197, 199, 200 jug 119–120, 123, 128 kantharos 123–126 kinship 5, 66, 146–147 kotyle 120, 123–126 kyathos 124 kylix 31, 34, 124 Lady’s Run 173, 177, 182 Late Bronze Age 7, 200 Latium 72, 75, 78, 80–84, 196, 198–209 Latour, Bruno 32, 64, 117, 197 lekythos 123, 132–133, 139 Levant 84, 120 libation 30, 137, 139 locality 11–12, 34, 38, 46, 55, 59, 74, 80, 82, 84, 92, 96, 99, 104–105, 108, 117–118, 120, 123–126, 129–130, 132–134, 137, 139, 141, 154, 174, 176–177, 179, 181, 189, 191, 203–204 macro scale 5, 8–11, 34, 117, 121, 176, 189 manipulation 3, 11, 13, 70 marble 12, 31, 33, 89–95, 99, 101, 103–111 markets 65, 110, 116, 200 materiality 1–3, 7–13, 21, 31, 38, 40, 44–47, 50–53, 55, 59, 64, 70, 80, 83,

 217

Index 217 90–91, 107, 109, 116–18, 121, 123–124, 134, 140, 146–150, 152–155, 166, 169–171, 173–174, 176–178, 180, 186, 189–191 matrix 6, 9, 94, 121 Mauss, Marcel 33, 65–67, 70, 73–74 Mediterranean 9, 72, 75, 78, 80, 82, 84, 116–120, 132, 139 Melanesia 11, 12, 22–24, 29–30, 33, 38, 64–70, 84, 134 meshwork 20 meso scale 8, 10, 117–118, 121, 134, 139, 189 metaphor 1, 3–4, 10, 53 methodology 13, 21, 34, 58, 121, 139, 197 micro scale 8, 10–11, 20–22, 34–35, 117–118, 121, 134, 139 migration 7, 53 Mississippi 176, 178, 181–183, 189 models 6–8, 20–21, 27–30, 34, 38, 44–45, 50–51, 53, 55–56, 58, 60, 69, 74–75, 111, 121, 147, 149, 154, 157, 168–170, 174–176, 189, 191, 197–199, 204–209 Moreno, Jacopo 4–5, 10 mounds 13, 173–174, 177, 180, 182, 187 multidimensional scaling 157 multi-modality 56, 58, 182, 187 multi scale 6, 20, 34, 53, 56, 191 nesting 25, 28, 35, 45, 49–51, 56, 75–76, 176 Nestor 83, 137–139 networks 1, 3–7, 9, 10, 12, 20–23, 27–29, 32–35, 38, 40, 44, 47, 51–53, 55–56, 58–60, 64, 69, 72–73, 75, 78, 80–84, 89–99, 101–108, 110, 117, 120, 124, 146–147, 154, 157–158, 161, 163, 165–166, 168–169, 171, 173, 175–177, 179–187, 190–192, 196–197, 199–200, 203–209; affiliation network 9, 121, 147; archaeological network 1–3, 7, 11–13, 20, 60, 148; bipartite network 2, 20, 23, 28, 29, 90; ego-network 51, 59; formal network approaches 1, 11–3, 23, 118, 121, 139, 149, 155, 168, 170, 171; network analysis 1–3, 6–7, 9–12, 20–21, 23, 28, 30, 34, 38, 51, 55, 58, 60, 64, 89, 91–93, 95, 104, 107, 118, 124, 139–141, 146–149, 155, 169–170, 174, 177;

network concepts 1, 3, 6, 13, 147 network models 21, 28–29, 44–45, 50–51, 53, 55, 60, 199, 205–20; network science 20, 147, 197; network theory 4, 5, 20, 168, 197–198; social networks 2, 4–5, 10, 108–110, 147, 158, 170, 174–176; Social Network Analysis 2–3, 6, 10, 29, 35, 84, 110, 147, 173–174, 176, 191; spatial network:s 2; three-mode networks 56, 57, 60; two-mode networks 44, 52, 54, 56, 121, 127, 130, 135, 155, 157–158, 161, 165 nodes 2, 5–6, 12, 22–23, 29, 33, 44, 51–53, 55, 60, 69, 76, 83, 89–90, 94–95, 97–98, 100–102, 104–107, 111, 124, 155–159, 161, 163, 165–166, 171, 177, 179–187, 198–200, 203–205, 208 objects 3, 7, 10–13, 21, 23, 25–26, 29, 30–34, 38, 40, 43–46, 50–59, 66–67, 69, 73, 80, 82–84, 116–124, 133–134, 137, 139–141, 146, 148–149 obsidian 13, 173, 176–178, 186–187, 190 Odysseus 30, 72–74, 83 Ohio 173, 174, 176, 178, 181–183, 189–190 oil containers 12, 119, 123, 132–135, 139–140 oinochoe 12, 120, 123–124, 128, 129–130, 132, 134, 137, 139–140 olla 120 ontology 8, 11–12, 22–23, 29–34, 38, 50, 64, 69, 75, 78, 118, 121, 134, 137, 139 Ostia 117 Pajek 148, 157, 159, 161–163, 166–168, 171 pavement 89–90, 92, 94, 97, 99, 101, 103–105, 107–108, 110–111, 120 personhood 12, 22, 29–30, 64, 67–69, 73, 75, 78, 84 phiale 30–31, 34 philosophy 3, 32 pigs 11, 22–27, 29–30, 33–34, 46, 65, 67–70, 77, 109 Pithekoussai 78, 80, 83, 119–20, 122–123, 125, 129, 132–134, 137–141

218

218 Index Pompeii 12, 89–94, 99, 102–104, 107, 108–111, 117 Pontic steppes 46, 55 positivism 3, 66 postprocessualism 1 pottery 6–7, 9, 38, 80, 83, 118, 120, 139, 141 power 6, 11–13, 40, 42, 70–72, 84, 109, 123, 137, 140, 200, 208–209 practice 3, 9, 12, 20, 34, 40, 45, 49, 58, 64, 67, 72–73, 75–78, 80, 82–84, 91, 118, 128, 139, 140–141, 179 praxis see practice process 1, 4, 6, 8, 10, 21, 23, 27, 32, 38, 40, 43–46, 50, 53, 56, 58–60, 68, 111, 122–123, 139, 146–147, 149, 153–154, 169–170, 196, 198, 206, 208–209 processualism 1, 3, 5, 8, 40 production 1, 3, 46, 55, 68, 71, 75–77, 82–84, 117–118, 120–122, 125–126, 129–130, 132–134, 137, 139, 141, 149, 170, 176, 178–179, 186, 189–191 proximity 4, 104, 174–176, 190–191 proxy 2, 190 railroad 4 reciprocity 55, 64–67, 70, 72–76, 78 redistribution 118 regions 2, 6–7, 10–11, 13, 20, 34, 38–39, 43, 46, 53–56, 72, 78, 80, 95, 99, 121, 147–149, 155, 157, 161, 170, 176–179, 181, 189–191, 196–200, 202–203, 208–209 relations 5, 9, 12–13, 20–29, 32, 33–35, 38, 43–47, 49–51, 53, 55–56, 58, 64–69, 71, 73–76, 84, 89, 108, 91–92, 94, 103, 108–109, 118, 121, 146–147, 152–154, 158, 161, 163, 167, 170, 173–176, 178–179, 183, 186–187, 189, 190–192, 197–198 Renfrew, Colin 6–8, 40, 59 representation 3–5, 11, 24, 27–29, 33, 35, 40, 44–47, 51, 58, 75, 78, 84, 157, 177, 184, 189 resources 21, 70–71, 93, 118, 122–3, 140, 186, 189, 191, 196, 204, 208 rites 11, 42, 45–46, 71, 73, 76, 91, 109, 116, 122–123, 129, 133, 137, 173–174 rivers 40, 173, 176–178, 180, 182, 184, 186–187, 190–191 roads 4–5, 13, 196–197, 200, 202

Rocky Mountains 176, 186 Rome 4–5, 7, 80, 89–92, 99, 107–111, 196–197, 200, 205–206, 208 routes 39, 53, 146, 149, 196–198, 200, 202–204, 208–209 scale 2, 6–13, 20–22, 31, 34–35, 92, 95–102, 104–107, 117, 121, 124, 129, 132, 134, 137, 139, 146–147, 155, 167, 173–174, 176–191, 197 Scandinavia 7, 146–149, 152, 154–155, 168, 170–171 Scioto 173–179, 181, 186, 189–192 settlements 6, 13, 40, 47, 78, 80, 82–83, 117, 148, 191, 196–198, 200–204, 208–209 similarity 6, 80, 90, 94–95, 97–102, 104–108, 157, 177 Simmel, Georg 4, 10 sites 2, 6–7, 11, 21, 42, 80, 90, 95, 111, 117, 119–120, 129, 132, 139, 146, 173–177, 179–185, 187, 189–191, 203–206, 208 skyphos 120, 123–124, 128, 137 SNA see network analysis social life 1, 116 social personas 45–46, 59 society 4, 8–9, 13, 29, 42, 45, 64, 67, 69, 74–75, 78, 109, 117–118, 137, 146, 173, 201 sociograms 4–5, 13 space 1–13, 64, 69, 82, 92, 99, 108, 110–111, 117, 121–122, 141, 146, 148–149, 170, 175, 198 space syntax 5 spearheads 42, 46–47, 49, 51, 55 status 12, 31, 38, 40, 43, 45–46, 51, 70–71, 73, 80, 83, 90–91, 110, 121, 139 Strathern, Marilyn 11, 12, 22–27, 29, 33, 38, 44–45, 49–50, 56, 58, 64–70, 73, 75, 77, 84, 117, 134, 140, 190 Strathernogram 11–3, 23, 35, 38, 44–45, 47, 49–51, 56, 67, 69–70, 75–79, 84 structures 3, 8–9, 12, 21, 27, 40, 42, 44, 49, 51, 60, 66, 75, 77, 111, 134, 141, 158, 168, 174, 176, 183, 189–91, 198 structuralism 10, 66, 92, 117 Sweden 147, 155, 165 Switzerland 39–40 swords 42, 44, 46, 48, 55–57, 60 symposiums 31, 34, 137

 219

Index 219 systems 3, 4–5, 8, 23–24, 42, 65–66, 68–69, 91, 149, 196–200, 203–204, 208–209 technology 11, 124, 134 Tennessee 181 theory 4–5, 8, 11, 20–21, 32, 34, 40, 42, 51, 59, 64, 69, 118, 121, 147, 150, 168, 197–198, 208 things 20, 22–23, 30, 32–5, 64–65, 67, 75, 89, 146, 198 ties 5–6, 11, 30, 33, 44, 50–53, 55–56, 58–59, 69, 75–76, 81–83, 90, 92, 109, 134, 146–147, 153, 165, 170, 174–175, 190–191 tombs 78, 80–84, 120, 122–123, 139, 141, 173 trade 6, 12, 39, 50, 53, 55, 66–67, 110, 116, 118, 120, 139, 146–149, 155, 168–171, 196–197 transactions 29–30, 33–34, 65–67, 74 transportation 4, 13, 196–198, 200, 208 types 2, 7, 11, 24, 40, 43–44, 46, 49, 51–60, 70–71, 78, 89, 92–95, 99, 103, 105–106, 108–109, 119, 123–126, 129–130, 132–134, 137, 141, 146–150, 152–155, 157–159, 161–163, 165–166, 168–171, 179, 181, 183, 187, 189, 190–191 typology 141, 148 Tyrrhenian 80, 83, 199

UCINET 81, 124, 177 United States 7, 9, 121 urbanization 208 Urnfield 38–40, 42–43, 45–47, 49–51, 53 value 12, 13, 29, 51, 53, 65–66, 69, 73, 90–91, 94–95, 97–98, 100, 104–107, 111, 116–119, 121, 123, 128, 134, 137, 139, 140, 177, 179–184, 187, 188, 203 variables 40, 53, 58, 60, 66, 94–98, 103–104, 106, 110, 181 vessels 4, 30, 34, 40, 42, 46, 49–50, 56–57, 59, 72, 77, 80, 83, 116, 118, 120, 124–127, 129–130, 132–134, 137, 139–141 Viking 7, 12, 147–152, 154, 156, 169–171 Visone 93, 95, 111 visualisation 5, 6, 12, 58, 68, 70, 76, 78, 82 wagons 39, 40, 42, 44 warrior 42–3, 73, 82–3, 201 wealth 12, 43, 50, 64, 71–2, 78, 91, 108, 110, 120–1, 140 weapons 40, 45–6, 59, 121 Wehringen 39 wine 30, 72, 116, 123, 137 workshops 89, 120, 124, 129, 132, 154, 177 xenia 73, 116

220